Santa's Sweetheart (The Christmas Tree Ranch #4)(35)

Sam rapped on the door. There was no answer, but the door was unlocked. He rapped one more time, then opened it and stepped inside.

The trailer was frigid, even colder inside than the sunlit air outdoors. In the dim light, Sam could see the electric space heater where he’d left it earlier. It was plugged in and turned on, but it wasn’t running. A flip of the light switch confirmed that the power was off.

“Hank?” There was no answer. Sick with dread, Sam moved through the kitchenette toward the bedroom in the back. An empty whiskey bottle sat on the counter next to the kitchen sink. Not a good sign. In cold weather like this, with no heat, a man could drink himself into a stupor and die of hypothermia.

The bedroom door was ajar but not far enough for Sam to see inside. He was about to open it, bracing himself for what he might find on the other side, when a familiar sound reached his ears.

It was the deep, rumbling wheeze of Hank’s snoring.

Thank God!

Sam’s knees sagged with relief. He leaned against the wall for a moment to steady himself before opening the door.

In the dim light that filtered through the tightly drawn blinds, he could make out a heap of blankets, coats, even a bathroom rug. It appeared that Hank, who was still snoring, had piled everything he could find on the bed and crawled underneath.

The air in the room reeked of whiskey—an odor that worsened as Sam pawed through the mountain of covers to find Hank and rouse him.

“Wake up, Hank.” Sam shook his shoulder. “Come on, we’ve got to get you moving.”

Hank swore. “Go ’way. Damn head feels like it got pounded with a sledgehammer. Lemme sleep it off.”

“Come on. We need to get some coffee and hot food down you. I’m taking you to Buckaroo’s.”

Muttering curses, Hank crawled out of bed. He looked bad, but Sam had seen him worse. He’d slept in his clothes, which were rumpled but not too dirty. After some help with his prosthetic leg and a quick cleanup in the bathroom, Sam was able to get him into his coat and out the door.

Sam helped him into the Jeep and turned the heater on full blast before heading back downtown. Hank’s eyes were red, as if he’d been crying before he went to sleep.

“What happened to the power in your trailer?” Sam steered around a crater-sized pothole in the street. “You could’ve frozen to death in there, Hank. I was afraid you had.”

“Damn power company shut me off.” Hank blew his nose on a tissue he’d found in his pocket. “I was gonna pay them yesterday. I’d cashed my disability check and had the money. But then somethin’ happened and I forgot. Bastards didn’t even give me an extra few hours before they pulled the plug.”

Sam turned into the parking lot at Buckaroo’s. If he was to help the man, he needed to know what had kept Hank from paying his power bill and maybe caused him to get drunk again. But he would get some hot coffee in him before asking.

Buckaroo’s was open for breakfast. Sam found a quiet booth and ordered bacon, eggs, hash browns, and pancakes for Hank and coffee for them both.

“Better?” he asked as Sam emptied his mug and got a refill from the waitress.

“Head’s startin’ to clear some,” Hank muttered. “But no. Nothin’s better. Reckon it never will be.”

“Want to tell me about it? It might help to talk.”

“Won’t help. But I’ll tell you anyway. You always were a good listener, Sam.”

“I’m listening now.”

Hank stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee. “Like I said, I got my disability check. Cashed it at the bank. Felt good to have some money in my hands.”

“Always does.”

“I knew I needed to pay the power bill today. But on the way, I got to thinking. This would be my last check before Christmas. I wanted to send a little something to my boy, Travis, just so he’d know I was thinking about him.”

Tears welled in Hank’s bloodshot eyes. Sam already knew that he’d given up parental rights and allowed his son, who was a little older than Maggie, to be adopted by his ex-wife’s new husband. He’d done it out of love, even though it broke his heart.

“I already had the phone number and the address,” Hank continued. “But I found a pay phone and made a call to ask if there was anything special he might like.

“It was Marilyn who answered the phone. She—” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “She said that since I’d signed away my rights, Travis was no longer my son. She’d told him that I didn’t want him anymore—a lie, you know that, Sam. She said that if I tried to contact Travis again, she’d take out a restraining order and have me arrested if I violated it.”

“Oh, God, Hank, I’m sorry.” Sam could imagine how he’d feel if someone took Maggie away. “But Marilyn’s within her legal right to do that. It’s the law.”

“I know. But when I signed the papers, I thought, at least, I’d be able to stay in touch with the boy. It’s like I’m dead to him. Dead is how I feel.”

Sam could guess the rest of the story. Instead of paying his overdue power bill, Hank had bought a bottle of cheap whiskey and taken it home to drown his sorrows. At least he’d made it to bed and covered up. Otherwise he might not be here.

The waitress had brought Hank’s breakfast. He looked at it but made no move to pick up his fork.