“I doubt it snowed so much overnight that the saloon was actually buried,” Randall called from the fireplace, sensing her distress. “It probably just drifted against that wall. I found a window on another side of the building upstairs, and it wasn’t that bad.”
“You were upstairs?” Since there wasn’t anything to see, and since the very fact of Randall’s presence was the only thing keeping her from panic, she left the window and returned to crouch beside the fireplace.
“Just for a minute or two,” he told her with a reassuring smile. “I thought I’d look for more blankets.”
Miranda blushed hot. “I haven’t had time to clean those rooms yet.”
His eyes danced with mirth. “I noticed.”
She swallowed. Who knew what kind of scandalous items were tucked away up there? Heaven knew she’d found enough things in the rooms downstairs to provide an education for even the most stalwart soul.
“Did you find blankets?” she asked in a sheepish voice.
“I did.” Randall peeked at her as he struck a match and managed to get the kindling to light. “I even found a few that I could use.”
Miranda was mortified down to her toes. She couldn’t imagine what kind of filth those other blankets contained. Not for the first time, she cursed her Uncle Buford for not running a tighter ship, for getting so deeply involved in vice in the first place, and for saddling her with the whole mess.
The fire Randall had built finally took, and as the flames licked higher, melting the snow and starting to take the chill out of the bricks of the fireplace, Miranda tugged her hands out of the blanket around her shoulders and held them out to warm them.
“The stove comes next.” Randall got up and moved to her kitchen stove, opening the belly to shovel a bit more coal inside.
Miranda stayed where she was for the time being. She should really get moving and start breakfast for him. She was the hostess, after all, and if there was one thing her mother had always drilled into her, it was the importance of being a good one. The newly-crackling fire was such a delicious balm to her frozen limbs, though, that she stayed crouched in front of it until Randall had the stove lit.
It took even longer for the room to heat up and the stove to be hot enough to boil water for tea. Randall insisted on going to the main room of the saloon to light that fire and to check for any sort of storm damage, but Miranda was more than content to stay in the tiny cocoon of warmth that the fireplace and the stove in her apartment created. She fetched the leftover biscuits from last night’s dinner as well as eggs and a rasher of bacon from her cupboard and did her best to make a morning feast.
An hour later, she and Randall sat across her small table, eating dry biscuits, rubbery eggs, and undercooked bacon.
“I truly wouldn’t mind cooking for you one of these meals,” Randall said. He wore a smile, but Miranda suspected he didn’t actually like her cooking. “I have some experience in the kitchen.”
“From your time as a cabin boy?” she teased him, trying not to feel guilty about her own, pitiful skills.
Fortunately, Randall laughed at her joke. “From before that. As a boy, I had a glorious crush on our cook, Mrs. Foster.”
“Did you?” Her eyebrows flew up.
Randall chuckled sheepishly and nodded. “I was eight, she was forty-eight, but I knew it was meant to be. She taught me everything I know about cooking, baking, all of it. Those skills have come in mighty handy as I’ve traveled about. I even worked in a restaurant for a month when I was stranded at the end of the train line during my days as a railroad porter.”
“And did you enjoy it?”
A sudden, far-away look came to Randall’s eyes and he sighed, leaning his elbow on the table, chin in his palm. “I loved it.”
That was when Miranda noticed that he’d shaved. He must have done so before coming in to light the fires. She’d found him handsome with a bit of end-of-the-day scruff, but now his appearance was even more charming and manly. His curly hair fascinated her. And she was ready to admit fully that it was a comfort and a blessing to have him there in the midst of the storm.
“Maybe I will let you cook something,” she said, swirling her fork through her eggs and lowering her eyes flirtatiously. Her, Miranda Clarke, flirting. Would wonders never cease?
“I tell you what I do want to do, though,” he went on, finishing up the last of his breakfast. “I want to see if there’s a way to go outside and assess the amount of snowfall. Especially snow that might have fallen on the roof.”
“The roof?” Miranda stood and took his plate and hers, just as she’d done the night before.
And just as the night before, Randall stood with her and took their tin tea mugs and the teapot, following her to the counter. A homey thrill swirled through Miranda’s gut. It was almost like a routine, something people who had been together for a long while would do.
