Page 10 of The Holiday Clause

Logan shot to his feet, but Soren yanked his pants down. “Damn it, Soren! Get off!”

Soren fumbled his way out of the snow and clambered up the steps, scooping up her spilled apples as he rose. “You dropped these.”

She scowled at him through wide eyes. Her eggs lay shattered. “What the hell is wrong with you two?” They weren’t even wearing coats. She looked down at Logan’s feet. “Where are your shoes?”

“There wasn’t time.” He panted.

“You’re terrifying my animals.” The cats hissed and bolted off the porch.

“Sorry. Here, kitty, kitty—umph!”

Logan checked Soren, knocking him into the railing.

“Stop!” Fanning away the exhaust fumes, Wren coughed. The truck pinged continuously with the door ajar. “Are you just going to leave those running?”

Both men looked at each other and then rushed to turn off their vehicles. The silence deafened. She still didn’t know what the hell could cause them to show up like that.

When they offered no explanation, she swung out her arms. “Well? Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

They looked at each other again but said nothing.

“Great.” She bent to collect her spilled items, stuffing them angrily into her torn grocery bags. “Just another day of inexplicable Hawthorne behavior.”

“We didn’t mean to scare you,” Logan said, passing her the carton of dripping eggs. “Sorry. We’ll replace them.”

She pursed her lips. “If you don’t want to scare people, don’t drive like psychopaths.” She shoved the bag into Logan’s arms and searched the porch for her keys. When she finally unlocked the door of her cabin, the men lingered at the threshold, looking contrite.

Wren sighed. “Come in and dry off before you catch pneumonia. Leave your shoes at the door and lay your socks on the hearth.”

The cabin was small and toasty from the logs in the woodstove she’d left burning that morning. She moved through the open-concept layout to the small kitchen as they swept snow chips off their jeans. Even with the tall A-frame roof, they looked too big for her tiny home.

When she’d had her house built, they’d made fun of its size. She didn’t mind that it was small. She lived alone, and it met all her needs. She especially loved the east-facing window where she practiced her sun salutations each morning in the natural light.

Only her bedroom and bathroom had interior walls, but even they didn’t reach the cathedral ceilings. Wren hated feeling boxed in and preferred to spend time outdoors in nature. Unfortunately, Hideaway Harbor endured its long winters, so the icy seasons were tough. By the end of the colder months, her cabin fever peaked through the roof. If she had to be indoors, she at least wanted to be somewhere she loved, and she adored her little home.

Soren looked around as if the locally sourced custom cabinetry his brother built offended him. “It always feels like entering a dollhouse whenever I come in here.”

“Don’t start.” She unloaded her damaged groceries on the island. They still hadn’t told her why they were there. “Is your dad okay?”

“He’s the same.”

“Didn’t he have an appointment this week?” One of the many joys of small-town life meant that no one’s business stayed private, and HIPAA laws didn’t apply to neighborly gossip.

“Yeah, but nothing’s changed,” Soren said, helping her unload some of the groceries. “They’re still saying he has months. Maybe weeks.”

She stilled. Sometimes, they acted so cavalier about their father’s health that she wondered if they lived in denial. Bodhi might be an unconventional father, but she couldn’t imagine losing him. After losing her mom, he was all she had left.

Magnus Hawthorne was far from what anyone would call pleasant or easy, but like her, they’d lost their mother, and Magnus remained the only parent.

She rested her hand on Soren’s. “I hope he has more time than the doctors expect.”

Christmas was difficult without their moms. They all knew Magnus faced terminal illness, but she really hoped the boys could have at least one more holiday with him.

Soren turned his hand and laced his fingers with hers, meeting her stare. “Thanks. That means a lot, Wren.”

Logan cleared his throat, his sad expression mirroring his brother’s. “Yeah. It’s been really hard.”

She glanced at them and frowned. What were they up to? It might be normal for sons of a dying man to express concern, but the Hawthornes weren’t wired that way. They seemed to be working extra hard to fish for sympathy.