Page 49 of Santa of the Creek
I walk over, bend down, and kiss him.
“Morning breath,” I murmur.
“Gym stink,” he counters.
Fair enough. “Go back to sleep. We’ll talk later. Oh…” I thought of something. “I’m sorry, I can’t meet for lunch. Danny’s roped me into another Santa gig.”
Echo cracks open one eye. “Where this time?”
“The feed store.”
He doesn’t bother to hide his smile. “Santa Paws?”
I sigh. “You heard?”
“I heard Geraldine and Barbie-Anne getting all excited about it in CC’s.”
“You could have warned me,” I grumble. “I don’t mind the dogs; it’s the humans I can’t handle.”
Echo gives a sleepy laugh. “Think of them as vampires.”
“What?”
“Or pumpkins. Whatever floats your boat.”
I shake my head. The man is clearly sleep-drunk. “Go back to sleep. We’ll catch up later. I might pop into Randy’s.”
Echo mumbles something and curls up like a hibernating squirrel.
I kiss his temple and head into my closet. I’ll shower in the guest bathroom. I grimace at the Santa suit. Santa Paws. Good gravy, what next!
I drive into the parking lot of Collier’s feed store, glad I didn’t leave it any later. The lot is mostly full already. This is where the farming community and the town meet, and most of the time it’s a sedate place. The farmers come in to order feed for their livestock, and Creekers who prefer somewhere quieter than the bustling town cafes to chat over coffee. I come here with residents from the assisted living facility, a couple of older men who’d worked on local farms and like being close to farmingagain. I sit at a nearby table and read my latest book as they argue about which feed was best for their cattle in their day.
The store holds events during the year to draw in trade. There are two Santa Paws events. One for families and the other for the older folk who are less steady on their feet. I thought this one would be quiet as it was for older folk. That’s stupid of me. I’ve been before, but obviously I haven’t paid enough attention.
I ease into a space between a Prius and an ancient Impala, then dial Echo’s number, feeling a pang of disappointment when it goes to voicemail. He must have gone to work early. I don’t bother to leave a message. I’ll go see him this evening at the bar.
I look in the review mirror and straighten my Santa hat. “Santa Paws, this is your moment.”
I lock my pickup and head toward the entrance. I’ve been promised someone will look out for me.
The automatic doors open, and two men bolt from the building.
“Don’t go in there, man,” one of them says. “Just don’t.”
The other one looks at me, then turns to his companion. “I think he’s meant to be here, Crusty.”
Crusty?
Crusty stares at me. “Thoughts and prayers, Santa.”
“Thanks,” I say.
How bad can it be?
I had no idea.
Then I walk into chaos in a snowy twinkling hell.
