Holiday Homecoming. Jillian Hart
“Kristin McKaslin, is that you?”
Kristin studied the man who sank into the empty seat across the aisle. He was good-looking, with disheveled black hair and eyes a sharp aquamarine-blue. The straight blade of a nose, high cheekbones, a simple cut into his chin.
Nope, she didn’t know him, but there was something familiar about him. She didn’t know him from work. Or the gym. Or church. Either in Seattle or Montana… Wait. There was something distinctive about that devastating smile. Those dimples, and that strong jaw.
Then she knew. She saw a flash of a boyish face with longer black hair standing before the podium at a high school assembly. The image of a leaner, younger star running back, whipping off his helmet after the final touchdown of the state championship. The studious salutatorian-to-be ambling down the hall and stopping to open the door to physics class for her.
“Ryan Sanders?” She couldn’t believe it.
JILLIAN HART
makes her home in Washington State, where she has lived most of her life. When Jillian is not hard at work on her next story, she loves to read, go to lunch with her friends and spend quiet evenings with her family.
Holiday Homecoming
Jillian Hart
These are the things that will endure—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.
—1 Corinthians 13:13
Dear Reader,
All of her four sisters have discovered true love, and now it’s Kristin’s turn. I hope that you will be reminded, through this story, of how truly precious God’s blessings are. That this earthly life may not be an easy one, but it is a beautiful gift. But Kristin’s is not the final McKaslin story! The McKaslin cousins are about to find their happily-ever-afters. In April 2005, please watch for Amy’s story, Sweet Blessings, which shows how real love happens, even when a person has given up all hope.
I wish you the sweetest of all blessings,
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
November 23
Disaster.
Kristin McKaslin took one look at the snow-caked airplane window and groaned. She was doomed. That window had been only a little bit icy less than twenty minutes ago, when she’d looked up from her work. Now she couldn’t see through it, not that there was anything to see at this altitude and with the plane swinging in the turbulence.
At least it gave her something to think about other than heading home to Montana. Thanksgiving was tomorrow, and that was both good and bad. She loved her sisters. She loved her parents. She loved going home to visit.
What she wasn’t looking forward to was facing her mother’s disappointments. She lived too far away. She didn’t come home to visit enough. She wasn’t married. And she wasn’t married. Mom was doubly unhappy about that one.
Just because she wasn’t married, it didn’t mean she was a failure, right?
Right. So, why did it feel that way? And why was it such a big deal? A marriage certificate came with no guarantees, and as far as she could tell, it didn’t protect a person against heartbreak, disappointment and loneliness.
It wasn’t as if Mom and Dad were ecstatic in their nearly forty years of marriage. But it wasn’t as if she could say that to Mom. She hated pretending, as if nothing had changed in their family, when everything had.
That was the real reason she didn’t want to walk through the front door of her childhood home. It was too painful to think about.
“Kristin McKaslin, is that you?”
She studied the well-dressed man who sank into the empty seat across the aisle. He was good-looking with disheveled black hair and eyes a sharp aquamarine blue. He had a straight blade of a nose, high cheekbones and dimples cut into his cheeks. He was dressed in a casual outfit that shouted, “Money!”
Nope, she didn’t know him, but wait, there was something familiar about him. But what?
She didn’t know him from work, the gym or church—either in Seattle or in Montana. Still, there was something distinctive about that devastating smile, those dimples…and that strong jaw.
Of course! She saw a flash of a boyish face with longer black hair standing before the podium at a high-school assembly. The image of a leaner, younger star running back whipping off his helmet after the final touchdown for the state championship. The caustic face of her mom’s best friend’s son, who wanted to be anywhere but stuck waiting in the car while their mothers talked on the sidewalk in town.
“Ryan Sanders?” She couldn’t believe it. She blinked, and the remembered youthful image of his face blended with the older, wiser one staring back at her across the aisle. “It is you.”
“The one and only. I look different, I know, everybody says so. I went and got respectable.”
“You were always respectable.”
“Nope, I wasn’t. You’re just being nice.” His cute lopsided grin had matured into a slow curve of a smile. “You look better, but the same. Still have your nose in a book.”
“Guilty. I confess.”
Those blue eyes, which could have been cold, sparkled. “That’s how I recognized you.”
“I’m surprised you could see me over the seats. I’m still short.”
“The word is ‘petite.’ I was bored and people-watching and I could see your profile from way back there. I got the last seat on the plane I think.”
“Waited until the last minute?”
“I didn’t think I’d be flying out of Seattle. Hey, you cut your hair. It was always long. Hiding your face. It still does, even short.” He reached across the aisle to touch the curled end of her chin-length hair.
She felt a jolt, like the snap of static shock, as the lock of hair rebounded against her jaw. What was that? And should she act as if she hadn’t felt it? “Your hair’s shorter, too.”
“It goes with my more reputable image.” He shrugged one dependable shoulder.
Yeah, he looked reputable, all right, decked out in a loose-knit black sweater that hugged the lean curves of his muscled shoulders and chest. Black trousers, crisply pleated, completed the image.
He could be a corporate heavyweight, with a stuffy MBA and an impressive portfolio. Except for the black boots, scuffed and rugged, showing there was still a part of the Montana boy in the polished,