Christmas Kisses (Romance on the Ranch Series #5)

by Clay, Verna

  "Good morning! Dixie's Cuppa Joe. How may I serve you?" said the male voice answering the phone.

  "I'd like to speak with Ms. Brightman, please."

  "May I help you or can you hold for a short time? She's with a customer."

  "I'll hold."

  The phone clicked to music. Whitney Houston sang, I Will Always Love You. The song bombarded him with memories of Rose.

  By the time Cecelia answered the call, he was an instant away from hanging up.

  *

  Cecelia held the phone to her ear while Justin placed his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, "I got a feeling it's him—Mystery Man."

  Turning until her back was to Justin, she said, "Hello, this is Cecelia."

  "Hello, Ms. Brightman." The deep voice on the other end definitely belonged to Connor MacKenzie. Her heart thumped like a steam locomotive. He hesitated a moment and then said, "This is Mac MacKenzie." Cecelia stepped further from Justin. Mac continued, "I was wondering if you could stop by my house today at your convenience. There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

  Connor MacKenzie wants to discuss something with me! Even though she tried to keep breathlessness out of her voice, she wasn’t completely successful. "Sure. I can stop by. I can make your daily delivery, if you like."

  "That's kind of what I was thinking. Great. I'll expect you in half an hour. Oh, and bring coffee and a pastry for yourself and charge it to my tab."

  The phone clicked and Cecelia stared at it. Justin, who was still hovering said, "Awesome! Mystery Man wants to see you."

  She frowned, reached to place the receiver back on the phone, and said, "You know I can't talk about it."

  Justin grinned. "This just keeps getting better and better." He turned to Julie, who was grinding coffee and watching them. "She won't spill anything."

  Julie grinned. "I love a good mystery, and this one is over-the-top exceptional."

  Justin responded, "As much as I like secrecy, I like answers even more." He wagged his finger at Cecelia. "One of these days you'll slip up and let the cat out of the bag."

  Cecelia lifted a finger and made a zipping motion across her lips as she mouthed the word, "Never."

  Chapter 9: It's a Deal

  Carefully, Cecelia maneuvered the uneven flagstones to Connor's, or rather, Mac's porch. Nervousness tied her stomach in knots and she didn't want to trip over her own feet in a repeat of her previous accident.

  Climbing the two steps of the porch she held the carton with the coffees and pastries in one hand and knocked with the other.

  The door opened immediately. "Please come in, Ms. Brightman."

  Cecelia entered the small living room. "You should call me Cecelia. Where would you like me to set your coffee?"

  Mac motioned to the coffee table. "There is fine."

  Cecelia's hand shook a little when she set the carton down.

  Her host sat on the couch. "Help yourself." He had placed two plates with napkins on the coffee table.

  Cecelia opened the bag and handed a drink to Mac. Next, she unwrapped the pastries and set one on each plate.

  Mac thanked her and she wondered what he would say now that the formalities were over.

  Looking steadily at her, he sipped his coffee, and then said, "I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here."

  She nodded.

  "I'll get right to the point. As you may have read in the tabloids, I was in an accident several years ago that damaged my body extensively. It took two years before I was able to walk again, and I still have to use a cane. As for my right arm—the one I paint with—I've been losing nerve function for quite some time." He stopped speaking and tapped his fingers on his knees.

  Cecelia felt compassion swell her heart and she wanted to reach her hand and caress his shoulder in an act of comfort. She decided the act would not be welcomed by this proud man. Instead, she remained silent and waited for him to finish what he wanted to say.

  He continued, "Last week I had an appointment with my doctor in Denver and he told me in no uncertain terms that if I don't have an operation on my right shoulder, I'll eventually lose the use of my arm and hand." He glanced past her and then back at her. "If that happens, I'll lose the ability to paint." His gaze held hers. "Painting is my life, Cecelia."

  When he said her name, the compassion in Cecelia overcame her and she reached to touch his hand. The contact only lasted an instant, but it was electrical. "What is it you need from me, Mac?"

