by Erika Marks
“I run a horse rescue,” she said. “A few weeks ago we recused an old rodeo horse who’d been neglected and practically starved. His name is Oliver Twist, so of course Ollie took to him immediately. It’s going to break him apart if I can’t save him.”
Miranda swore she saw a flicker of concern flash across the man’s face—or maybe it was just a grimace from his injury. “And you don’t think you can?”
She sighed. “He’s weak, and I can barely get him to eat. I’ve been bottle feeding him Ensure.” She shrugged. “I’m running out of solutions. And time.”
Again, Miranda glanced at Jackson Wilder to gauge his level of interest in her problems—and again, she thought she saw sparks of compassion pooling in his blue eyes. Enough, at least, to encourage her further.
She knew how crazy it would sound, and she knew she had no right asking anything of him, especially after just losing her cool, but like so many things in her life at the moment, she didn’t have the luxury of worrying.
“What I’m saying is that since Oliver thinks you’re Santa, maybe you could play along just until I can figure out a way to tell him that I don’t think Twisty’s going to make it through this. You can’t know how good it feels for me to see him smile. How long it’s been…”
Jackson’s eyes flashed and Miranda felt that startling burst of ice water again.
What the heck was she doing?
She waved her hands and sat back. “Never mind,” she said, shaking her head as if the idea could be shaken from her mind as easily as water from a leaf of washed lettuce.
Who was she kidding? As if some pop star gave a damn about her son and an old horse!
The tapping of Oliver’s returning steps grew louder.
Miranda climbed to her feet, brushing her hands on her rear. “Forget I said anything,” she whispered. “Just stay put, Bruce Springsteen. I promised Ollie I’d get you something to eat.”
Chapter Five
Jackson had a knack for a lot of things—playing guitar, writing songs, catching a perfect wave on a longboard—but one thing he’d never been good at was staying put.
So as soon as Miranda O’Keefe and her son had left the stable and swung that heavy door closed behind them, Jackson was already working to pull himself to his feet.
He made it onto one knee before the pain shot up his thigh and forced him to stop. Luckily the hay bales were stacked high so he had a soft cushion to fall back on. He closed his eyes and cursed low. Then he let out a sorry little laugh, reminded of the irony of the situation. His Christmas wish had been to go back to being a beach-bumming nobody—and he’d managed to find himself holed up in the stable of a woman who honestly didn’t know him from Adam.
What was it they said? Be careful what you wish for?
From the small window beside his head, he watched the two spots of color—Oliver’s green jacket, Miranda’s orange one—shrink into the sea of white as they headed toward the house.
So her son really believed he was Santa.
In his line of work, fans asked a lot of things of him—some requests from his female fans even bordered on pornographic—but Jackson had to admit being asked to pretend to be Santa Claus for real was right up there with the strangest.
Sure, he’d been hired to play the guy—but not because the company thought anyone would really believe it.
But the woman’s son believed it.
And from what Jackson had observed of his anxious mother, she needed him to. Desperately.
Was she doing this all by herself? She hadn’t mentioned a husband, or even a boyfriend. It couldn’t have been easy for her, way out here, just the two of them—Jackson knew that from experience, having grown up watching his mother work two jobs just to keep him and his older brother fed and clothed, and always with a decent roof over their heads.
Ready to try to stand again, Jackson pulled in a steeling breath and leaned forward. The pain was still intense, but the ankle held his weight without buckling. He kept the position for a few moments, allowing his foot to bear the force, but not daring to step yet. It was enough for now to be upright.
Looking back again to the window he saw only the screen of the blizzard and the blurry shape of the house, both mother and son gone inside. The light seemed thinner now, and the snow bore a silver tint, the same as the sky. Was it nearing nightfall? He had no idea how long he’d been out of it.
Again, despite his sorry state, he had to laugh.
He’d wanted to get away for the holiday, hadn’t he? Really get away?
Well, he thought, taking another scan of the blowing snow outside, he’d gotten his wish.
He supposed he should think about how he was going to get out of here. Miranda’s advice to get to the hospital for an X-ray echoed back to him and he groaned. No hospitals, no press. If he was going to emerge from this little accident unscathed, he’d have to ride it out for as long as possible.
The only question was where?
His ankle may not have been broken, but it wasn’t exactly working at maximum efficiency. And what about the Range Rover? Jackson remembered the impact, the wheels jammed into the snowbank, but was there damage? Not that the condition of the truck mattered when the condition of his ankle was the bigger concern. Driving would be brutal—at least for a few more days. And considering he’d proven he couldn’t drive in snow with a healthy foot, there was no way he was going to risk it with one bad one.
Jackson rubbed his beard, a thought dawning.
Could he wait it out here?
Miranda had suggested as much, hadn’t she? That he play Santa for a while, just until she could figure out a way to break the news to her son that his horse wasn’t going to get better? Did she mean for a few hours, or a few days?
Speaking of the horse…
Jackson eyed the corridor, seeing the telltale bars of the top of a horse stall. It wasn’t a long hike—a dozen steps, he guessed. He took them slowly, using the wall for support, until he reached the stall door.
