by Erika Marks
Ahead of them, Oliver charged through the snow with all the fever and play of a puppy—despite the drifts nearing his waist.
“Your son doesn’t seem to mind the snow.”
“Are you kidding? Ollie loves it,” said Miranda. “We get massive storms around here. So long as the snow doesn’t go above his chest, I don’t mind.”
To their right, beside a small shed, the fencing of a pasture poked up through the snow. “I’m sure it’ll be a while before anyone’s grazing out there,” Jackson said.
Miranda nodded, her gaze fixed on her son still jumping through the snow several yards ahead of them, her bright eyes narrowing with worry. She sighed. “Snow or no snow, I’m afraid Twisty wouldn’t be using that pasture right now.”
“So what made you start the rescue?”
Her fraught eyes softened. The cold air had tinted her cheeks a beautiful pink, coloring her freckles a soft peach. Jackson wondered if the rest of her had as many freckles.
“When an animal’s hurt, some people don’t know to call the game warden or animal control, so they call us,” she explained. “About a year ago, we got a call about an abandoned horse outside of town. As soon as we got there, I knew it was dire. I took him on the spot and moved him. Not long after, I got a call from someone who’d heard about what I’d done and they told me about another horse needing rescue. I board the most fragile ones here and keep the others at a stable near the clinic. My saint of a vet tech has been checking in on them during the storm.”
“That many horses,” said Jackson. “That can’t be cheap.”
“It’s not,” said Miranda. “But the guy who owns the stable—a very generous old man—he cuts me a serious deal to board the horses there. I’d never be able to afford it otherwise. My dream is to build a bigger stable out here.”
“So why not do it?”
She smiled. “You know of any banks I could rob?” She scanned the field. “I’ve got the land—just not the funds.” She nodded to the tool shed. “Just give me a sec to swing past the shed for the saw. I’m not sure Santa’s game for felling our tree with his bare hands.”
Jackson watched Miranda march ahead, the sun blazing on her red braid, lighting it like a flame. He wondered how long it had been since she’d let a man unravel it.
Oliver tromped beside him, the snow above his knees as he pushed his way through it.
Jackson tugged the jacket’s collar over his chin. “Sounds like your mom has a pretty important job.”
“I guess,” Oliver said with a shrug. “But it’s not as important as yours.”
Jackson wasn’t sure he agreed. Singing was definitely a great way to make a living but it didn’t exactly save lives.
“Not even the president’s job is as important as Santa’s,” said Oliver.
Oh, right. Jackson smiled. “It’s definitely a close call.”
*
Was she crazy?
For a moment Miranda saw herself as the heroine in a horror movie, tromping blithely out into the woods with her son and a total stranger, while the audience screamed their warnings. “What are you doing, woman? Are you insane!”
At least she was the one carrying the saw.
She reconnected with Oliver and Jackson at the edge of the woods where her son, not surprisingly, was already in full tree-hunter mode, biting his lip as he scanned the curtain of evergreens with the intensity of a Gold Rush prospector.
“What do you think, bud?” Miranda asked.
“I don’t know.” Oliver turned and squinted up at Jackson. “Which way do you think we should go, Santa?”
Miranda shot Jackson an apologetic look, hoping he would take the gift her son was handing him and suggest a tree within spitting distance. Surely his foot had to be killing him by this point!
But Jackson just shrugged affably and said, “You pick.”
Miranda stepped forward. Santa may have worried about cutting short a little boy’s tree hunt, but she didn’t. “What about that one over there?” She pointed to a respectable-looking four-footer and glanced over at Jackson, flashing him a pleading look to agree.
But Oliver was already shaking his head. “Too small. We need a really big tree!”
“I think your mom’s right, Oliver.”
“And Santa knows trees, bud.”
After a few more seconds of lip-chewing deliberation, Oliver finally heaved his puffy shoulders and consented. Thanks to Jackson’s swiftness with the saw, bringing it down was equally quick. His ankle may not have been in great shape, but there was nothing wrong with the rest of him, Miranda couldn’t help thinking as she watched him draw the blade expertly through the meaty trunk. Where had he said he was from?
