Rescued by Christmas

by Erika Marks

  *

  “Mommy, you can’t let Santa die!”

  Now there was something you don’t hear your child say every day, Miranda thought to herself as she looked down into the tear-streaked face of her baby boy, willing her heart to slow its frantic beat and failing miserably. In the pantheon of Mom-dilemmas that Miranda had steeled herself to deal with today, keeping Santa Claus alive had not exactly been in the top ten. Two hours ago, she’d been worried about burning gingerbread cookies. Now she had an injured Santa impersonator laid up in her horse barn.

  “He’s not going to die, bud,” she whispered to Oliver, forcing a calming smile she most definitely didn’t feel. Not that the stranger’s health was her first concern. Yes, he was injured, clearly—but first came their safety. The horse tranquilizer threat had been a sorry bluff—not that the man had likely even heard it before he’d passed out again. Sure, she kept a reasonable stash of meds at home in case of emergencies, but not enough to put him out for very long. Why hadn’t she lied and told him that her “husband” was on his way home at any minute? Dummy! Now he would assume—rightly so—that she and Oliver were alone here.

  She sat back on the heels of her snow boots and gave the man another scan, the flare of panic she’d felt burning in the first few minutes of her arrival now cooling slightly. Oliver had been right—the man was clearly injured, enough that Miranda felt certain he couldn’t have moved quickly to threaten them even if he’d wanted to—and the mother in her felt comfort in that fact.

  The healer in her, however, felt the pang of remorse. Intruder or not, the man in front of her was in obvious pain and she had a duty to help him. She only hoped he hadn’t suffered any head trauma or internal bleeding. Until he woke again, and assuming he could recall the accident that had clearly left him this way, Miranda wouldn’t be able to fully treat his wounds.

  In the meantime, the cut on his hand looked angry and fairly deep. Maybe not enough for stitches, but certainly enough to risk infection. She kept a first aid kit in the office.

  But as soon she climbed to her feet, Oliver rushed beside her, tugging madly on her coat. “Mom, we can’t leave him!”

  Once again, she dropped down to meet her son’s pleading eyes. “Just for a minute, sweetie,” she said, working to close his puffy coat. “These Band-Aids are great but I need antibiotic cream to keep the cut from getting infected.”

  “He will be okay, won’t he, Mom? Because if Santa dies then he can’t make Twisty better like I asked him.”

  Miranda’s hands stilled on Ollie’s zipper. “You asked him to save Twisty?” she said, her voice coming out in a squeak. “When?”

  “When I came in and found him. He was kinda moaning, so I know he heard me. Because as soon as you tell Santa what you want for Christmas, he’s got to bring it to you. It’s a rule.”

  A rule. Miranda fought the prickle of tears that pinched the backs of her eyes. God, it was so beautifully, blissfully simple being a kid. Always tangled up in the knots of grown-up stress, she would forget, and then, invariably, Oliver would remind her. Because at six, life was all certainties. You did A, you got B.

  You came downstairs for breakfast, you got Cheerios.

  You turned on the TV at four o’clock, you got Paw Patrol.

  You fell in love with a sick horse who shared your name, and he got all better.

  “I made sure Santa knows he can forget about all the other presents too,” Oliver went on, his voice rising with excitement. “I told him I don’t want toys or nothing. Just for Twisty to be okay.”

  “Oh, Ollie. Sweetie, it’s just not that easy to…” But the second she met her son’s huge, hopeful eyes, Miranda felt the words trapped in her throat. How to explain to a six-year-old boy that some wishes couldn’t be granted, not even by Santa?

  She sighed. There would be time to help her son accept the possibility that all the medicine in the world might not be able to save his beloved friend—but this wasn’t it.

  Because for the first time since they rescued Twisty two weeks ago, her son wore a smile. And not just any smile, but the smile of hope.

  Turning for the office door, Oliver’s warm, mittened hand snug in hers, Miranda shot their intruder a final glance where he rested, still passed out.