  He glanced at the spot she had touched and then back at her. "After the surgery, I need someone to live with me for at least two months to help out. Of course, I could stay at my home in Denver and hire someone, but…my heart is here. Something about being in this town allows me to paint unhindered by emotional baggage. For a few hours each day, I forget everything. I feel no pain—physical or emotional. In Denver, I never experience that. In fact, my home there holds too many memories." He puffed a breath out his cheeks. "I should sell the home, but…" He didn't finish his sentence. "So, as you may have guessed, I'm asking if you would consider moving into this house and assuming the care of my household for two months."

  Cecelia's eyes widened.

  He quickly added, "It would only involve light housekeeping, meal preparation, and helping me to some degree. For the first month, I'll be mostly limited to my recliner. The next month I'll only be semi-laid up. I'm hoping by the third month I'll be functional again. I know this is coming out of left field, but there's no one I trust to help, except you. You've known my identity for over a month and no one has come knocking on my door. That tells me you can be trusted." He puffed air again, "I would pay you well."

  Cecelia found her voice. "I have a business to run–"

  He interrupted, "You could still work your business. I would be fine by myself during the day."

  Cecelia folded her hands in her lap and looked at them. Although she appeared calm on the exterior, her mind screamed, Two months living with this multifaceted and brilliant painter. You can't say no.

  Before she could respond, Mac said with a hint of humor, "Of course, people will speculate about you living with the recluse. If you want, you can tell them you became friends with an oddball and are helping out while he recovers from surgery. You can describe me however you want, except for revealing my identity."

  Cecelia glanced up, held Mac's gaze, and said, "I would never say anything derogatory about you or reveal your identity. You are a brilliant painter and the world needs your artwork. You make ordinary scenes extraordinary. The painting you donated for the Christmas auction evoked such a yearning in me to experience that scene that I know others are similarly affected by your artistry."

  Mac's startled expression at her heartfelt words did not surprise Cecelia. She believed him to be a lonely and somewhat embittered man. And she would guess he received fan mail expressing her same reaction. Fan mail that he never read. She was glad her words shocked him.

  He responded, "I appreciate your kind words, but I don't deserve them. I paint for selfish reasons, not for any altruistic purpose."

  Cecelia smiled. "I'll help you. When do you want me to move in?"

  Chapter 10: Change of Address

  The day before Mac's surgery, Cecelia moved into his house with a suitcase of clothing and necessities. As needed, she would bring other items from her house.

  She offered to drive him to the hospital in Denver, but he adamantly refused. "My car is specially adapted for my use and my doctor is a friend. He's already arranged for me to leave my vehicle at his house. He'll drive me to the hospital. I should be home in a week."

  "Okay, but if you need anything, please let me know. I have competent staff running the coffee shop, so leaving it in their hands is not a problem."

  "Thanks for the offer." He smiled slightly. "I suppose they're dying of curiosity as to why you're moving in with the recluse."

  Cecelia laughed. "Actually, your longstanding name is Mystery Man. But you're right. After being
bombarded with questions, I told them in no uncertain terms that they'll get nothing out of me, so stop asking."

  Mac's smile widened. "You are a remarkable woman, Cecelia."

  "How so?"

  "You leave a lucrative job in New York to buy a small coffee shop in a nowhere town and then you agree to help an eccentric you hardly know keep his identity secret because he can't bear the idea of publicity messing up his solitary life."

  "I don't consider that remarkable. I just consider it helping a friend."

  The pensive look Mac assessed her with started her heart hammering. For the rest of the evening, they spoke about subjects of generality, never venturing into personal topics.

  By the time Cecelia woke and dressed the next morning, Mac was already gone. There was a note on the table.

  Cecelia, please make yourself at home. As they say in Mexico, "Mi casa es su casa." You may roam the house at will. I started a new painting about a week ago. Feel free to go into my art room. Let me know what you think.