Trudging back, Oliver asked, “Can Santa help us decorate it?”
“You have to let the tree sit for a while before you can trim it, bud,” Miranda reminded him, grateful for the excuse—not that it was an excuse. Like not swimming right after you eat, letting a tree “settle” before putting on the ornaments was as close to gospel as you got in her family growing up. And Miranda doubted very much that Jackson Wilder would have any interest in helping them put up lights or one of the dozens of handmade ornaments Oliver had made for them. And frankly, she didn’t care to have a total stranger being privy to their personal effects. Decorating a Christmas tree meant bringing out the past—every ornament represented a cherished moment—and even the ones that wrought the most joy could also summon great pain. That duality was a cruel fact of life.
Which was why Miranda had worked so hard to fill her son’s life with happy moments, memories that couldn’t be stained by regret or loss. Did she long for companionship and love? Sure. But not at the risk of having her son hurt when things went sour. Miranda had watched too many single friends rush their children into new relationships, only to have them fall apart. Someday she’d take that risk—for her and for Ollie—but for now, they were a perfect team.
She and Jackson took turns dragging the tree back through the snow, the return trip easier thanks to the trail they’d already pressed down. Nearing the house, Miranda felt the prickle of uncertainty. What to do when they arrived? Should they walk Jackson back to the stable—or was it possible he might want to come in? The walk had been brisk but the air was still frigid. They could all stand some warming up. And she did have that jug of cider she’d been meaning to mull with cinnamon and star anise.
She was still contemplating what to do next when Oliver extended his own invitation.
“You’ll come in for cookies, right, Santa?”
Jackson slowed—Miranda couldn’t be sure if it was surprise at the offer, or ankle pain—but his smile was intact.
“I was going to heat up some cider,” she said. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“Please?” Oliver said.
Chapter Nine
Jackson rubbed the back of his neck—what could he say? Oliver’s eyes pooled with hope, and his mother’s eyes pooled with…well, something pretty beautiful, but Jackson wouldn’t go so far as to say hope. At least not yet.
He smiled. “I’d love to.”
The tree was left against the house to be set in the stand later, and they came into the mudroom, taking turns kicking snow off their boots—Jackson taking care not to whack his sore foot in his enthusiasm—then all padded into the living room in their socks.
“Great house,” Jackson said, scanning the log cabin’s rustic interior. A stone fireplace dominated one wall; a pair of sliding doors with a view of the mountains took another.
“We’re comfortable,” Miranda said. “The Realtor tried her hardest to get us to buy something bigger—she refused to accept that I could be happy with a two-bedroom one-bath house when I could have afforded one with twice as many.”
“How big is your house, Santa?” Oliver asked.
“A little bigger than this,” Jackson said, smiling at Miranda. She cast him a wary look. Had she come across the spread Architectural Digest had done at his loft last
year in her Google search?
“Make yourself comfortable,” Miranda said, slipping behind the breakfast bar into the kitchen. “It’ll just take me a second to get the cider warming.”
Jackson came around to a pair of overstuffed couches and took a seat, grateful to relieve his ankle.
“You might want to put your foot up for a bit,” Miranda advised as she set a copper pot on the stove.
Jackson eyed the coffee table she referred to—and the sea of Lego pieces that practically covered it end to end.
“That is, if you can find room, ahem,” Miranda added with a pointed clearing of her throat. “Ollie, bud, give Santa a little space, will you?”
Oliver rushed over. “Oops! Sorry, Santa.”
“Don’t move a thing—it’s fine.” Jackson set his foot on one end, careful not to disrupt the towers as Oliver began dumping the Lego sculptures into a bin beside the table. “Better yet, why don’t you give me a run-down of everything while I’m sitting here?”
Oliver beamed up at him. “Really?”
