Author: Robyn Carr

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?”

“Good.” He looked around. “Uh-oh. David?” he called. Then he looked at Christopher as he climbed down the ladder. “Chris, you were going to help keep an eye on him. Where did he go? David?” he called again.

Then Chris called, “David! David!”

They both walked around the tree, checked the bar porch and the backyard, calling his name. Annie stood there, not sure whether to help or just stay out of their way, when the lowest boughs of the great tree moved and a little tyke about three years old crawled out.

“David?” Annie asked. He was holding something furry in his mittened hands and she got down on her knees. “Whatcha got there, buddy?” she asked. And then she yelled, “Found him, Jack!”

The child was holding a baby animal of some kind, and it looked awfully young and listless. Its fur was black and white, its eyes were closed, and it hung limply in little David’s hands. She just hoped the boy hadn’t squeezed the life out of it; boys were not known for gentleness. “Let me have a look, honey,” she said, taking the creature out of his hands. She held it up and its little head lolled. Unmistakably a puppy. A brand-new puppy.

Jack came running around the tree. “Where was he?”

“Under the tree. And he came out with this,” she said, showing him the animal very briefly before stuffing it under her sweater between her T-shirt and her wool sweater, up against the warmth of her body. Then she pulled her down vest around herself to hold him in place. “Poor little thing might be frozen, or almost frozen.”

“Aw, David, where’d you find him?”

David just pointed at Annie. “My boppie!” he said.

“Yeah, he’s right,” Annie said. “It’s a boppie…er, puppy. But it’s not very old. Not old enough to have gotten out of a house or a yard. This little guy should’ve been in a box with his mom.”

“David, hold Chris’s hand,” Jack ordered.

And David said something in his language that could be translated into I want my puppy! But Jack was on his belly on the cold ground, crawling under the tree. And from under there Annie heard a muffled “Aw, crap!” And then he backed out, pulling a box full of black-and-white puppies.

Annie and Jack just stared at each other for a moment. Then Annie said, “Better get ’em inside by the fire. Puppies this young can die in the cold real fast. This could turn out badly.”

Jack hefted the box. “Yeah, it’s gonna turn out badly! I’m gonna find out who would do something so awful and take him apart!” Then he turned to the boys and said, “Let’s go, guys.” He carried the box to the bar porch and Annie rushed past him to hold the door open. “I mean, there are animal shelters, for God’s sake!”

The fire was ablaze in the hearth and there were a couple of guys dressed like hunters at the bar, sharing a pitcher of beer and playing cribbage. She patted the place by the hearth and Jack put down the box. Annie immediately began checking out the puppies. “I’m gonna need a little help here, Jack. Can you warm up some towels in the clothes dryer? I could use a couple more warm hands. There’s not enough wriggling around in this box to give me peace of mind.” Then suddenly, she herself began wriggling. She smiled a big smile. “Mine’s coming around,” she said, patting the lump under her sweater.

Annie kneeled before the box, and David and Chris squeezed in right beside her. She took the wriggling puppy out from under her sweater, put him in the box and picked up another one. At least there was a blanket under them and they had their shared warmth, she thought. She put another one under her sweater.

“Whatcha got there?” someone asked.

She looked over her shoulder. The hunters from the bar had wandered over to the hearth, peering into the box. “Someone left a box of newborn puppies under the Christmas tree. They’re half-frozen.” She picked up two more, made sure they were moving and handed them over. “Here, put these two inside your shirt, warm ’em up, see if they come around.” She picked up two more, checked them and handed them to the other man. The men did exactly as she told them, and she stuffed one more under her sweater.

Then she picked up a puppy that went limp in her palm. “Uh-oh,” she muttered. She jostled him a little, but he didn’t move. She covered his tiny mouth and nose with her mouth and pushed a gentle breath into him. She massaged his little chest gently. Rubbed his extremities, breathed into him again and he curled up in her palm. “Better,” she murmured, stuffing him under her shirt.

“Did you just resuscitate that puppy?” one of the hunters asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “I did that to an orphaned kitten once and it worked, so what the heck, huh? Man, there are eight of these little guys,” she said. “Big litter. At least they have fur, but they are so young. Couple of weeks, I bet. And puppies are so vulnerable to the cold. They have to be kept warm.”

“Boppie!” David cried, trying to get his little hands into the box.

“Yup, you found a box full of boppies, David,” Annie said. She picked up the last puppy—the first one she’d warmed—and held it up to the hunters. “Can anyone fit one more in a warm place?”

One of the men took the puppy and put it under his arm. “You a vet or something?”

She laughed. “I’m a farm girl. I grew up not too far from here. Every once in a while we’d have a litter or a foal or a calf the mother couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of. Rare, but it happens. Usually you better not get between a mother and her babies, but sometimes…Well, the first thing is body temperature, and at least these guys have some good fur. The next thing is food.” She stuck her hand into the box and felt the blanket they’d been snuggled on. “Hmm, it’s dry. No urine or scat—which is not so good. Besides being really cold, they’re probably starving by now. Maybe getting dehydrated. Puppies nurse a lot and they were obviously taken from the mother’s whelp box.”

Jack reappeared, Preacher close on his heels. Preacher was tall enough that he was looking over Jack’s shoulder into the empty box. “What’s up?” Preacher asked.

“Dad! David found a box full of puppies under the tree! They’re freezing cold! They could be dying!” Christopher informed him desperately.

“We’re warming ’em up,” Annie said, indicating her and the hunters’ lumpy shirts. “About half of them are wriggling and we’ll know about the other half in a little bit. Meanwhile, we need to get some fluids and nourishment into them. They shouldn’t be off the tit this young. Infant formula and cereal would be ideal, but we can make due with some warm milk and watered-down oatmeal.”