They made the slow walk to her car without saying anything. It was still cold, with a slate-gray overcast that looked like snow. But the wind smelled of fuel and the air vibrated not with thunder but with the indescribable roar of several hundred big diesel engines growling through their gears as they headed out onto the highway like giant beasts joining a vast migration. Hearing that sound, seeing the rigs moving slowly past him, Jimmy Joe could feel his heart begin to beat faster.

She unlocked her car with a little gadget on her key chain that chirped like a cricket when she pressed on it. He reached past her and opened the door for her and then stood so he was shielding her as well as he could from the wind while she eased in under the wheel, stuck the key in the ignition and fired it up. All this, while he was being careful not to touch her and she was being just as careful not to look at him, and both of them were wondering who was going to be the first to say it.

“Well,” she said, her voice sounding dry and breathless, “at least it started, huh?” She looked up at him then, with dark, fierce eyes, almost as if she was angry with him about something. Funny how he knew that wasn’t it at all.

“You got enough gas?” he asked, dragging it out even though he was restless and anxious to be on his way.

She glanced at her gauge. “Half a tank. I thought I’d fill up in Amarillo.”

He nodded and straightened, looking out across the roof of her car. “Well, then. Guess you’re all set to go.” He took a deep breath and ducked back down like somebody bobbing for apples in a barrel of water. “You take care now, y’hear? Drive safely.” His voice sounded garbled to him, as if maybe it was coming from under water.

“I will.” She sounded impatient, a little annoyed with him for doubting her. Then she gripped the wheel with both hands, and as if it was the hardest thing she’d ever done, looked up at him and croaked, “Ah…thanks. For everything. For…you know, letting me use your sleeper, and…everything. It was really nice of you.”

“No problem.” He cleared his throat. “My pleasure…” And he could tell by the ghost of a smile that quivered the corner of her mouth that she knew how close he’d come to saying “ma’am.”

She squinted up at him, still thinking about smiling but not quite doing it. “I hope you make it home to your little boy in time for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy Joe. “Me, too. And I hope your daddy gets to feelin’ better real soon.”

She laughed on a shaky breath. “Yeah, me, too.” Then, reaching out for the door handle, she said, “Well…okay. Thanks. Again. See ya. Oh-and Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah, you have a Merry Christmas, too.” After that there wasn’t anything to do but stand back out of the way and let her shut the door. He hung around while she fiddled with the radio and heater controls, then gave him a wave through the window to show him she was on her way. He waved back and watched her head out across the parking lot toward the four-wheeler exit and the highway beyond.

It was when he’d turned to walk back to his truck that it occurred to him that after all that, neither one of them had said it. Neither of them had said goodbye.

Chapter 6

“I got me four big boxes a‘ tapes here, and there’s not a one of ’em I feet like listenin‘ to. I’m just runnin’ through the radio, lookin‘ for a station. ”


1-40-New Mexico

One radio station on the whole dial, and it had to be playing Christmas music. Then Mirabella remembered it was the day before Christmas-Christmas Eve. What else would they be playing?

She just didn’t want to believe it was Christmas Eve. How could it be? It didn’t feet like Christmas Eve. On the day before Christmas people were supposed to be snugged up in their houses frantically wrapping presents and stuffing themselves with popcorn and eggnog, or at the very least fighting their way through the mall for some forgotten-till-the-last-minute gift or other, half-deafened by the din of the crowds, canned Christmas carols on the loudspeakers, and those Salvation Army Santas jingling away in every doorway. Who had ever heard of a Christmas Eve spent slogging across a cold, lonely desert along with a lot of other poor hapless pilgrims…?

A shiver went skittering down her spine. Okay, she thought, this is just a little weird.

But there was something almost biblical about the vastness of the landscape, where the Rockies melted gradually into juniper-studded plateaus and twisting arroyos before disappearing completely in the flat, treeless prairie. Out here the horizons seemed to stretch forever and the leaden sky came down to touch them, and somewhere out there in the deep lavender haze where they met she could almost imagine a pyramid or two, and yes, perhaps even a caravan of camels plodding slowly eastward.