Ten minutes later, after Jackson had been given the full tour (despite Oliver continually prefacing the introduction of every piece and part with “But you probably knew this already because you make the Legos.”), Miranda arrived with hot cider and an appreciative smile.
“You didn’t have to sit through all that,” she whispered, handing Jackson one of the steaming mugs.
He grinned. “It’s important to stay current on product testing.”
“If you say so, Santa.” Miranda carried her mug to the opposite couch and settled in, tucking her bare feet up under her. For a second, Jackson felt the flare of disappointment, realizing he’d actually thought she might just sit next to him.
Oliver scooped up his hot cider.
“Make sure to blow on it first,” Miranda warned.
A collection of framed pictures sat on the thick slab of oak that made up the mantel. Jackson scanned them. Nearly all were pictures of Oliver. A few of Oliver and Miranda. Even one of Oliver and an older man who had to have been Miranda’s father. But none of anyone who could have been Oliver’s father.
“He looks like you,” Jackson said, studying a photograph of Oliver on a pony and Miranda at his side.
“You think so?” She shrugged, but the flush on her cheeks gave away her pleasure at his observation. Jackson watched her gaze fondly at the picture, wondering if she’d offer up anything more—specifically if Oliver resembled his father at all. But Miranda’s eyes just shifted to her son. “Hey, bud, since you did such a great job telling Santa about your Legos as you put them away, maybe you wouldn’t mind bringing them upstairs?”
“Oh-kaaay.” Oliver pushed out a weary breath then took the bin and lugged it up the stairs.
Miranda smiled. “At some point I’m going to run out of chores for him to do so we can talk openly.”
“So you think our plan’s working?”
Her eyes tracked the sound of her son’s footsteps on the second floor. “Better than my plan for healing Twisty, I’m afraid.”
If only he could have had some effect on that part.
“Speaking of healing…” She nodded at his raised foot. “How bad is it after that trek?”
“Believe it or not,” said Jackson, “it doesn’t feel too bad. I really think walking on it helped.”
“Maybe you won’t need to hide out here much longer after all.” Was that a flash of regret he caught in those soft green eyes—or just his imagination?
Jackson raised his mug. “This cider was a good idea.”
“It’s warming you up, right?”
“Yeah—and it smells so good you can barely smell me.”
Miranda clapped a hand over her mouth as if she feared she might burst out laughing before she could get her cider down.
“You think I’m kidding,” said Jackson. “But this Saint Nick white isn’t exactly waterproof.”
She considered him, sobering. “You mean it’s just…?”
“Spray-on. It was that, or try to bleach it. I’m all for making the client happy, but growing this beard was as far as I was willing to go.”
“Then the beard isn’t normal for you?” she asked.
Jackson shook his head. “I haven’t had this much facial hair since I was trying to grow a beard sophomore year of high school.”
Her lips spread into a sly smile. “Let me guess—to play Santa?”
“More like to play Jenny McDonald’s boyfriend.” He grinned. “She was a senior, dating the captain of the basketball team. I was so sure I could steal her away if she saw me as older…” Jackson laid a hand over his heart and winced. “Man, it still hurts.”
Another ill-timed sip, but this time Miranda allowed a laugh once she’d set down her mug. “I bet she’s kicking herself now. Hearing your song every time she turns on the radio. Probably thinking she was the inspiration for every break-up song you ever wrote.” She stopped, squinting sheepishly. “Assuming you write those kind of songs. Like I said, I’m not exactly familiar with your work.”
“Oh, I’ve written my share of break-up songs. Sad to say, but misery seems to sell more records than joy…except, of course, at Christmas,” he added with a grin.
“Have you ever done a Christmas album?” she asked.
“No. But I’m fairly certain I’m the only singer on the planet who hasn’t.”
“So was she?”
Jackson stared at her, lost. “Was who what?”
“Jenny McDonald. Was she the inspiration for your break-up songs?”
He smiled at the question. “In a way. I think every heartbreak finds its way into a song.”
