The McRae Series 01 - Twelve Days Sam and Rachel

she can't do things, and yet she never actually seems to do anything," Miriam said. "Looks like you've got some things to take care of."
    "Yeah. You, too. Find out who these kids belong to, Miriam. Quickly."
    "I will," she promised. "Take good care of Rachel."
    Sam held his tongue. He'd never been able to take proper care of Rachel. Still, the thought of her sitting here all day in that damned rocking chair in the corner... He had come home one evening around dusk and found her sitting in the dark, asleep in the rocker.
    It had seemed odd, but she said she hadn't been sleeping well. He wouldn't know about that because he hadn't been sleeping in their bed. So he had let it go. He'd turned and walked away, as he so often did these days. He wondered what else he'd missed.

Chapter 3

    The afternoon was chaotic between getting the children settled and Rachel holding her breath while Sam was outside arguing with Miriam on the porch. But he gave in, because when he came inside he had some plastic shopping bags from Wal-Mart. At first, all she could think was that was so odd. Sam didn't shop, except for building supplies. And then she realized he'd given in—that the children were staying and these were their things.
    Rachel saw Emma staring at the bags. Her cheeks turned ruddy and she hid her face against the top of the baby's head. They had so little.
    "We'll go shopping tomorrow," Rachel said, thinking to reassure her.
    "We don't need much," Emma insisted.
    "Then we'll just get what you need," Rachel said. But they wouldn't. They'd get a lot. "It'll be fun. Especially picking out things for Grace. They have the cutest clothes for babies. I have nearly a dozen nieces and nephews; I shop for them all the time."
    Usually, it hurt, shopping for children she'd never have. But this time, she'd enjoy it. She'd dress Emma in something brand new, too. Something stylish, if she could figure out what stylish was to an eleven-year-old girl. It would be a good day. She'd make it one.
    A moment later, Zach came whizzing around the corner. He'd found a set of Matchbox cars her nephew left behind and was on his hands and knees racing in a circle through the house—the hall, the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, and back to the hall. Every thirty seconds or so, he came through like a whirlwind, and this time, he zoomed into Sam. Still on his hands and knees, he looked way up at Sam and said, "Sorry."
    Sam took a breath and let it out slow. "It's okay, kid."
    "Can I ask you somethin'?"
    With a pained expression on his face, Sam said, "Sure."
    "Have you been bad?" Zach asked quite seriously. "Is San'a mad at you?"
    Rachel started to laugh. She couldn't help it. Sam stared at her, a dazed expression on his face. She couldn't tell if he was really mad or if it was something else. But she stopped laughing.
    "Not that I know of," Sam said finally.
    "Has he told you something he hasn't told us, Zach?" Rachel asked.
    "Uh-uh. I haven't talked to him yet, but I wanna. Can we do that? Do y'know where he's at?"
    "I do," Rachel offered. "Santa's coming on Saturday. There's going to be a parade and everything. It goes right down this street. We can't miss that."
    "I gotta tell him some stuff," Zach said seriously.
    "We'll make sure you get to talk to him," she said. "Why do you think Santa's mad at Sam, Zach?"
    " 'Cause Chris'mas isn't comin' here."
    "What?"
    "We saw all the lights and the trees 'n' stuff on all the other houses. They're all ready for him. But I guess he's not comin' here. No Chris'mas."
    "Oh." Rachel laughed again, realizing the problem. "It's the first day of Christmas, isn't it?"
    Zach looked puzzled. "I thought it wasn't comin' for another couple o' weeks."
    "I mean today's the first day of the town's Christmas festival. It's something special we do here," Rachel said. "Come and see, and I'll explain."
    They went to the window. The children crowded in around her, and she found she liked the press of little bodies all around her, the sounds of awe in their voices, and the way Zach had his nose flat against the cool pane of glass and laughed as it fogged up. Then he touched the little triangles of blue trim around the edges.
    "Somebody colored 'em?" he asked.
    "Something like that," Rachel said.
    She painted glass herself at times, but this she'd ordered special from a company in Wisconsin to match what had already been here when she restored these windows as best she could. At one time, she'd loved the way the pretty