  Anger, sudden and fierce, flared through her.

  Damn you, whoever you are.

  She didn’t know it was even possible, but this Santa-wannabe stranger had just made her already-complicated world a whole lot more difficult.

  Chapter Four

  This time when Jackson woke, the light had shifted and softened, allowing him an uninterrupted view of his surroundings. A barn. Horse stalls.

  The scratching at his neck.

  Of course—hay.

  The pain wasn’t immediate, and definitely not poker-hot like before. He was aware that his body was hurting, that he couldn’t have bolted to his feet if he wanted to, but there was a kind of dullness to the sensation now. Even the musty smell of hay seemed slightly sweeter.

  And that woman.

  He could see her clearer now too. It hadn’t been a trick of the light or his sorry state—she was pretty. Not in the fluffed and overdone way he saw every day in his line of work but the natural kind of beauty that didn’t worry about makeup or hair appointments. The kind he used to see on the beach growing up—sun-kissed women who wore only swimsuits and smiles.

  Wanting to test the level of pain now, Jackson shifted, hoping to sit up.

  “Don’t move.”

  The woman came closer—close enough that he could see her eyes were a gorgeous green, but not exactly warm. Wait—hadn’t she threatened to pump him with horse tranquilizers a few hours ago?

  “You’ve been in an accident,” she said. “I treated the wound on your hand. Do you remember how you got here?”

  Images came at Jackson in sharp flashes. He tried to swallow but his throat felt as rough as the sticks of hay that poked out from behind his head.

  “I was…coming up the mountain,” he said. “I took a curve and caught the shoulder. I fishtailed and swung into the snowbank.” Jackson closed his eyes, trying to recall, but everything had been so white and cold and silent. “I managed to get out of the truck and I saw the light from your barn.”

  “You’re just lucky you were wearing such warm clothes.”

  “What else would Santa be wearing, Mommy?”

  Jackson glanced over the woman’s shoulder to find the same little boy sitting on a bale of hay, his snow boots swinging cheerfully.

  When Jackson swerved his gaze back to the woman, her eyes were fixed hard on his. But this time, they flashed with something close to pleading.

  She wasn’t still worried that he was dangerous, was she?

  Jackson shifted again, determined to settle her fears once and for all. “Look, I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m really just—”

  “Santa Claus. Obviously,” the woman finished for him then turned her head to speak over her shoulder to the boy. “Ollie, baby, can you go back into the office where I keep the waters and bring one back? Santa must be thirsty.”

  The boy screwed up his face. “Are you sure? I think Santa only drinks hot chocolate.”

  “Maybe so, but let’s start with water, okay?” the woman said, her voice pure sugar.

  The boy managed a shrug under his puffy jacket then shuffled off obediently down the high corridor. But the second he was out of sight, the woman spun back around and fixed a hard look on Jackson.

  So much for sugar.

  “I don’t know who you are,” she whispered harshly, “but you’ve clearly been banged up and it’s possible you’ve broken something.”

  “Yeah—my vow for an easy Christmas,” Jackson muttered, wincing as he shifted himself higher against the bales.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was on my way to a rental up in the—Wait…” He met her gaze. “Did you say you don’t know who I am?”

  Those big emerald pools just blinked at hi
m. “Why would I know who you are?”

  Another second then Jackson chided himself, understanding dawning. Moron! Of course she doesn’t recognize you in this getup.

  Despite a bolt of pain sizzling up his arm, Jackson reached up and tugged off his hat, waiting for recognition to dawn across her face as she took him in, but she just continued to stare at him blankly.

  “I guess it’s still too hard with the beard and the white hair, huh?” he said. “I’m Jackson Wilder.”

  He searched her face, waiting for her cheeks to turn as red as his suit with embarrassment at not realizing it earlier, but the peach skin under that adorable dusting of freckles didn’t pink even the slightest.

  She frowned at him, giving him a dubious look not unlike the ones he used to get from the woman who booked gigs in LA when he was just starting out and trying to convince total strangers his songs were going to be chart-toppers someday.

