Rescued by Christmas

by Erika Marks

  Jackson chuckled gravely. “Or maybe I’ll just wreck my other ankle.”

  *

  Jackson knew one thing as he stood on top of the hill and looked down: if Oliver was to believe he was indeed Santa the sledding king, Jackson couldn’t play it safe.

  The hill was steep, but he’d come down steeper waves on a board. Maybe he was right to think it was like surfing.

  Sure. Like you thought driving in snow was just like driving in sand, right, smart guy?

  Jackson squared his shoulders, the reminder of his crash cooling his confidence as he assessed the landscape. Okay so maybe he was done thinking he knew what he was doing on this white stuff—but he could at least put on a good show of it for Oliver’s sake.

  Not that the boy was looking to Jackson for guidance. While Jackson had been busy scanning the sea of white, Oliver had already settled the sled into position and taken his place at the front, the sled’s red rope tight in his hands.

  “Come on, you guys!” he urged. “Santa, you go next. In the back.”

  “Yes sir.” Jackson cast Miranda a quick smile as he took his seat, as far back as he could without falling off the sled.

  When he was settled, Miranda climbed on next, shuffling carefully up against him. The mass of her red hair brushed his chin, sending up a whiff of apple and vanilla shampoo.

  “Sorry if my hair gets in your face,” she whispered quickly over her shoulder. “I forgot to bring a clip.”

  “It’s fine,” Jackson said, not the least bit sorry. She could feel free to fill his lungs with that great smell for the rest of the afternoon if she wanted. His fingers itched to run through those thick red waves. He flattened his gloved hands on the sides of the sled instead.

  “Start shuffling us to the edge, will you, Santa?” Oliver called from the front.

  “Gladly.” Using his heels and his hands, Jackson moved the toboggan forward, the deep snow proving a fierce foe.

  Nearly there, Oliver ordered them to stop. “On the count of three, okay?”

  Miranda glanced up at Jackson, her green eyes flashing excitedly. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  The sled teetered.

  Now where to put his arms?

  Jackson wanted to wrap them around Miranda, wanted to draw her against his chest and hold her there, and not just because they were about to tear down this hill. The sweet, fruity smell of her hair was making it hard for him to think about doing much of anything except pulling her closer. And the heat of her body between his legs wasn’t helping either.

  “One…two…”

  In preparation, Miranda’s mittened hands landed on Jackson’s bent knees. Just a reflex, he figured, sure she’d move them as soon as she realized what she’d done. But when the front of the toboggan began to dip forward, her hands remained and Jackson leaned in to brace her body with his.

  “Three!”

  Over her shoulder she said, “The first run’s always a little slow.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom!” Oliver shouted as they began to descend. “Santa knows!”

  *

  They managed to reach the bottom of the hill before they spilled off the side, rolled out into the powder like three cast dice—Jackson ejected first, then Miranda, then finally Oliver.

  At eye level with the snow, Miranda twisted to look for her son, only to find Jackson beside her, their arms wound around each other like a sailing knot. His face was so close to hers that Miranda could see the ring of navy blue that framed his irises.

  Oliver arrived, pointing a snow-caked mitten down at them with a huge grin. “Look, Santa! You caught Mom!”

  Miranda felt her cheeks flame. She bolted upright and climbed to her feet, hoping the chill would mask her flush.

  Jackson rose behind her, brushing snow off his sleeves. “As wipeouts go, that was definitely one of my better ones.”

  “Let’s go again!” Oliver cried, already tugging the sled toward the hill.

  Miranda offered Jackson an apologetic smile. “You should know—he’s been known to do this until dark. So anytime you want to call uncle…”

  “Not a chance,” he said. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

  *

  Jackson Wilder wasn’t kidding.

  A dozen runs later, and appearing to have still more in him, the only one who wanted to cry “uncle” was Miranda, which she finally did at two thirty by tugging the thermos from her backpack and holding it high. “Anyone for some hot chocolate?”

