Bring Me Home for Christmas (Virgin River #16)(65)

“I hear.”

In a quieter voice, Denny said, “You’re wrong to make the whole world around you suffer because you’re angry. Especially the world your kids live in.”

Frank just looked down.

Denny let go of his jacket. “Let’s go inside and make peace. You were wrong. When you’re wrong, you make amends. It’s not complicated.” He opened the door for Frank to enter.

They went quietly about the business of picking up the scattered food. Denny stored the frozen turkey in the refrigerator, where it would slowly thaw, while Frank picked up canned goods one at a time and tossed them, catching them in between the stump of his missing forearm and his body so he could carry more. This caused Denny to stop and watch; the man had definitely learned some compensating moves! If he’d just get an attitude adjustment, he’d probably make it just fine.

When the kitchen was straightened again, Frank went the few steps to the couch where Becca huddled next to Megan.

“Miss, I apologize for my temper. It’s been a hard winter so far. Megan, honey, let’s eat us some of that soup.”

“It’s okay, Daddy. I don’t need it.” Then she covered her mouth and coughed.

“Come on, baby, I need some. Will you sit with me?”

“Okay,” she said meekly. “The little boys went to the hospital, Daddy.”

“I know, honey. That was smart of the doctor. Mama will be there. She’ll call us tonight.” He looked at Becca. “Will you stay and have some soup with us?”

“I would,” she said, getting up and positioning her crutches. “But I’m going to do a little cooking at the bar because Paige and Preacher are running all over the mountain trying to be sure everyone has what they need before another big storm hits. I’m not much of a cook, but I’m doing what I can. I brought enough soup so even if you don’t feel like messing around in the kitchen too much tonight, you and the kids will have that.”

“I’d gladly pay for the soup,” he said.

She smiled warmly. “No need, Mr. Thickson. It’s all good.” She bent and kissed Megan’s head, against medical advice. “I want you to get better, little girl!”

Denny and Becca sat in Jack’s truck in front of the Thickson house, waiting for Preacher and Jack to finish up. “I think it’s best to get out of their hair,” Becca said. “And just hope Mr. Thickson can mend some fences with little Megan, the poor darling.”

“I was hard on him, Becca, probably too hard. No one understands better than me how overpowering self-pity can be.”

She grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. “We’ve both come a long way.”

“We have to make a decision now. When do you want to leave?”

“I want to leave right now, but I’m not going to. I’m going to go back to Jack’s and make sure everyone who’s shoveling, plowing, delivering and helping get fed tonight. They’re all throwing themselves into the care of this town and they’ve been awful good to me. The least I can do is return the favor.”

“We might not get down the mountain tomorrow, you know.”

“Then we’ll get down the next day. Or the next. It doesn’t matter—we’ll get there. The important thing to me right now is that we’re both moving in the same direction.”

When Jack and Preacher delivered the last of their wood to the Thicksons’ front porch, Jack transferred two care boxes to Denny and Becca and gave them the names and directions for delivery. Because Becca was on crutches, these boxes were not going to the country, but rather the edge of town, where most of the streets were passable.

They pulled up to a small house, the street numbers hanging kind of drunkenly from the nails that held them next to a warped front door that didn’t look strong enough to keep the wind out. Even though Becca had to contend with her crutches, she was determined to see who lived in this ramshackle little place. She turned herself around and lowered herself carefully to the ground on one foot, holding her lame foot above the snow. The walk was covered with a little more than a foot of snow, less than on the street because of the huge trees that formed a protective canopy. She made her way carefully to the front door while Denny came behind her with a big box.

The woman who opened the door was young, maybe early twenties. She was thin and a little pale. She held a baby in her arms with a coarse Army blanket covering her shoulders and the baby. Hiding behind her and hanging on her leg was a little one, perhaps two years old.

“Mrs. Crane?” Becca asked.

The woman pushed her hair back over one ear. “I’m Nora Crane. Who are you?”

“My name is Becca Timm. We brought you a Christmas box. This is Denny—he can carry it into the kitchen for you if you want.”

A huff of embarrassed laughter escaped her and she stood aside, pulling the two-year-old with her. The toddler peeked out from behind her mother, a thumb in her mouth. Becca stood back so Denny could enter, but then Becca stepped inside the doorway and saw the reason for the woman’s laughter. It was just one room; there was a broken-down couch, a table with two mismatched chairs and while there was a stove, there was no refrigerator.

“Would you like us to put some of this stuff away somewhere for you?” Becca asked.

“You can just leave it.” Then she brushed impatiently at a tear.