  “No, I mean I’m the Jackson Wilder,” he said.

  “Good for you,” she said, unimpressed. “And I’m the Miranda O’Keefe.”

  Jackson blinked at her as she dipped her head to consider his foot. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “Your ankle, actually,” she said. “And I’m just looking at it. Pulling it might be pretty painful in the state it’s in.”

  She tossed her red ponytail over her shoulder and Jackson caught a sugary whiff of gingerbread.

  “I’m Jackson Wilder,” he said again. “You know, Under Your Skin? Heart in my Hand?”

  She leaned in closer. “Are those songs?”

  She was messing with him. She had to be messing with him.

  Or was she?

  Jackson frowned. “You honestly don’t know who I am?”

  “Jackson Wilder—you just told me. Does this hurt?”

  He grimaced, a charge of pain gripping his leg like a turned vise.

  She released his foot, setting it gently back onto the pad of hay he’d been resting it on.

  “I’ll bring you some ice, and some hydrocodone for the pain, but you should really get an X-ray,” she said, retreating. “The closest hospital is a good half hour from here. But in this weather, it could take a lot longer. I haven’t seen a single plow, which means it could be a long time before the roads are drivable.”

  Jackson let his head fall back against the hay, dread landing in his stomach like a brick. Great. He could just see the headlines now: Jackson Wilder spotted in the emergency room after crashing his rented Range Rover into a snowbank. Was he drunk? Maybe high? Fans fear the worst! The tabloids would have a field day.

  So much for going off the grid this Christmas.

  “It’s probably just a sprain,” Jackson said, with more confidence than he currently felt. “I twisted it getting out of the truck. I remember now.”

  She gestured to his foot, throbbing hot under its wool sock. “You were smart to take off your boot when you did. We might have had to cut it off otherwise from the swelling.” She glanced up at him. “The boot, I mean. Not your foot.”

  “Thanks for the clarification.”

  “Don’t worry, Santa—my mom’s a doctor.” The boy had returned, holding the bottle of water out as he padded over, his gaze fixed on Jackson the entire way. But unlike his nervous mother, the boy’s eyes brimmed with pure adoration. “Here’s your water.”

  When he was nearly at Jackson’s feet, the boy’s mother—had she said her name was Miranda?—swung out her arm to barricade him from getting any closer.

  “Thanks, bud,” she said, taking the bottle. Jackson felt his throat tighten, anticipating the cold water as she handed it to him. He tipped back the bottle and drained it, so fast he saw stars.

  “Wow,” Oliver whispered. “Santa was thirsty!”

  Miranda smiled up at Oliver and gave his sleeve a gentle tug. “Hey, bud—do me one more favor, will you? Check on Twisty?”

  The boy’s face lit up hopefully. “Can I bring him some carrots?”

  His mother’s smile turned sad. “Not yet, bud.”

  “But Twisty looks so sad and I feel bad. Like he thinks I don’t love him. Or he did something wrong.”

  “I know, bud. But Twisty doesn’t understand that his stomach’s still too fragile from being hungry for so long. We don’t want to give him yucky tummy, right?”

  Her son dropped his chin and shook his head dutifully. “Okay.” He moved to go then stopped, his head tilting inquisitively. “What about Santa, Mommy? Do you think he’s hungry too?”

  Until the boy had mentioned it, Jackson had been too focused on the hot bursts of pain to consider any other feeling, but now he was aware of the rhythmic churning of hunger. The last thing he’d had to eat was a club sandwich from the craft service table at the studio. Had that been yesterday? Two days ago? It was all a blur.

  “I’m betting he is, bud,” Miranda said. “Tell you what: you see how Twisty’s doing and then we’ll go back to the house and get Santa something to eat, okay?”

  “And we can give him some of the cookies!” Oliver exclaimed.

  *

  Miranda waited until she heard the clomping of Oliver’s snow boots fade off into the other end of the stable before she turned back to the man who’d called himself the Jackson Wilder.

