A Maverick for Christmas. Leanne Banks
Henson glanced over his shoulder. “That’s his mistake, I’d say.”
She noticed his grimace as he took a step and her alarm buttons started to go off. “Mr. Henson, you’re limping. What’s wrong?”
He waved his hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. Couple logs fell on my leg when I was delivering wood. You mind if I heat up those dumplings? I bet they’re tasty.”
“They are, but I think you might need to get your ankle checked by a doctor,” she said.
“Doctors usually can’t do anything. Medicine is just one more racket, I say.”
“But—”
“You gonna make me beg for those dumplings?” he asked.
She sighed. “No. Sit down and I’ll heat them up for you,” she said and walked toward the kitchen, then turned as something occurred to her. “If you’ll let me take you into town to see the doctor as soon as you finish eating.”
He scowled at her. “I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time and money.”
“It will make me feel better,” she told him. “I’m worried about you. You’re not yourself.”
His gaze softened. “Well, you’re being silly,” he said gruffly. “I’ll go,” he said, sinking onto the sofa. “But not until I eat those dumplings.”
Thirty minutes later, he’d finished the food and she hung the wreath on his front door.
“What’s that for?” he asked as he shuffled toward her car.
Abby adjusted the red bow. “To give you some Christmas spirit.”
He muttered and got into her car. Abby drove toward town with Mr. Henson fussing the entire way about her car.
“What can you carry with this thing, anyway? Bet my lawn-mower engine is bigger than this. What keeps it running?” he asked. “Sounds like squirrels.”
“The only thing I have to carry is me,” she said. “I don’t haul wood, and this car is surprisingly good in the snow.”
“Can’t believe that,” he said. “You’d get stuck in six inches.”
“It’s light, so it doesn’t sink, plus the gas mileage is terrific. What kind of gas mileage does your truck get?”
He made a mumbling sound that she couldn’t understand. “Excuse me? What did you say?”
“Fifteen miles to the gallon,” he said. “But I could haul most of the houses around here if I wanted.”
She bit her tongue, refusing to point out the obvious, that there was no need to haul houses. Turning off the main drive, she pulled next to the clinic door.
“This is a no-parking zone,” he told her.
“I know,” she said. “I just wanted to get you as close to the door as possible.”
“Hmmph,” he said and opened the car door.
“Just a minute,” she said, cutting the engine and rushing to the passenger side of the car.
“Gotta be a darned pretzel to ride in that car,” he grumbled, but leaned against her as she helped him inside the clinic. Two hours later, she helped Mr. Henson back to the car as he hobbled on crutches.
“Just a sprain,” he said. “I told you it wasn’t anything and I’m not taking that pain medication. It makes me loopy.”
“It’s not a narcotic,” she said as she carefully arranged the crutches in her backseat. “Do you have plastic bags?”
“Yeah, why?” he asked.
“For the ice. The doctor said you need to put ice on your ankle.”
Mr. Henson shrugged.
“Well, if you don’t want to get better and you want to keep feeling rotten, you don’t need to follow his instructions.”
She felt the old man whip his head toward her. “I didn’t say that,” he said.
“The doctor said between the bad bruise and sprain it’s a wonder you didn’t break it. So you need to take care of it. RICE is what he said.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Rest, ice, compression and elevation.”
“You can sit back and watch some TV,” she suggested.
“Hate that reality stuff. Give me a book or a ball game instead.”
“That could be arranged,” she said. “I think my mother said something about fixing some beef stew. Maybe I could bring some over for you if you behave yourself.”
The old man licked his lips. “That sounds good.”
She smiled. “You’ll get better faster if you do what the doctor says.”
“Maybe,” Mr. Henson said and paused. “You know, you would make a good wife. You nag like a good wife would.”
Abby didn’t know whether to feel complimented or insulted.
“Cade Pritchett will be chasing you sooner than you think,” he said.
“Not in this lifetime,” she said.
Mr. Henson lifted a wiry gray eyebrow. “You disrespecting your elder?”
“No,” Abby said reluctantly. “I just can’t fight reality.”
“Girlie,” he said, “I’m eighty-five and I lost Geraldine, my reason for living, eight years ago. I fight reality every day.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
After that, Abby focused on her schoolwork and her work at ROOTS, a community group founded for at-risk teens. Abby led her girls’ teen group on Tuesday nights where they talked about everything from bullies and sex to cosmetics and higher education.
The truth was most of the girls in Abby’s group were pretty cool. They were older than their years and saw Abby as the person they wanted to become. She was humbled by their admiration.
“So, we’ve told you about our guys. When are you gonna tell us about yours?” Keisha, a wise-to-the-world fifteen-year-old, asked.
“I don’t really have a guy,” Abby said.
Silence settled over the group and Abby felt an unexpected spurt of discomfort. “Well, I could have a guy. It’s just that the guy I want doesn’t see me.”
Shannon, a sixteen-year-old with purple hair, frowned. “Is he blind?”
Abby chuckled. “Not in the physical sense. He used to date my sister, so he sees me as the little sister.”
“Oooh,” Katrina, who wore faux black leather from head to toe, said. “Drama. I love it. Does your sis know you like the guy?”
Abby shook her head.
“Does she like this guy?” Keisha asked.
“Oh, no. She’s engaged to someone else.”
“Well, then, you should definitely move in on him,” Katrina said.
Abby laughed uncomfortably. “He sees me as the little sister.”
“You should change that,” Shannon said. “Maybe you could dye your hair pink.”
“I’m not sure that’s me,” Abby said.
“Well, you have to do something different,” Shannon said, her gaze falling over Abby in a combination of pity and disapproval. “You’re, like, everything but sexy.”
“She’s not ugly,” Keisha said.
“I didn’t say that,” Shannon said. “She’s