Page 6 of Knot what I want for Christmas
I guess I must stand and watch a little too long because my dad hobbles alongside me, leans in, and says, “I forgot how pretty she was.”
“Huh?” I say, shaking my head.
“Pretty. Hollie’s really quite something to look at.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
My dad’s silver eyes, always piercing, assess me. He doesn’t say anything else, simply nods and waits for me to collect the suitcases. In the old days, there’s no way my dad wouldn’t have taken one himself. He’s always prided himself on his strength and his can-do attitude – got a burst pipe, he’ll mend it, burst tyre, he’ll replace it, 100 head of cattle that need wrangling, he’s on it. But now, with the knee, he’s resigned to the sidelines in more than one way. I’m secretly glad about it. I think, given halfthe chance, my dad would have worked himself right the way into his own grave – heck, he’d probably have dug that grave too, save everyone else the job. He’s worked hard all his life, very hard, and it’s about time he put his feet up and had some fun. Even if that fun wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. Still, at least it’s not knitting.
I carry the bags through into the house, definitely not noticing how Hollie’s honey scent has already infused into our home and definitely not thinking about just how pretty the little omega is.
Chapter Three
Hollie
As we stroll through the front door, a black and white border collie comes zooming across the floorboards toward us, tail wagging so quickly from side to side it’s one continuous blur. The dog barks happily at me and jumps around my feet.
“Who – who is this?” I say, dropping down to crouch almost immediately and opening up my arms wide. The dog comes racing toward me, sniffing at me at first before dragging its tongue up my face.
“Dolly!” Mr. J snaps, clicking his fingers. “Manners.”
Dolly responds almost immediately, jumping back and dropping to lie down, although her tail continues to sweep across the floor in excitement.
“Dolly,” Annie says. She bends down to pat the dog on the head. “She used to be Dad’s working dog, but she’s retired now too. And if Dolly’s here, that means somewhere around here is – ah, yeah, there – Kenny.”
I follow the direction in which my best friend is pointing and, to my surprise, see a large, snowy white rabbit lingering in the corner, little nose twitching up and down.
“A rabbit?” I say.
“Yes,” Annie says. “He’s a house rabbit.”
“He was meant to be an outdoor rabbit,” Mrs. J says. “But someone is a big softie.” I’m assuming she means Annie. “And couldn’t stand the idea of him being outside in the cold.”
“Don’t dogs eat rabbits?” I say, watching in astonishment as the old collie strolls back to the bunny and flops down beside him, the bunny immediately curling up with the dog.
“Greyhounds, maybe,” Annie says. “But not Dolly. Dolly loves Kenny nearly as much as Kenny loves Dolly. They’re inseparable. In fact, I think Kenny might think that he’s actually a dog. Watch this. Kenny! Kenny!” Annie calls. “Come!”
Kenny looks up from where he seems extremely comfortable. One of his ears twitches.
“Kenny, come!” Annie says more firmly this time.
Reluctantly, the bunny slumps up and then hops over to my best friend. My best friend tickles between his ears and I give her a little applaud.
“I’ve never known a rabbit who could follow commands before.”
“He doesn’t always do it,” Annie confesses. “I think he’s just showing off for your benefit.”
“Right,” Mrs. J says. “Let’s warm you up, Hollie.”
And next she’s leading me through into a giant family kitchen, which is probably the size of my Rockview apartment. She forces me down onto a stool, and then she’s pouring us out hot chocolates she’s been cooking on the stove. It’s creamy, warm, and utterly delicious. And it does not make me think of the alpha who I spy from the corner of my eye carrying both of my suitcases up the staircase.
After the hot chocolate and one of Mr. Jackson’s home-baked chocolate chip cookies, Annie takes me on a tour of the house. It really is beautiful, like something right out of Little House on the Prairie. The views from each window are picture perfect and everything is knotted wooden floorboards made cozy with homemade quilts and thick rugs.
When we’ve toured nearly all the rooms, I ask as innocently as I can, “So where’s Clay’s room?”
“I showed you,” Annie says, pointing ahead of us. “That one back there.”
“But,” I say, “how about his pack mates?”