“‘We three kings of Orient are;/Bewing gifts we traverse afar,”’ Mirabella sang lustily in her off-key baritone, attempting with sheer volume to dispel the loneliness and depression that was slowly but surely creeping in around her heart. “ ‘Field and fountain, moor and mou-oun-tain,/Following yonder star./OO, star of wonder, star…’” Starr…Jimmy Joe. Her voice fizzled into silence just as the music critic in her belly began expressing his outrage.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” she said with a soft and rueful laugh, rubbing at the mushrooming bulge just below the right side of her rib cage. “Bad idea, I know. Wish I’d brought along some James Galway or Pavarotti tapes, but I didn’t think about it. So I guess the best I can do is…” She pushed a button and the radio’s automatic tuner settled on the only available station, which blared forth a lush and throaty, “Blu-blu-blue Chriss-mas.” She settled back in her seat and sighed. “Elvis.”

Although really, she told herself, things could be a lot worse. After all the fuss, the road was “dry and dusty,” as she’d heard the truckers on Jimmy Joe’s CB radio call it, with not so much as a flake of snow or a smidgen of ice that she could see. Traffic was heavy but moving right along, and she was sure that whatever problems they’d been having through Texas-well, they must have gotten them cleared up or they wouldn’t have opened the road, would they? Of course not. Plus, she was feeling much better after Jimmy Joe’s back rub and a good night’s rest, and the Tylenol seemed to be helping because her back didn’t ache nearly as much.

At this rate, she told herself optimistically, she would be in Amarillo in three hours, and maybe, just maybe, she could find a flight going…anywhere. Somewhere south. She wouldn’t even have to tell them she was pregnant-if she kept her coat on maybe they would just think she was fat. She would fly standby, if she had to. Then, if she could get to someplace even close to Pensacola, she could rent a car, and… Yes, she could still do it, by God. She could still get there on Christmas Day. And she would.

When Mirabella put her mind to something, she didn’t give up easily.


Jimmy Joe was glad to be back on the road. It felt good, even knowing what he was heading into, watching those miles roll by, knowing every mile marker he passed put him that much closer to J.J. and home.

Home. He thought about that, focusing his mind on what it felt like to be there, walking himself one by one through the rooms of the big old white frame, two-story house he’d grown up in. Remembering what it smelled like-the smell of canning tomatoes in his mama’s kitchen in the summertime, the wet-dog odor of the back porch when it rained, the sweet, warm fragrance of honeysuckle. He thought of the pantry door where his growth and that of all his brothers and sisters had been charted from the time they were big enough to stand straight and tall, and rooms filled with shabby furniture and cluttered with books and magazines and children’s artwork in crayon and poster paints. He thought of the old tree house, and the silk spider that had spun her web in its doorway.

And he thought about his own house-a real nice house about a mile down the road, solidly built of red brick, with a big front porch and white trim and a nice big sunny kitchen, and great old oaks and pine trees for shade. He’d done a pretty good job with it, too; made it nice and homey for J.J., filling up the rooms with books and pictures and things he’d brought back from his trips, interesting things from all over the country. Navajo rugs and Acoma pottery, and a big old bed he’d found up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, hand-carved from four-hundred-year-old walnut trees.

He was happy there, and so was J.J. And when he had to leave, well, there was the old place and a grandmama right down the road, and you couldn’t ask for better than that. No, sir.

He said to himself, Jimmy Joe Starr, you’re a lucky man. Couldn’t ask for more than you’ve got, and that’s a fact.

When it came to families, he’d always thought it was too bad everybody couldn’t have one like his. They weren’t perfect, nowhere near it, with his daddy dying so young; and his mama could be tough as nails sometimes. And there was his sister Joy Lynn’s two divorces, which was something of a family record, and brother Roy who liked his beer a little bit too much, and his youngest brother Calvin who’d dropped out of high school and never had learned how to work a lick or hold on to a job.

But there was a lot of love in the family in spite of nobody being perfect. And when the holidays rolled around, or somebody’s birthday, and the whole bunch got together-and there would be babies crying and kids running underfoot, and the womenfolk gathered in the kitchen all talking at once, and the men outside arguing politics or throwing a ball around if the weather was good, and the older kids playing hide-and-seek or hunting turtles in the woods behind the house-then he knew how good he had it.