Beneath the Mistletoe. Susan CrosbyЧитать онлайн книгу.
it was. “Let’s just get inside.”
He could feel the wind biting through the blanket and into the woman’s coat and thin, knit pantsuit as he moved carefully toward the house. She shivered when the downpour gained strength again, and Banner instinctively hunched around her, trying to protect her as much as he could.
He worried that she would catch pneumonia on the way in, and he worried that her husband would fall and break a leg or a hip or something. He was relieved when the big truck driver rejoined them halfway to the house, having already deposited the others inside. The truck driver took the old man’s arm, supporting him for the rest of the walk.
With the couple safely inside, Banner and the truck driver made a second hasty trip outside for more bags and the walker. It was almost completely dark now, and the ice was building thickly on every surface. The woods echoed with the sharp cracks of breaking tree limbs, and Banner cast a frowning glance at the overhead power lines. He figured it was just a matter of time before they were brought down by a falling branch, cutting off the electricity. Fortunately he had laid in a good supply of firewood, candles and batteries.
By the time he finally closed his front door against the storm, he was wet, cold, tired and grouchy. At least no more cars or trucks had arrived. He assumed the roads were so bad now that anyone who had been on them had found shelter elsewhere. He would be willing to bet the state police had closed the mountainous highway by now.
He only hoped the temperature would warm during the night, melting the ice and letting his stranded travelers be on their way. In the meantime, he seemed to have a houseful of unexpected guests.
He stood in the doorway of his big, wood-paneled living room, gazing rather helplessly at the chaos taking place there. Once again the young woman he had dubbed the elf seemed to be in charge. She had found his linen closet and distributed towels and was busily making sure everyone was getting dry and warm. As her hair dried, it curled even more riotously around her face, the red-gold color mimicking the fire crackling in the big stone fireplace.
The mother and two children were close to the hearth. Mom was a somewhat mousy-looking, average-size brunette with purple-shadowed brown eyes and nervous hands. Banner guessed her age to be midthirties, a few years older than himself. She was towel drying the hair of a little girl of maybe five years, a brown-eyed, pink-nosed duplicate of her mother.
A brown-haired boy whom Banner guessed to be around seven stood nearby, staring in fascination at Banner’s enormous, dumb lump of a dog. The multicolored mutt sat on his favorite scrap of rug, studying the roomful of strangers with his usual unflappable acceptance of circumstances.
The truck driver had shed his big coat, but that hadn’t reduced his overall size by much. Broad-faced, bearded and barrel-chested, he might have been forty, and he looked as though he’d have been as at home panning for gold in the Old West as behind the wheel of a big truck. He rubbed a towel over his bushy, sandy hair, leaving it standing in spikes around his ruddy face.
The older woman Banner had carried inside huddled beneath a thick, dry blanket also retrieved from his linen closet. She sat in a Windsor rocker pulled close to the fire, and the firelight flickered over her lined face, highlighting the fine bone structure that was still beautiful. She looked so fragile it scared him now to think he had carried her in; what if he’d dropped her or fallen?
Her husband hovered around her chair, his wispy gray hair already dry, his bent hands patting his wife as if to assure himself that she was all right. Banner doubted that either of them was younger than eighty.
What on earth was he going to do with all these people?
Lucy noticed that their host was standing in the doorway, looking rather dazed. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Judging by the nice fire and the mystery novel sitting open beside a cooling cup of coffee on the table next to a big recliner, he had just settled down to ride out the storm in comfortable solitude. Except, of course, for the company of his dog—the shaggiest, oddest-colored, laziest-looking mutt Lucy had ever seen.
At least the dog didn’t seem to mind the company—which was more than she could say for its owner, who was definitely showing signs of stress.
Someone needed to do something to put him more at ease. Never one to wait around for others to take care of things she could handle herself, she gave him a big smile. “Thank you so much for taking us in. You’ve been very kind, Mr…?”
“Just call me Banner,” he said, lifting a hand to massage the back of his neck.
She nodded. “Mr. Banner.”
“Just Banner,” he corrected, letting his hand fall to his side.
“Oh.” Strange, but anyway… “I’m Lucy Guerin. I’m on my way to Springfield, Missouri, to spend Christmas with my family. Why don’t the rest of you introduce yourselves?”
She knew she sounded like a too-perky cruise director, but the man who called himself “just Banner” was making her nervous, lurking glumly in the doorway like that. She turned to the mother and children behind her. “What are your names?”
The woman’s face paled, as if she had been asked to make an impromptu speech in front of a large audience. The shy type, apparently—which Lucy had never been.
“I’m, um, Joan Gatewood,” the woman finally murmured. “These are my children, Tyler and Tricia. We’re going to my mother’s house in Hollister, Missouri, for the holiday.”
“I’m Cordell Carter,” the older man said, smoothing a spotted hand over his mostly bald head. “Everyone calls me Pop. This is Annie, my wife of sixty-two years. We’re on our way to Harrison to our grandson’s house.”
“Sixty-two years of marriage,” Lucy repeated in wonder. “Mrs. Carter, you must have been a child bride.”
The old woman’s weary eyes brightened with her smile, which still held hints of the mischievous grin that had likely captivated her husband sixty-two years ago—and apparently still did. “I was twenty-three. And you can just call me Miss Annie. Everyone always has. ‘Mrs. Carter’ reminds me of my mother-in-law, and I never cared much for her, God rest her contrary soul.”
Her husband chuckled and patted his wife’s shoulder indulgently, seeming to take no offense to the slight to his late mother. After so many years, Lucy figured he must have gotten used to it.
“I’m Bobby Ray Jones,” the big truck driver volunteered. “I was headed the opposite direction from the rest of you—s’posed to be in Little Rock by tonight. I’d hoped I could beat the storm, but I guess I miscalculated. My boss is going to be ticked off that I put the rig in a ditch, but that’s just too bad, I guess.”
Lucy noted that Joan Gatewood was eying the big, bearded man with the same wariness she displayed toward Banner’s huge dog. Apparently Joan was intimidated by large, hairy critters. As for herself, Lucy thought Bobby Ray seemed very pleasant. Everyone here seemed nice—with the possible exception of their glowering host.
“Okay,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Now that we know who everyone is….”
“What’s the dog’s name?” Tyler asked, pointing to the mutt.
Lucy looked questioningly at Banner.
“That’s Hulk,” he said, speaking to the boy. “He answers to Hulk or Get-Out-From-Under-My-Feet-Stupid.”
The unexpected quip took everyone by such surprise that there was a brief hesitation before they laughed. Though Lucy smiled, she wasn’t entirely sure Banner had been joking.
Returning to the task at hand, she said, “Now, we all need to get into dry clothes and—wait a minute.”
She whirled back to their host, her hands on her hips. “Your name is Banner and the dog’s name is Hulk? I don’t suppose your first name is Bruce?”
“No.” He looked at her without smiling. “You haven’t wandered into a comic book.”
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