Jackson didn’t know a lot about horses but he knew this one certainly didn’t look well. He definitely seemed on the scary-skinny side. His head hung down and his eyes—the one he could see from this angle, anyway—appeared milky and dull. Downright mournful. Even his mane seemed thin and straw-like.
Jackson leaned in closer to the animal, feeling a pang of empathy twist behind his ribs.
“Going through a rough patch, huh, fella?”
The animal’s neck muscles twitched but his head didn’t turn.
Jackson nodded and sighed. “I know how you feel.”
He rolled back against the wall, turning himself back to the stack of bales, not wanting to get too far from a soft landing if his ankle decided to give him hell again.
Working his way back, Jackson’s thoughts returned to his earlier plotting. Miranda had been so quick to retract her request that he keep up the Santa charade, which was too bad. Because Jackson just might have agreed to her terms.
In fact, maybe that was exactly how he could frame the idea to her when she came back.
That maybe he wouldn’t be the only one here doing someone a favor.
Maybe, just maybe, they could help each other out.
*
Hey, woman! Just checked on the gang at the stable. Everyone’s good. Roads still suck though. Took me an hour there and back! How are you and Ollie holding up? How’s Twisty doing? Any change?
Miranda read her vet tech’s text message as soon as she and Oliver were back inside and felt a welcome burst of relief. At last, some good news. The rest of her rescue horses were safe and sound. Not that Miranda had worried otherwise. Temple was nothing less than a saint for caring for them during the storm.
But the news of the road conditions weren’t as encouraging. Clearly no one would be going anywhere for a while. And that included their bearded intruder. Was it fair to call a celebrity an intruder? Miranda didn’t see why not. He certainly wasn’t a guest. Guests were invited. Intruders show up
unannounced. Jackson Wilder was an intruder.
A mildly charming and handsome intruder, albeit, but still an intruder.
Walking back from the barn, she’d glimpsed the black streak of Range Rover near the bottom of the driveway—his vehicle, obviously. Later she’d go down and take a look to see how badly off the truck was and maybe move it off the road if she could.
But for now she had more pressing concerns.
Miranda typed back a quick reply: Thank you, T! You are an angel! We’re hanging in there. No change with Twisty. I’ll check back in with you soon. Stay safe!
She stuffed her phone in the back pocket of her jeans and moved into the kitchen where she found Oliver had already dragged the stepstool to the cabinets and was pulling down the peanut butter. A loaf of wheat bread lay open on the counter, slices falling out of the bag like felled dominoes.
“I figured Santa must be pretty hungry,” he said.
Miranda had been thinking more along the lines of a frozen pizza, but who was she to come between a boy and his menu? She only hoped Jackson Wilder didn’t have any nut allergies. Leftover pain meds and ice she could dig up—an EpiPen might be a harder hunt.
She let her gaze roam over the counter, reminded that Santa wasn’t the only one here needing sustenance. The batch of gingerbread men still lay on the cooling racks. Had it really just been a few hours ago that she’d been blissfully admiring them, so proud of herself for finally finding the time to get their house into the Christmas spirit?
“So how long is Santa staying with us, Mommy?” Oliver asked, slathering peanut butter on a piece of bread.
A good question. Music star or not, night was falling. And the temperature with it. Jackson Wilder couldn’t spend another night on a hard wood floor with only the warmth of hay bales and that awful red suit. Hadn’t he said he was on his way to his cabin? Surely he had a packed bag in the Range Rover? That would solve the problem of clothes, but what about a place to sleep? There was always the barn’s guest room. It wasn’t fancy, or big. Just a supply room she’d outfitted with a pair of cots so she could be nearer to any of her higher-risk horses during the night. She and Oliver had practically slept there the week after they’d brought in Twisty, just so she could get up hourly to check on the horse’s health.
So many times during that first night, Miranda had been sure the old horse wouldn’t make it through to her next check-in. Seven years in the field, Miranda had seen more than her share of animals too far gone to recover, but for those miracle cases that did, a part of her always believed it was the company that pulled the horses through those fragile first few days.
Maybe having Jackson Wilder there wouldn’t be the worst thing.
“I hope Santa doesn’t mind marmalade—we’re all out of grape jelly.”
Miranda glanced over at Oliver just in time to see her son sink a butter knife into the jar and pull it back up, dripping with a thick smear of the glossy orange jam, half of it landing on the bread—the other half on the counter.
She still couldn’t believe she’d asked Jackson Wilder to go along with her Santa charade—what had she been thinking?
“Triple decker,” Oliver declared proudly, laying a third piece of peanut-butter-drenched bread on his pile and giving it a loving pat. “And, Mommy?”
“Yes, bud?”
“Make sure to let Santa use your phone to call Mrs. Claus. She must be really worried.”
Chapter Six
By the time Miranda returned, Jackson had managed to make his way to the other side of the room and into a dusty folding chair. A victory of no more than twenty feet, he surmised, but it might as well have been twenty thousand for how encouraged he felt by the distance.
“You’re mobile,” Miranda said, closing the heavy door behind her.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jackson said.