“The roof,” Randall repeated. “You always want to check the amount of snow that falls on your roof. Too much of it or too heavy a consistency and it could collapse the whole thing.”
Miranda gasped, her anxiety returning. “The roof could collapse?”
Randall shrugged, reaching for the pump to help her wash the dishes. “If whoever built this place was smart, they knew snow could be a problem and designed the roof accordingly.”
It took far more time and effort to get the pump to work, and when water did begin to flow, it was frigid and loaded with ice particles. Miranda tried not to think about what that could mean. Underground water usually stayed above a certain temperature. It had to be merely the water already in the pipe that was frozen. Either way, she and Randall washed the dishes quickly.
As soon as they were done, Randall set aside the cloth he’d used to dry them with a long, “Brrr!” and took her hands in his to warm them.
The simple contact of her icy hands with his, the way his long-fingered hands enveloped hers, sent spirals of a dangerous kind of heat all through her. She’d felt something like this all those times she’d been close to Micah, but not nearly this potent. Before she could stop herself, she was standing scandalously close to Randall. She could smell the salt of his skin along with a spicy cologne of some sort. It may have just been his shaving soap, but whatever it was sent sparks along her skin.
“We should go ahead and check the roof,” he said after a silence that went on too, too, deliciously long. His voice was rough, and he cleared his throat before stepping back. “I’d hate to see any damage to your saloon.”
Miranda studied his face for a moment, drank in the kindness in his eyes and the familiarity of his smile. Surely they must have known each other for more than just one day. There were people she’d spent every day of her life with that she didn’t feel a kinship to like this. Vicky, for one.
“I’m not sure how we’ll get outside to check,” Randall went on, slowly breaking the spell she’d fallen under. “I, uh, tried the front door earlier, but the snow had drifted up to my thighs.”
That did it. That snapped Miranda out of her reverie. “Oh, dear.”
Randall reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to alarm you.”
It was too late for that. She’d been alarmed since the snow began to fall the night before. There was nothing she could do about it now, though. And at least she had Randall to handle the crisis with her.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said, “Show me.”
One look at Miranda’s face when he opened the saloon’s front door, showing her the snow drift that blocked any egress, and Randall thanked whatever benevolent forces had stranded him in The Holey Bucket for this blizzard.
“We’ll be okay,” he assured her, shutting the door to block out the sight that had drained the color from her face. “We have plenty of food and water, the firewood will last for a week at least, and as soon as we check to be sure that the roof won’t cave in, all we’ll have to do is sit tight and wait it out.”
Miranda drag
ged her worried gaze away from the door and met his eyes. “That isn’t what concerns me the most,” she said. “It’s still snowing.”
Ah, yes. The one little detail he hoped Miranda would overlook. Now that the sun had come up and he’d been able to see beyond the snow drifted on the saloon’s front porch, he’d been able to see light snow continuing to fall, and even darker clouds on the horizon. Few people were out and about in town. He had the bad feeling that the only thing morning had brought was a stretch of calm before another pounding.
At least he was there. At least Miranda wasn’t on her own in the saloon. Not that she wouldn’t be able to handle this crisis by herself. Randall suspected that Miranda was capable not only of weathering a fierce winter storm, but of plowing her way through every quirky obstacle life threw at her. She had the backbone of a titan.
“All that snow is going to make it difficult to check on the roof.” He focused on the problem that needed an immediate solution. “Do you have any shovels? Anything we could clear the snow away from the front door with?”
Miranda’s brow furrowed in thought. A moment later, her entire expression popped with inspiration. “We don’t need to check the roof by going outside. There’s a trapdoor in the attic that leads straight to the roof.”
She was in motion, marching toward the back hall before Randall could so much as form a smile. He launched into action behind her.
“A trapdoor in the attic leading to the roof. That’s a clever idea,” he said as they reached the steep stairs at the end of the hall near her apartment and continued up.
“I saw it when I first inspected the saloon,” she said, lifting her skirts as she took the stairs. “I remember wondering if Uncle Buford had it put there so outlaws and hussies could escape sticky situations in the saloon.”
Randall laughed. “I bet he did.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him as she reached the second floor and turned to head down the corridor. An even steeper staircase stood at the other end of the hall, above where the entrance to the bar in the saloon downstairs was. That single glance was better than a hundred fires to warm him.
