That Holiday Feeling (Virgin River #8)(58)

Trace caressed Savannah’s cheek, brushing an errant curl away from her face. “So, here’s the bottom line. I meant to do this with a bit more fanfare, but since our date has turned out to be a little unorthodox, this part might as well be, too.”

He sounded so serious that Savannah went still. “What’s the bottom line?” she asked worriedly.

“Will you marry me? I know we’ve just met and that you’re still recovering from a divorce, but I’ve fallen in love with you. I talked it over with Nate—”

Savannah stared, sorting through the rush of words and seizing on those that made the least sense. “You what?”

“Now don’t go ballistic on me,” Trace said, then rushed on. “I ran into him yesterday. He saw that I had a lot on my mind, because I had all these feelings and I thought they were probably crazy, but he put it all in perspective for me. He said life is way too short to waste time looking for rational explanations for everything. I’m not all that experienced with falling in love, but apparently it doesn’t follow some sort of precise timetable.”

Savannah’s lips twitched at his vaguely disgruntled tone. “No,” she agreed. “It certainly doesn’t.”

“Then again, I’m used to making quick decisions. And I do think it’s exactly what Mae had in mind when she insisted I come here for Christmas.” He met her gaze. “And just so you know, with these quick decisions of mine, I rarely make mistakes.”

“Is that so?” Savannah said quietly. “Well, it’s certainly true that Aunt Mae was an incredibly wise woman. She hasn’t steered me wrong so far.”

“Me, either,” Trace said, regarding her warily. “So?”

“So what?”

“Bottom line? I’ve fallen in love with you. Something tells me that if I don’t reach out for what I want with you now, it will be the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Then reach,” she said softly, her gaze locked with his.

Trace held out his hand. Savannah put hers in it, and for the first time in her life, Savannah felt as if she were truly part of a whole, something real and solid, with a future that was destined to last forever.

“There’s something about this place,” she said with a sense of wonder. “It must be Aunt Mae.” She lowered her mouth to Trace’s. “She always did get me the best gifts of all.”

UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE

Robyn Carr

Dear Reader,

Years ago I decided to hook a rug. Not a bath mat, but a rug about the size of Michigan. Before I got half of Detroit done, I was bored to death. Next I bought an unassembled dollhouse—three stories, twelve rooms and pieces the size of toothpicks. Not such a good idea. Then came my quilting phase, which was limited to collecting boxes and boxes of colorful fabric. I took a whole day off from writing to “piece.” When I showed my one-foot square to my neighbor she said, “Don’t worry—you’ll get the hang of it.”

Then one day when my mind went out to play, which lucky for me is my work, it wandered up a mountain road, through some enormous trees, along a wide river in which the fish jumped, and I decided to stay awhile. I began to mentally live in a little town called Virgin River. I got to know the people and began to tell their stories. In no time at all I realized I was hooking together an ongoing story—building and piecing together the fabric of their lives.

Welcome back to Virgin River for another Christmas. And this time what is found “Under the Christmas Tree” not only brings the town together, but works some special magic on a couple of occasional patrons to Jack’s Bar. Virgin River has a way of weaving its spell around the hearts of unsuspecting singles who pass through.

Happy holidays to all of you, and most especially to Debbie and Sherry!

One

During the Christmas holidays a side trip through Virgin River was a must; the town had recently begun erecting a thirty-foot tree in the center of town, decorated in red, white, blue and gold and topped with a great big powerful star. It dominated the little town, and people came from miles around to see it. The patriotic theme of the decorations set it apart from all other trees. Local bar owner Jack Sheridan joked that he expected to see the three wise men any minute, that star was so bright.

Annie McKenzie didn’t pass through Virgin River very often. It was out of her way when driving from Fortuna, where she lived, to her parents’ farm near Alder Point. It was a cute little town and she liked it there, especially the bar and grill owned by Jack Sheridan. People there met you once, maybe twice, and from that point on, treated you like an old friend.

She was on her way to her folks’ place when, at the last moment, she decided to detour through Virgin River. Since it was the week after Thanksgiving, she hoped they’d started on the tree. It was a calm and sunny Monday afternoon and very cold, but her heart warmed when she pulled into town and saw that the tree was up and decorated. Jack was up on an A-frame ladder straightening out some trimmings, and standing at the foot of the ladder, looking up, was Christopher, the six-year-old son of Jack’s cook, Preacher.

Annie got out of her truck and walked over. “Hey, Jack,” she yelled up. “Looking good!”

“Annie! Haven’t seen you in a while. How are your folks?”

“They’re great. And your family?”