  The announcement won Oliver’s approval, much to Miranda’s relief. She needed more than a break from sledding—she needed one from Jackson Wilder’s body pressed hard and warm against hers—not to mention a break from falling much too easily and merrily into his arms when they invariably spilled out of the sled partway down the hill.

  They found a sturdy log poking out of the snow and took seats, Oliver between them, while Miranda poured three full cups and passed them down, filling the frosty air with the rich, sweet smell of warm chocolate.

  “Don’t forget the marshmallows,” Oliver said, plucking out a Ziploc from the pack and shoving his hand inside. His fist came out, packed with marshmallows, a few falling onto the snow as he dropped the lion’s share into his mug and admired them for a moment before handing off the bag to Jackson. “Want some, Santa?”

  “I’m fairly certain it’s illegal to have hot chocolate without marshmallows,” Jackson said, casting a quick wink at Miranda as he sprinkled a few into his mug. Flutters of heat rippled across her chest. She’d hoped having the buffer of her son between her and Jackson might force her thoughts away from how nice it had felt to be close to him. No such luck.

  She reached for the bag, needing to put her gaze elsewhere. “I packed sandwiches, too,” she said, holding up a foil-wrapped ham and cheese.

  Oliver took one and chewed vigorously. “After this, can we sled some more, Mom?”

  “Sorry, bud. School day tomorrow. We need to get home and get ready for the week.”

  Her son’s frown bloomed abruptly into a huge smile. “Hey! I can tell my friends that we have Santa at our house!”

  Miranda’s stomach seized with dread, her eyes locking briefly with Jackson’s over Oliver’s head. She’d been so worried about keeping hope alive for Oliver that she’d completely forgotten he would want to share his “news” with his classmates. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage her son to keep secrets—or worse, to lie—but what choice did she have?

  “Bud…sweetie…” She leaned in. “Let’s not tell anyone about Santa being here just yet, okay?”

  Oliver looked first at Jackson then back at her, his eyes pooling with disappointment. “But why not?”

  “Well, because I wouldn’t want any of your friends feeling badly because he didn’t come to their house, too,” Miranda said, hoping to appeal to her precious son’s enormous heart.

  She held her breath as she watched him deliberate her point for what seemed like a full minute before he finally consented with a heavy sigh. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I know Lucas would be the saddest,” he said, taking another bite and chewing quietly.

  “That was some quick thinking,” Jackson whispered to her as they started back down the path a few minutes later. Just as before, Oliver took the lead, the sled in tow.

  “Thanks.” She smiled at her son. “He’ll sleep well tonight.”

  “He won’t be the only one.”

  “Then you’re managing okay on that awful cot?” she asked.

  “Like I said…” He grinned. “I’ve slept on much worse.”

  Maybe it was the playful tilt of his mouth, or maybe it was simply that it took very little encouragement for Miranda to imagine Jackson Wilder in various stages of undress, but whatever the reason she forced her eyes—and thoughts—to fix on the path, and remain there for the rest of the walk home.

  When they reached the axis between the house path and the one leading to the barn, they slowed.

&n
bsp; Oliver ran ahead to stow his sled inside, turning briefly to yell over his shoulder, “Thanks again for the toboggan, Santa!”

  Miranda shifted on her heels, trying to decide why she felt like a teenager whose date had just walked her to the door after prom.

  “Thank you, Jackson. You made Ollie’s day.” She laughed. “No, you made his year.”

  “He wasn’t the only one having fun out there,” said Jackson.

  His eyes flashed warmly—and suddenly all Miranda could think about was the feeling of his arms crossing protectively over hers as they’d sailed down the hill, how easily she’d let herself sink against him.

  The urge to invite him back to the house, to keep this wonderful day going, was so strong. But Miranda had to remind herself that he needed to write. And she needed to get ready for the work week.

  Jackson hitched his chin toward the barn. “I should really get started on those hit songs I’m supposed to be writing.”