  Oliver had a point about him being hungry. But right now her priority was getting her son safely out of earshot again. She was running out of tasks for him. She’d have to make this one count.

  Jackson Wilder hitched his bearded chin to the corridor. “He’s a sweet kid.”

  “He’s an amazing kid,” Miranda said, hearing the sharp edge in her own voice. “You say you remember twisting your ankle, Mr. Wilder?”

  “It’s Jackson. And yeah, I do. So you’re a doctor?”

  “I’m a vet.”

  “So you’re probably out of my provider network then, huh?”

  Miranda shot him a quizzical look, seeing a small grin creep up one side of his mouth.

  “That was a joke,” he said.

  Clearly his sense of humor hadn’t suffered any injury. A good sign.

  He looked at her. “You still don’t believe I’m who I say I am—do you?”

  “Would that be Santa, or a pop star?”

  “What about your phone?”

  She frowned at him. “What about it?”

  “Do you have it on you?” Jackson asked. “Because you can just look me up if you want proof.”

  Miranda wanted a lot of things right at this moment. Proving that this department store Santa was some gigantic singing superstar barely cracked the top ten.

  Still he pressed. “Come on. One search.”

  “I’m not sure what difference it would make.”

  “Maybe then you’ll believe that I’m not dangerous.”

  She raised a dubious brow. “Because celebrities are never dangerous?”

  “Just one search, okay?” His pale eyes flashed pleadingly. Miranda suspected he swayed a lot of women with those baby blues. Too bad for him she had built up an immunity to blue eyes. Her son’s cobalt beauties being the singular exception.

  Still, it seemed he wasn’t going to quit with this claim.

  “Fine.” She sighed and reached into her jacket pocket for her phone, tapping in a search for Jackson Wilder and waiting for the screen to load, her faith fading with her patience. As if some famous music star would be in a Santa suit and just happen to be driving past her house in the middle of a—

  Whoa.

  Miranda blinked at the rows of pictures that filled her tiny screen. Just below them, a seemingly endless list of articles about Jackson Wilder in every celebrity magazine on the market.

  She clicked the image tab and waited for the rows of photos to come up. When they did, she studied them intently, startled to find that the great-looking guy with the crooked smile in every picture looked alarmingly familiar.

  She raised her gaze to the man in the flesh and squinted at him. The beard and the white hair were a little distracting, but there
was no disguising those sparkling crystal-blue eyes.

  Or the singular, and much-too-deep, dimple in his right cheek.

  Miranda forced her gaze back to her screen and continued to scroll through the list of article links—Chart-Topper Tops Himself with New Album… Just How Wild is Jackson Wilder?

  “I take it you found me?”

  She nodded, still reading.

  “You should know that most of what’s online about me isn’t true,” he said.

  She glanced up at him. “Then you don’t have a tattoo of a guitar on your—?”

  “Okay, so maybe some of it is true…” His smile slanted ruefully. “So now do you believe me?”

  She believed him, but so what? Miranda had never been dazzled by celebrity, and she sure wasn’t about to start today. The man laid up in front of her may have been a superstar, but to her, he was a stranger further complicating her already-complicated life.

  And right now, she needed him to understand something that had nothing to do with top-selling records or guitar tattoos.

  She only hoped he could care, just a little bit.

  Shoving her phone into her pocket, she leaned in closer and said, “Look, here’s the thing. That little boy of mine who’s going to be back any minute? He found you here first and he thinks you’re Santa.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s kind of the idea…”

  She shook her head impatiently. “No, you don’t understand. I mean he thinks you’re the guy. And he believes you can cure his sick horse because he told you that was what he wanted for Christmas.”

  “Exactly how sick is this horse you’re talking about?”

  Miranda let go a weary sigh. “Very.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Miranda didn’t imagine this hotshot gave two gingerbread cookies what had happened to Twisty but she was determined to share her story in the hopes he might care even a little.