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Unpaid bills.
“Mother…” She looked up. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve extended your credit further. Tell me you won a lottery. Anything. Just not more debt.”
The happiness on her mother’s face subsided. “Oh, Miranda, don’t spoil it.”
Beside her mother, Adrian fidgeted.
“We can’t afford this, Flo.”
She’d have to face Callum, tell him that her mother was still using his name. Then she’d have to pay him back. The debt stretched ahead of her like an unscaleable mountain. “Oh, Mum.”
“Don’t ‘Oh, Mum’ me.” Her mother stood up abruptly. “You’re not the only one allowed to give nice presents.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just promised Adrian you’d help him with the deposit on his car—and possibly buy me the new model microwave I’ve been wanting. But we’re not allowed to give you anything nice?”
Adrian looked like he wished he was far away.
“It’s not the size—or the expense—of the present that counts. It never has been.” Miranda folded the wrappings over the coat. “You need to take this back. Get the account credited.”
Her mother’s shoulders sagged. “But you’ll keep the scarf?”
She took in her mother’s dejection. With an inward sigh Miranda conceded, “Yes, I will.”
Flo perked up instantly. “And wear it this weekend. That red lipstick of yours will match it perfectly.”
Miranda crossed over to her mother and hugged her. Flo stood quietly in the circle of her arms, and Miranda noticed that her mother had become as fragile as a butterfly; she was thinner than she’d ever been. “I love you, Mum.”
How she wished that things were different. For Flo to be more reasonable. For her father to be here.
Ah, what did it help to wish for the impossible?
Her father wasn’t coming back.
And she was spending the weekend with the man who had caused his death. A man who’d asked her to be his wife.
What a traitor she’d become.
Eight
Everything was packed and ready to take to Fairwinds. There was some baking that with Flo’s help Miranda had prepared in advance, a selection of herbs and spices that she never traveled without—and extras that she intended to gift to the family—as well as a plethora of laborsaving devices and utensils.
Unfortunately it had been raining since they’d opened presents, making it impossible for her to stack it all outside, and now Callum was due to collect her.
Deciding she had to get moving, regardless of the weather, she kissed her mother goodbye and moved to hug Adrian.
He pecked her on the cheek. “I’ll give you a hand with all your junk.” Picking up her overnight bag, he held the front door open for her. “I’ll make a second trip for the bigger boxes.”
Miranda smiled her thanks up to him. “What would I do without you?” she said teasingly, then realized it was true—she loved her brother, would do whatever she could to protect him.
Outside the rain had eased off. Droplets dripped from the eaves, while the wind whistled through the bare branches of the lone potted silver birch.
“Look after Mum,” she told her brother on the step.
Adrian set down her bag. “I will.”
He was back in a jiffy with her boxes and stacked them at the bottom of the steps beside her luggage. “It’s going to snow again,” he said, studying the sky.
“Maybe.” Miranda squinted at the heavy clouds overhead. “Remember how we used to make snowmen in winter? With an old pair of Dad’s gumboots? Once we borrowed Mum’s pink scarf and she was so cross.”
Adrian chuckled beside her. “Remember the time you pulled my carrot nose out and gave it to Troubadour? We had such a snowball fight after that.”
“You stole the horse’s carrot. And anyway, you started it. You put a handful of snow down my shirt.” Miranda grimaced. “You hooligan.”
“And you clobbered me with your riding crop, so I hit you back.”
“And then Dad came and gave you a lecture about how boys should behave with honor always.” A lump thickened her throat. “I’d forgotten about that. We were a right royal pair of brats sometimes.”
