My husband. I pressed the ice pack to my forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’ve got to find this Mrs. Claus.”
“That train rolled on down the tracks. It won’t be back till Christmas morning—just like every year.”
That was a month away. “She’s somewhere.”
“Yeah, doing her job in the next town on the tour. Whoever played Mrs. Claus is just a volunteer like the rest of us. She doesn’t have any more special powers than the elf who kept asking me if I wanted to meet him under the mistletoe.”
“This is a disaster.” I watched a dark figure emerge from the emergency room doors and walk our way, a silhouette of muscle and handsome obnoxiousness. “Do I still work at the Ozark Museum of Art?”
“Yes.”
“Am I still allergic to shellfish and have a famous painter for a mother?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Am I still up for a promotion at work?”
“You are.” Cordelia fielded twenty other questions, leading me to the horrible conclusion that everything in my life was the same…except the small detail of my marriage.
“Mrs. Claus got this so wrong,” I whispered, as my friend regarded me with a quiet discomfort. “I know this is crazy.”
“Crazy isn’t adequately covering it right now. I’m actually very concerned.”
Holden’s boots clomped on the cold pavement as he drew closer, and my pulse escalated in panicked beats. “I can’t go home with him.”
“My in-laws are here, otherwise, you could crash at my place.” Cordelia’s hair blew in the harsh wind. “But Annie, go home. Check every closet, every drawer. Look at the photos on the walls. If none of it looks familiar, then call me. I’ll kick out my family and give you the guest room.”
That was probably code for “then I’ll drive you to the county mental hospital for a lengthy, padded-room stay.”
“Everything okay here?” Holden sauntered toward us. I’d forgotten how tall he was, at least half a foot over my own five-foot-five. We’d known each other briefly in college, but not enough for me to feel certain he wasn’t a serial killer or someone who kicked puppies.
“I’m not going home with you,” I said.
Cordelia gave him the side-eye. “She’s going home with you.”
Nope. “I’ll get a hotel, thanks.”
“Hotels are all booked for the holiday season.” Holden walked around to the passenger door and opened it. “You’re getting colder by the second out here. Let’s get you warm.”
I had no family in Sugar Creek. My friends thought I was suffering the effects of head trauma. What choice did I have? “At least take me by my old house, so I can make sure this hasn’t been some elaborate joke.”
“You got this, Holden?” Cordelia asked.
Holden held out his hand as he helped me inside the truck. Eyes dark as chocolate met mine. “I’ve got her.”
Chapter Six
“I told you, you don’t live there anymore.” Holden drove his truck over an uneven cattle guard, and I grabbed the overhead handle to keep myself upright and from tumbling into his lap.
“I had to check.” Because, as of this afternoon, I lived at 986 Cherrywood Lane, but now apparently a couple with three children resided there and claimed they had for years. “No harm done.”
“Tell that to the six-year old whose living room you barged into.”
I inhaled deeply, trying to find some Zen. But all I found was Holden’s spicy cologne, and a truck that smelled like leather and infuriating man. “Every kids needs a little trauma in her life. It’s character building.” Lord knew I’d had my share of it myself. “I’ll send them a fruit basket.”
“And maybe a referral for a good therapist.”
How had I forgotten what an accomplished comedian Holden Thomas was? Oh, I don’t know. Probably because I hadn’t thought of him for the last eight years. “Where is it we’re going exactly?”
He held the steering wheel with one hand while the other arm rested over the back of my seat, as if it belonged there. “Our farm.”
Our farm.
I offered up another silent prayer to God, pleading with the big guy to clap his hands, part the time continuum like the Red Sea, and let me walk through, right back to my old life.
So far, the Lord wasn’t answering.
We’d been driving for miles, one dirt road after another. We were out in the sort of place a navigation system would give up on. “You should know if you’re bringing me all the way out in the sticks to murder me and bury my body, I’m too tired to put up much of a fight.” At this point, I’d gladly just roll over in some leaves.
“That bump on the head sure did knock me down a few notches on your admiration meter.”
“Have I told you about my conversation with a lady claiming to be Mrs. Claus?”
“Three times.”
And, of course, Holden didn’t buy my story for one minute. The giant bump on the back of my head made the concussion theory much stronger than my own tale. “How long have we been married again?” My gaze fell back to the rings adorning my hand as we passed yet another farm painted in the shadows of the evening. I saw the faint outlines of cows, the rugged edges of trees, the distant glisten of a pond reflecting the moon.
“Six months.”
“But…you’re not my type. I mean, no offense.”
“Completely offended and in touch with my feelings enough to probably cry about it later.”
In what reality would I have ever seriously dated this guy, let alone married him? In college he was the epitome of angry arrogance, obnoxious sarcasm, and handsome hostility. Two months on his arm was all I’d needed to run in the opposite direction. “Are we happy?”
Holden made a slow left turn, his foot letting off the gas pedal. He removed his hand from the back of my seat, his fingers grazing my shoulder before returning to the wheel. “I am.”
The interior of the truck was quiet as a funeral prayer as we rumbled down a narrow gravel path. A two-story white house came into view, and that heavy dread pooled in the pit of my stomach again. “This is our house?”
“Home sweet home.”
“I live here?” I stared at the farm house lit up with exterior lights. The place looked drunk and disheveled, with chipped paint, a leaning front porch, some missing shingles, and a few shutters that shunned the norms of a north-west orientation. My mother would die an instant, spontaneous death to see me live out here in the country in this ramshackle abode. “Are you absolutely certain I reside here?”
Holden shut his truck door, and before I could hop out, he opened mine. He reached for my hand without invitation and eased me down. “This place doesn’t look familiar?”
It was the type of two-story farmhouse you’d see on a home improvement show, one that required a lot of money for the overhaul it silently screamed for. “This does not look the least bit familiar. Because I’ve never lived here.”
He slipped a hand behind my back, which I nudged away. “I inherited the property and the house from my grandpa. It’s been poorly neglected, but what it lacks in style, it overcompensates in character. We’ve been remodeling it, but it’s going slowly.”