  “At least let me bring you over some dinner,” she said. “You’ll be starving in a few hours.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He grinned. “If I get desperate, I’ll just ask Twisty for some of his alfalfa.”

  “Might be a little dry,” Miranda said, reaching into her pack and pulling out the remaining sandwich. She held it out to him. “Take this. Just in case.”

  “Thanks.” He pocketed the foil-wrapped sandwich.

  “I take Ollie to kindergarten at seven,” she said. “Then I’m at the clinic until five. Are you sure you’ll be okay here by yourself?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, already starting for the barn.

  “Oh, and I keep a spare key over the porchlight. I’ll make extra coffee. And there’s bread for toast, eggs. Whatever you can find, please, help yourself.”

  “Fresh coffee, breakfast.” Jackson smiled as he walked backward. “A guy could get used to this.”

  A sudden tremor of trepidation fluttered up Miranda’s throat at his observation. How quickly they’d fallen into some kind of routine in just a few days. Too quickly.

  Alarm tightened behind her ribs.

  Routines led to expectations. Expectations led to disappointment. And disappointment led to hurt.

  When he was at the door, she called to him. “Jackson?”

  He turned, squinting against the cold. “Yeah?”

  “If you find that tomorrow you can get the Range Rover out…” She bit her lip, the words not coming as cleanly as she’d hoped. “What I mean is, if we come home and you’re gone, if you’ve changed your mind…” She managed a small smile. “No hard feelings, I promise.”

  It felt good to have said it, but it felt even better to hear his reply as he pushed down on the latch. “I’ll see you when you get home tomorrow, Miranda.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Back at the vet clinic the next day, it was all Miranda could do not to spill the beans.

  The morning was easy—catching up on paperwork, then the endless stream of patients—including a blind guinea pig named Frank—kept her thoughts occupied. It was only when she enjoyed a lull just after lunch that her mind could drift back to memories of the weekend, and the unexpected fun she and Oliver had enjoyed with “Santa.” Several times she’d even checked her phone, curious if Jackson had texted, then chastised herself for it. A few days in his company and she thought, what?—they were somehow close enough that they’d check in with each other during the day?

  Jackson Wilder was a superstar, laid up with a bad ankle and a case of the celebrity blues (an ailment she’d love to have to suffer for a while, by the way). Sure, it had been a nice change of pace, having someone to share meals with, but she didn’t kid herself that there was any future in it. Their partnership came with terms—terms she’d do well to remember, Miranda thought with a pang of dread.

  Still she liked to imagine him with her father’s guitar in the stable, writing songs and keeping Twisty company.

  When Temple had peppered her with questions about how she and Oliver had survived the blizzard and their subsequent hours of being snowed in, Miranda had offered up a quick reply then been recused by a phone call.

  Now it was almost two, and Miranda found herself thinking about dinner plans—or rather, her lack of any. She had promised Oliver they’d pick up a pizza from Dino’s on the way home—would a large be enough for three of them?

  She was reaching for her phone to find the menu online when Temple swung into her exam room, an oversized envelope in her hand and a fraught look on her face.

  “This just came.”

  Miranda took the envelope, seeing the green Certified Mail stripe even before she saw the return address. A law office in Denver? Dread bounced around her stomach as she slid her finger under the seal, pulled out the single typed sheet and read.

  Dear Ms. O’Keefe,

  Regarding your current rental of six stalls at 2020 Evergreen Way, the current owner has decided to sell the property. Therefore, we will not be offering a renewal for your lease when it ends in two months’ time and will require you to relocate your horses no later than February 15th…

  Miranda closed her eyes and fell forward onto her desk.

  Temple hurried over. “What’s wrong?”

  Lacking the strength to explain, Miranda just handed her the letter. Temple scanned the page, her eyes growing huge as she read. “Are you kidding me?” she cried, snapping the letter in the air disgustedly. “Louis can’t do this.”

