Page 9 of My Secret Santa Clayton

Okay…okay, it was just the cat.

His tail twitched as he mewed, slinking away with that smug look plastered across his furry face, having just jumped off the bookshelf. I hated how he always managed to make my nerves jump. Mariah, hands on hips, shot me a look that said she'd had enough of my skittishness. “Okay—seriously, Grace. You've been so jumpy since you got home. Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Fine.” The word came out harder than I meant it to. “Just not used to stealthy ninja cats anymore.”

“Right.” She didn't buy it—not for a second. Her eyes narrowed, a mix of sisterly concern and frustration etched into her features. “Grace, come on.”

“Look, Mariah, it's nothing. I'm just…out of practice with small-town life, that's all.” I avoided her gaze, picking up a fallen candy cane from the floor and slotting it back onto a branch. “Not used to people seeing me all the time, knowing who I am.”

“Out of practice or not, you're here now. And you're safe.” Her voice softened. “We should be able to enjoy this. It's Christmas. We're supposed to be…” she trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Jolly?” I suggested with a half-hearted smirk.

“Exactly. Jolly.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “Yeah. I can try to be jolly for once.”

“Grace,” she leaned in closer, “if something's wrong, you can tell me.”

“Nothing's wrong,” I insisted, though we both knew I was lying through my teeth. “Now, can we drop it and get back to decorating? Santa's watching, and I hear he gives extra points for enthusiasm.”

“Fine.” Mariah sighed, giving me a playful nudge as she went back to draping tinsel over the greenery. “But if you need to talk…”

“I know where to find you.” I cut in before she could finish, offering a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. “Thanks, sis.”

FIVE

Clay

I looked up at the gray sky, then down at the porch pillar I had just set in place. It was a solid piece of work. Hank Garrison, owner of the General Store, needed some help and I wasn't one to turn my back on a neighbor.

I was knee-deep in sawdust, giving the old pillar a few solid taps to settle it into place. Bear was sprawled out on the general store steps. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth as he watched folks step around him, some scratching behind his ears as they passed. Good for morale, that dog, but a damn trip hazard.

“Need a hand with that, Clay?” Hank called from the doorway.

“Got it covered,” I grunted.

“Suit yourself,” Hank said. “Dog's making himself quite the roadblock.”

“I think he’s bringing in business, actually,” I chuckled.

Hank laughed with me, but I could tell there was something else on his mind. A moment later, he cleared his throat. “How's your old man doing, Clay?”

Ah…that.

“What did he do now?” I asked.

Hank shrugged. “Nothing—well, nothing out of the ordinary. Jake O’Hara was asking after him because he’s been parked at the Spur for a few nights in a row.”

“Can't say I've checked in recently,” I responded. My dad was the town drunk—everyone knew that. The subject was a splinter under my skin, always there, always irritating. “We don’t talk much.”

“Your dad should be proud of the man you’ve made yourself into,” he said.

“Maybe.” My voice was strangled, my throat tense. I didn’t want to talk about this. Never did. “We talking about religion or politics next? You know, since we’re on such a pleasant subject already.”

Hank chuckled. “Point taken,” he conceded, turning to gaze out over the quiet main street of Silver Ridge. A gust of wind picked up, sending a shiver through the few remaining leaves on the maple trees lining the sidewalk.

“Let's stick to pillars and planks,” I suggested, staring at a hole in the woodgrain.

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