  Cecelia's breath caught in her throat. He trusted her enough to allow her entrance into his art room. Before doing anything else, she walked to Mac's hideaway across from her bedroom and slowly turned the knob. She was about to enter the room of a master, and as far as she knew, a room only she was permitted to visit. The magnitude of that overwhelmed her. Connor MacKenzie—Mac— trusted her enough to allow her into his life.

  Stepping into the darkened room, she reached and flipped the light switch. The first thing she noticed was the wall of windows with drapes drawn. She knew that when they were pulled back, the east facing wall would fill the room with sunlight. An easel was placed before the curtains and Cecelia walked to the windows, drawing the drapes aside. She wanted to see the painting the way Mac would see it. Slowly she turned.

  The first color that jumped from the canvas was steel gray. It arose as mist from an ethereal lake. Slightly bluer, the lake reflected tall pines and a solitary mountain. It was beyond stunning.

  Cecelia wondered if his trademark figures of a male and female had been painted yet. It took a couple of minutes, but she finally located them beyond tree branches—two ethereal shapes. Who were they? Why had Mac started painting them into his artwork after the accident? The child was not in this picture, which made Cecelia believe he had added a child to the other painting solely because it was donated for Christmas. As Charles had pointed out, the piece would bring a fabulous sum for its uniqueness. Mac was surely aware of that.

  After basking in the beautiful artistry, she glanced around the room. It was both orderly and cluttered—a typical painter's paradise. The fact that Mac chose to create his fabulous works in a small room in a nondescript house in a nowhere town, boggled her mind. He could afford a home on cliffs overlooking the sea, or a majestic cabin with views of snow-capped mountains, or a fabulous mansion on a tropical island. Why here?

  Glancing at her wristwatch, Cecelia gasped. She had a coffee shop to run. Perhaps over the next two months, some of her questions would be answered.

  Chapter 11: Frankly Speaking

  Cecelia received a phone call from Mac's doctor the day after his surgery. The friendly man indicated that all had gone well and only time would reveal whether it was successful. When she asked when Mac would return and offered to fly to Denver to drive him home, Dr. Hillsborough responded that he was personally driving Mac to Paxtonville and then catching a commuter flight from Cortez back to Denver. Cecelia liked the doctor's affable manner and Midwestern twang and wondered if she would develop that same twang. She smiled to herself. Her sophisticated brother now spoke with the accent after living in the area for several years.

  A week after the surgery Dr. Hillsborough drove Mac's Toyota Land Cruiser into the driveway. Immediately, Cecelia rushed outside. She saw a curtain move in the window next door. The widow woman who lived there had waylaid Cecelia a few days previous and tried to pry information from her. As Cecelia passed by on her walk to work, the white-haired old woman had called from her front porch, "I hear yer the new owner of that fancy coffee shop."

  Cecelia had paused and smiled. "Yes, I am."

  Without returning her smile, the neighbor replied, "Now, don't git me wrong, I like coffee; jus' not with all them extras. Black was good enough fer my ma and pa and mamma and pampa, and it's good enough fer me. Now, missy, what are you doin' livin' in that house with that man who's about as friendly as a rabid dog? Why, I come over one day after he first moved in jus' so's I could meet my neighbor an' he wouldn't even open the door. Jus' called through it sayin' he wasn't up to meetin' anybody. Hell, I can understand that, but I tried agin a few days later and got the same treatment." She paused for breath and continued nonstop. "Now Sadie, yer neighbor at yer other house, said you's rentin' that house, but I told her you was also livin' here cause I seen ya packin' yer suitcases in. Don't make a lick o' sense to us. After Mr. Unsociable refused all efforts by his neighbors to welcome him to the neighborhood, we jus' let him be—some folk jus' ain't friendly. But with you movin' in, and you both bein' from out of town, we're wonderin' what's goin' on. You two ain't doin' nothin' illegal, is ya?" She didn't wait for Cecelia to answer before forging onward. "Cause if ya are, we don't want ya in our neighborhood. Now, Sadie said she talked with ya after tryin' one of yer fancy frappes and said you seemed right nice. But I know looks can be deceivin'; my first husband taught me all about that. A more handsome devil was never born, but devil is the right word fer him, why he–"

  Cecelia had the feeling that if she didn't interrupt, the woman would talk for hours.