Miranda spread her fingers around her mug and drew it closer. Jackson couldn’t help noticing that she’d shifted her body slightly forward on the couch. “I’ve always wondered that,” she said. “If all songs are autobiographical.”
A charge of stomps banged overhead, signaling Oliver’s impending return.
“We didn’t solve your shower problem.” Miranda’s forehead pinched ruefully. “I feel terrible. You must be dying for one.”
He shrugged. “I have a sink and soap. I could always just strip down and sponge off like they did in the old days.”
Miranda abruptly dipped her face down into her mug and took a long sip. When she finally set down her cider again, Jackson swore there were fresh stains of color on her cheeks. Or maybe it was just the heat of her drink.
Before he could decide, Oliver appeared.
His own mug drained, Jackson set it down and said, “I should let you and Oliver get on with your afternoon.” He rose slowly, cautious of his ankle as he stood, but the ache was minimal. Still he’d do well to stay off it for the rest of the day.
Miranda rose with him. “You’ll need lunch—you must be starving.” She motioned to the kitchen. “I keep lots of frozen meals, just in case Ollie and I get home late. Meat loaf? Enchiladas? Chicken Alfredo? Take your pick.”
“Ask any one of my tour mates and they’ll tell you I’m a meat loaf junkie.”
“Meat loaf it is,” Miranda said, crossing to the kitchen.
Jackson felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to see Oliver at his side, the boy’s eyes shiny with anticipation. “You’re gonna come back tonight to decorate the tree, right, Santa? We need someone tall to put the angel on.”
“We got a pretty short tree, bud,” Miranda said, setting the Tupperware into the microwave. “I might actually be able to put it on this year.”
“But it would be more specialer if Santa did it.”
“More special,” Miranda corrected gently.
Glancing over at Miranda, Jackson saw that same irresistible shade of pink appear, and this time, he felt certain he knew the source.
“I was planning to make lasagna,” she said. “We could say, six?”
That would surely give him enough time to wash some of the stink off him, Jackson thought.
He smiled down at Oliver. “I’d be honored.”
Chapter Ten
While Oliver rebuilt his Lego planet on his bedroom floor, Miranda tugged the drop-down ladder from the attic and began to climb, greeted at once with the familiar smell of old books and mothballs. The overhead bulb lit her path to the stack of Christmas boxes. She wanted to test the strings of lights before tonight’s planned decorating party—Oliver’s word, not hers—to make sure they all worked. Not that she had a plan if they didn’t. Despite the snow clouds finally blowing off to reveal a rich blue sky, the roads were still impassable. It wasn’t like she could zoom over to Target for replacements.
Passing the small window at the gable end of the attic, she slowed to look out onto the property, seeing the comforting rectangle of the barn, and her thoughts drifted. She had two patients to worry about behind that big door, she thought with a small smile. In a few hours, she’d venture over to check on Twisty. Oliver would, of course, insist on coming too. For lunch, she’d kept it simple—tomato soup and grilled cheese. Standing at the sink after their meal, she’d stared out at the barn as she’d washed their dishes, continuing to wonder various things about their surprise guest. Had he enjoyed the meat loaf? She only hoped he hadn’t overdone it with their walk in the snow. He could always take more of the pain meds.
And what about that elusive shower he’d had to avoid to keep up their charade? Miranda remembered his good-natured smile as he’d come up with a solution: I could always just strip down and sponge off like they did in the old days.
God, now there was a sight she had no business imagining. That gorgeous man, naked at the sink, dragging a washcloth over that hard chest, around those strong shoulders…
She turned for the ladder, turning from her illicit meanderings with it. She had more practical concerns to ponder than the logistics of some sexy singer bathing himself at the stable sink.
Like how were they going to move his Range Rover off the road? If Jackson Wilder really didn’t want to be found—and they both had their reasons for not wanting him to be found, didn’t they?—then they couldn’t let the road crew tow his truck. A few calls and they’d find out who the vehicle was rented to. Granted the search wouldn’t take priority in these conditions, but eventually, they’d track him down…