“I found your bag.” She set down the duffel and stepped back, as if he were a wild animal she didn’t dare get too close to. Jackson didn’t blame Miranda for her continued trepidation. Famous or not, he was still a stranger to her. They were strangers to each other. “Your cell was in the cup holder. The driver’s door was still wide open so your phone may need a day or two to thaw out.” She set his cell and keys on the top of the bag.
Jackson stared at the pile, more amazed than relieved at first. “I can’t believe all this was still there. Where I come from, you leave a car like that with the key inside and the door wide open, you won’t find it in the morning.”
“I can promise you not here either,” she said. “At least not when there isn’t two feet of snow on the roads.” She withdrew a tin foil wrapped package from her jacket pocket and held it out. “We have plenty of hearty food but Ollie seemed determined to make you a PB and J.”
Jackson unwrapped the sandwich and smiled. He downed the first half in two bites, moaning loud enough that Miranda chuckled. “This is the best PB and J I’ve ever had in my life.”
She smiled dubiously.
“No, I mean it,” he said, talking around a big bite. “This could be prime rib. It’s that good.”
That great smile of hers kept growing. “It’s amazing what tastes good when you haven’t eaten for twenty-four hours,” she said. “Oh. Here.” She reached into her pocket again, this time pulling out her phone and extending it to him. “Ollie thought you might want to call Mrs. Claus.”
Jackson grinned. “Tell him thanks but I can wait for my phone to charge.”
“Seriously,” Miranda said, jabbing the phone at him. “There must a ton of people you need to call. People who must be frantic with worry.”
Jackson shook his head. “Other than my agent, I can’t think of a single one.”
“No one? Your wife, a girlfriend…?”
“No wife, no girlfriend.”
Her expression remained suspect as she pocketed her phone—another Google search would prove his claim. Jackson wondered if she’d bother checking.
“So I was thinking…” Miranda looked around the stable as if surveying it for the first time. “I keep a pair of cots in the office. They’re not exactly pillow-topped, but they’re at least off the floor, and there’s a space heater to keep you warm.” Her eyes floated up to meet his again, pooling with apology. “I’m sure you’ve stayed in far nicer places.”
“Are you kidding?” He snorted. “I’d take a bus stop bench at this point.”
She squinted warily. “You might still want to after you try the cot.”
Jackson downed the last of his sandwich and clapped his hands clean. “Lead the way.”
He followed her down the opposite side of the stable, away from the stalls, and once again using the wall for support.
At the end of the corridor, she opened a door, flicked on a light and led them into a cluttered room, one side walled with metal shelves that reached to the exposed wood beams. “Like I said, it’s not The Ritz.” She pointed to a door beside the two cots. “There’s a half-bath in there—it’s even less fussy than this room, I’m afraid, but it has running water.”
Again, his measure of comfort wasn’t what she imagined. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ve lived in places that weren’t half this nice.”
Her brow arched suspiciously.
“I don’t mean now. I mean when I was a kid. Oliver’s age.”
If Miranda cared to know more, she didn’t show it. Instead she shifted their attention to the stacks of boxes and equipment that filled the wall of sturdy storage shelves on the other side of the room. “A lot of what’s in here belonged to my dad. All his old hand tools…” She smiled sadly and gave a small but resigned shrug. “I just can’t bring myself to throw them away.”
Halfway up the shelves, Jackson glimpsed the telltale neck of a guitar and hobbled over to extract it. It was a nice acoustic guitar. He ran his hand over the spruce top, wiping away a thick layer of dust.
He looked over at Miranda. “You play?”
She smiled, shaking her head. “Also my dad’s. He alw
ays hoped I’d pick it up but I never had the interest. Ollie might though.” She shrugged. “I keep hoping, anyhow.”
She quieted and looked away, as if she’d said too much. When she spoke again, her voice was steely, all business. She crossed her arms, as if to leave no doubt they were no longer going to talk about personal things. “Look, what I said before, asking if you’d go along with the whole Santa thing. You must think I’m a total head case. I wasn’t thinking straight and—”
“I’ll do it.”
She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
Jackson returned the guitar to its spot and clapped his hands clean of dust. “Look, you said yourself, this storm isn’t stopping. And my foot may not be broken, but it still hurts like hell, and I’d rather not go dashing through the snow if I don’t have to.” He stopped and sighed. “The truth is I would love to have one holiday when I can just disappear. If people know I’m here, the media will have a field day. One tweet and I’ll be back in the thick of it all before you can say Saint Nick.”
She tilted her head at him, looking confused. “But I thought you had a place already lined up?”
“A place my agent found for me—which means at least one other person knows where to find me. And that’s, frankly, one more than I’d like.”
Her eyes softened but her lips remained tight with suspicion. “What exactly are you saying?” she asked cautiously.
“I came to the mountains to get away and write my next album. And I can’t think of a better place to do that than right here—especially now,” he said, gesturing to the shelf holding the guitar. “So if it can help you to have me play along with Oliver right now, then why not?”
The crease of doubt continued to deepen in her forehead. She chewed her lower lip. “I don’t know. It could just end up making things worse.”
“You just told me you don’t think that horse is going to make it through the week—what could be worse than that?”
“I’d be lying to my son.”
“It’s not lying if you’re helping him to have faith in good things.”