  "Please, ma'am, let me introduce myself. My name is Cecelia Brightman and I bought the coffee shop from Dixie Kosky because I just love this town. My sister-in-law, Tooty Brightman, lived here most of her life before marrying my brother. They now live in the next county."

  The woman interrupted Cecelia's interruption. "Yeah, Sadie told me you was related to Tooty and her husband who writes all them books. Why, ever-so-often we see Tooty and her man on them magazines 'bout the movie stars. Usually, the stuff they write is hogwash, but sometimes they hit the nail on the head, like when they talked 'bout the passel of kids she and her hubby have."

  Cecelia interrupted again. "So, what is your name?"

  "I'm Fannie Levinworth. I've lived in Paxtonville since I was five. I–"

  "Well, Mrs. Levinworth, let me assure you that there are no illegal activities happening in this house. And you're right about the owner being reclusive. He simply likes his privacy–"

  "So he's got that mental disorder that don't let him out of the house and–"

  "No, I wouldn't go that far. He simply likes–"

  "So what are you doin' livin' there?"

  Cecelia gave Fannie a smile meant to comfort. "I'm assisting the resident while he recovers from surgery. That's all."

  "Does this resident have a name?"

  "I call him Mac."

  Fannie tilted her head and studied Cecelia. "You kinda' sorta' answered my questions, but you're still holdin' back. However, I can take a hint when it's time fer me to mind my own bizness. I've had five surgeries myself, so's I know how miserable a person can feel after one. If'n you need any help with Mac, you jus' let me know. In fact, you can call on any of yer neighbors fer help."

  Cecelia had a sudden liking for Fannie and replied warmly, "I thank you, and Mac thanks you."

  Now, waiting for Dr. Hillsborough to open Mac's car door, Cecelia turned her attention from Fannie peeking through her curtains, to her patient. Her heart hammered. The doctor rounded the front of the SUV, and said, "Hello. You must be Ms. Brightman. Nice making your acquaintance. I'm Dr. Hillsborough." He opened the car door. "I'll warn you, your patient isn't in the best of moods. Part of that, I'm sure, is because of the meds he's on and the other part–"

  Mac scowled as the doctor helped him from the car, but Dr. Hillsborough continued, "–is because he's got that kind of disposition."

  Cecelia stepped forward to assist, but Mac sh
ook his head. "I've got that kind of disposition because my arm feels like it's got a flame thrower dousing it." He took a step, wobbled, and the doctor placed an arm around his waist, waiting for him to steady.

  Dr. Hillsborough said, "Ms. Brightman, can you get his cane from the backseat?"

  Cecelia rushed to comply and then ran up the steps to hold the door open. She heard several descriptive phrases from Mac while his doctor helped him into the living room.

  Mac said, "Put me in my recliner. If I have to hole up in bed a minute longer you might as well commit me to a loony hospital."

  Slowly, Dr. Hillsborough lowered Mac into his chair and the raw pain on his face made Cecelia want to cry.

  Mac said tightly, "You can lean my cane against the wall." He pointed to where he wanted it.

  Cecelia obeyed and then asked, "Mac, can I get you something to drink?"

  He took a deep breath, released it, took another one, and finally said, "Sure, got a beer?"

  Cecelia didn't know what to say and glanced at the doctor. He was grinning. She looked back at Mac to see him almost smiling at her. "Just kidding," he rasped. His sort-of-smile vanished. "A glass of water would be most appreciated."

  Cecelia rushed to the kitchen and filled a tall glass. Then she realized she didn't know if he preferred ice in his water. She turned to go back to the living room and ask, and almost bumped into the doctor. "Do you know if he likes ice?" she asked breathlessly.

  "He does."

  While she added ice to the glass, the doctor said, "I'll just pour myself a cup of that coffee you got brewed and sit at the table. We can discuss Mac's care when you return. Would you like me to pour you a cup, too?"