  “It’s not Louis who’s doing it,” Miranda said. She had met her landlord’s son and wife only once in the two years she’d been stabling her recovering horses there, and they hadn’t been shy in making their feelings about the property known. Miranda suspected Louis had been forced to relinquish the property, but it didn’t change the fact of what lay ahead.

  Temple read the last line of the letter aloud. “We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.” She slapped the letter onto the desk. “Inconvenience? No, ma’am. Inconvenience is when you run out of hamburgers and have to offer hot dogs instead. This is plain evil. And the just before Christmas to boot? Not even Scrooge would pull something like this.”

  Miranda rose and walked to the window, logistics spinning around her brain like a Tilt-a-Whirl. The only way she’d been able to get Free Spirits off the ground was because of Louis’s barely nothing rent. Unless she could find another equally generous landlord—and good luck with that here in high-end horse country—market rent for boarding horses would break her. She had already leveraged what little financial safety net she’d built to keep Free Spirits afloat—there was simply no wiggle room in her budget for an increase of this sort.

  “And how exactly do they expect you to move six horses in two months?” Temple continued. “Not to mention the two we’re working to rescue from that farm in Tucson?”

  Miranda pushed out a long, hard sigh. And just when Twisty seemed to be improving.

  So much for a merry Christmas.

  *

  When the sun came out, I wrote your name in the snow, hoping you might see… Maybe it’s something about the season, but I’m asking Christmas to rescue me…

  Jackson set down his pencil and flipped through the pages of lyrics he’d been scribbling down for the past three hours.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the work come this easily. After three hours of writing and strumming, he had written three new songs.

  The only problem was that every single lyric was about Christmas.

  Or was that a problem?

  Miranda’s question about a holiday album returned to him. For years Comet Records had pleaded with him to do one, but Jackson had always refused. Where was the skill in recording someone else’s songs? he’d always said. Especially ones that had been recorded by almost every singer on the planet?

  Maybe it was the snow, or the smell of the gingerbread coffee Miranda had left for him, but the concept no longer seemed so unappealing.

  Besides, who said a Christmas album c
ouldn’t be original material?

  He glanced over at his cell phone on the counter, fully charged now. No more excuses.

  There was barely time for a ring before his agent picked up.

  “He lives! It’s a Christmas miracle! I was beginning to worry you’d driven off that mountain after all.”

  Jackson chuckled under his breath. If his agent only knew.

  “So how’s the cabin?” Ted asked.

  “The cabin’s…” Jackson glanced around the office. “It’s even better than I expected.”

  “More importantly—how’s the writing going?”

  “Great. Better than great.” Jackson walked to the window and looked out at the field of sparkling white. “How do you think the record company would feel about a Christmas album?”

  The beat of silence wasn’t unexpected, nor was the chortle of surprise. “I think there must be something wrong with our connection… I could have sworn you said Christmas album.”

  “I know I’ve shot down the idea in the past…”

  “Shot down? Jacks, I suggested you record a Christmas album a few years ago and you practically fired me!”

  Jackson grinned, recalling the exchange over beers after one of his sold-out shows. He hadn’t gone so far as threatening to fire Ted, but he’d definitely come close.

  “This wouldn’t be classic covers, Ted. I’m talking about new material.”

  “Write your own Christmas songs?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, Jacks. Original material on holiday albums is a tough sell. People like the familiar tunes at Christmas.”

  “I’m not saying I wouldn’t do some classics—more like half and half. I’ve already got three songs in the can.”

  “Already? Wow.” Ted snorted. “This must be some magic cabin.”

  Jackson looked across the desk to see a sliver of the sunlit barn through the office door, and he smiled. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Miranda was grateful to find the carpool line uncharacteristically slow when she pulled up to Oliver’s school at five ten. She needed a few extra seconds to replace the frown of worry she’d been wearing all afternoon with a convincing smile. Her son had a preternatural radar for when she was anxious about something—even when she worked so hard to hide her worries—and she couldn’t bear having him know that Free Spirits was at risk. Not when he was still struggling to stay hopeful about Twisty’s recovery.