Their Christmas Miracle. Barbara Wallace
CHAPTER TWELVE
“ADMIT IT. WE’RE LOST.”
Thomas Collier glowered at his baby brother who had been frowning and tapping the GPS screen for the past twenty minutes. “You lured me up to the Arctic, and now we’re lost in a storm.”
“First of all, we’re in the Highlands, not the North Pole.” Linus Collier offered a glower of his own. “Second, we wouldn’t be this far north if you weren’t so particular about your subcontractors. And third, we’re not lost. The GPS froze and won’t tell me if we’re on the correct road.”
What a surprise. They hadn’t gotten a decent signal all day. “In other words, we’re lost.” He knew he should have hired them a driver. They wouldn’t get home until New Year’s at this rate.
A cold December rain pelted the windshield almost as quickly as the wipers could push it away. There was fog too, as thick as anything London could produce. There was no way they could see if they were driving in the right direction.
Thomas leaned forward and turned up the thermostat. The dampness had settled into his bones, leaving a chill that was going to take days to shake. He was cold, cranky and 100 percent needed a drink. Instead he was roaming the Scottish countryside.
“I’m going to be late for bedtime stories,” he grumbled.
“Maddie will understand.”
Understanding didn’t make it right. “I haven’t missed a bedtime in five months.” Even if he did go back to work immediately after. The last thing he wanted was for his daughter to think he chose work over her. Ever. It was bad enough knowing that had been one of her mother’s final thoughts. “It’s important she knows she can depend on my being there for her.”
A hand clapped his forearm. “She knows, Thomas.”
“Does she? She’s barely five years old. Six months ago she trusted her mother would be home too.”
He watched the wipers moving back and forth, sweeping away the streaks of rain. Ahead, the narrow road disappeared into the black. “She still wakes up calling for Rosalind in the middle of the night, you know.” Less frequently than she had in those months immediately after the accident, but often enough.
Those cries cut him to the quick. “A child shouldn’t have to grow up without her mother,” he said.
At least half a dozen times a day, Maddie would do something that would have him turning to share a smile, only to realize there was no one there with whom to share it.
“Did you know that the other day, she asked me to help her write to Santa and ask if he would talk to heaven about letting Rosalind visit for Christmas?”
“Yikes.” Linus sucked in air through his teeth. “What did you tell her?”
“Something about Santa already knowing her wish and Rosalind being with us even though she’s invisible. Wasn’t my best moment.”
“I’m sure you handled the moment just fine.”
“Be better if I didn’t have to handle the question at all,” Thomas said with a sigh. If he had stopped Rosalind from driving north that weekend. If he’d been a better husband. He could fill the past nearly two years with ifs.
Woe is the man who tries to serve two loves. You’d think he’d have learned from past generations that Colliers could either run the family company or maintain a successful marriage, but not both. They’d sold that right for two centuries worth of fiscal success and a royal warrant. Honestly, it was lucky their family had survived for two centuries. If Rosalind were alive, she would agree.
But she wasn’t, and he’d never have the chance to show her he’d learned his lesson.
“I think I see something,” Linus said, pointing.
Up ahead a signpost took shape in the fog. “‘Lochmara, Five Miles,’” Thomas read. “Town this far remote has to have a gas station. We could ask for directions.”
“Doesn’t look like we have to drive that far. Look.” The road had taken a sharp turn, and there was a building ahead with floodlights lining the parking lot. As they drew closer, they saw a wooden sign that read McKringle’s Pub swinging in the wind.
“Who on earth would build a pub all the way out here? There isn’t a soul around,” Thomas noted. The parking lot was empty except for a bright red truck.
“Does it matter? They’re open. We can get directions and something to eat. I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.”
“Because my brother insists on working through the day without a break.”
Thomas sighed. Might as well let Linus have his dinner. It was already too late to make story time. If the building had any decent kind of reception, he could call Maddie and say good-night over the phone.
If the place had a phone. The outside looked like an ancient icehouse, left over from some old estate. Its gray façade looked bleak and cold. Other than the parking lot, the only light came from slivers peeking through the shuttered windows.
“Looks promising,” Thomas said.
“Stop being irritable. It’s a pub, which means it serves food, and, at this point, I’m hungry enough to eat a giant serving of haggis.”
“Now, that I’d like to see.”
At least the front door looked freshly painted, the red brighter and glossier than the shutters. On it hung a giant wreath adorned with tiny Scottish flags.
“Probably from Saint Andrew’s Day,” Linus said.
No surprise there. Considering Scotland’s patron saint began as a fisherman, Thomas imagined the small coastal villages took great pride in marking the celebration of Scottish heritage. He pulled the front handle, opening the door and releasing a blade of bright light.
“Ha!” Linus replied.
Thomas stepped inside and felt his heart seize up.
The restaurant was a little slice of home. Candlelight danced from tea lights around the room, and soft holiday music floated through the air. To the left of the entrance, in what looked like the main dining room, there was a roaring fire. Seeing the greenery placed along the mantle, Thomas ached with memories of branches strewn across another mantle and a brunette curled up in an overstuffed chair.
The setting was too similar. Too much. No way could he stay there without losing his mind.
He was about to tell Linus when a man emerged from the back shadows of the bar.
“Welcome to McKringle’s,” the man greeted in a booming brogue. “I’m Christopher McKringle.”
A barrel-chested man with a bulbous nose and neatly trimmed beard, he clapped both their backs with a beefy hand as if greeting a pair of old friends.
“Collier, eh?” he said upon introduction. “Like the soap.”
“Um, exactly,” Thomas replied.
It was a frequent remark whenever someone heard their name, Collier’s Soap once having been a royal favorite. Usually