“The attic is a mess,” she warned, pausing at the second staircase. “I haven’t had a chance to tidy it yet.”
“I promise I won’t judge you,” he joked, mouth twitching in a grin. She looked as though judgment was a serious concern of hers. “Should we bring lanterns up with us?”
“Oh. Probably.”
Randall dashed back downstairs and into Miranda’s apartment to fetch the lantern she’d had with her that morning and another he’d left burning on the table to help heat the room. By the time he reached the second floor again, Miranda had already gone up to the attic by the feeble light that poured in through a few upstairs windows. There were a pair of tiny windows in the two attic walls that didn’t slope, casting the dusty, crowded space in pale light.
As Randall stepped into the slope-ceilinged attic, Miranda stood near the center of the vast space, as large as the saloon below, holding a scarf that seemed to be made of feathers.
“I don’t even want to think what this was used for.” She let out a long-suffering sigh.
Randall chuckled, striding over to her and holding out one of the lanterns for her to take. “I think we both know what that was used for.”
Even without full light, the flush that came to Miranda’s face was vivid. She quickly pushed the boa aside and took the lantern from him. “I know Uncle Buford used to invite the, ah, soiled doves of Mistletoe to perform cabaret acts on his stage, but I’m terribly afraid that those entertainments may just have been a mask for other activities that went on in this establishment.” The stark formality of her words made it hard for Randall not to laugh.
“You may have inherited more than just a saloon.,” he said.
“Perish the thought,” she replied with stony seriousness.
It was impossible not to laugh a little at a comment like that. He tried to hide his amusement by turning away and surveying the ceiling, but his lantern cast more light on the costumes and props, the satin pillows and a few French items he felt compelled to cover up before Miranda saw them. Even with her strong stomach and practical sensibilities, she didn’t need to see the kinds of things a compromised imagination could manufacture.
“There it is,” she broke through the charged silence, moving to stand in a slightly more cleared spot of the attic.
Randall rushed to join her. Sure enough, the faintest dusting of snow covered part of the floor. He held his lantern up as Miranda held hers, and together they were able to make out a small rectangle of boards with hinges on one side and a thick crossbar.
“That has to be it.” He stepped away, searching the cluttered room for a chair or ladder. A set of movable stairs that was more than high enough rested to one side, not far away. “Here, hold this.” Randall handed his lantern off to Miranda and cleared a few old boxes and crates aside so that he could reach the stairs.
Part of him wondered if the stairs had been designed specifically to reach the door in the ceiling instead of for a stage show as he rolled them to a spot under the door. They even had clamps that fastened the stairs to one spot. He checked to make sure he had them where he needed them, then mounted. He was only of average height, but once at the top of the stairs, he was able to reach the trapdoor with ease. He sent Miranda—holding two lanterns aloft—a reassuring smile, then used his muscle to loosen the crossbar holding the door shut.
As soon as the bar jolted free, the trapdoor swung open inward with force. Instantly, buckets and buckets worth of thick, wet snow dumped on him. The shock of it caused him to yelp as he was simultaneously drenched and chilled to the bone.
“Randall!” Miranda shouted.
The light flickered and dimmed as Miranda found someplace to put the lanterns, then rushed to his aid. Randall wiped his face to clear the snow out of his eyes and off his head. He continued to make wordless sounds of distress as he batted snow from his shoulders. It had made its way down his back and somehow even into his trousers. But as soon as he could see again, noticed Miranda halfway up the stairs kicking snow away and brushing at his trousers, and felt the icy rush of the wind flying in through the trapdoor, he burst into laughter.
“It serves me right,” he laughed, teeth chattering. “I should have known better than to open that while standing under it.”
“You’ll catch your death of cold,” Miranda scolded. She used her skirts to push the snow off the stairs, then climbed until she was standing level with him. “That breeze is biting.”
“I think it qualifies as more than a breeze.” It wasn’t a particularly intelligent thing to say, but it was all Randall could think of as Miranda leaned closer to him. She brushed his shoulders and arms, even slipping her hands under his collar to clear out the snow that clung to the back of his neck. His shivering was replaced by a deep, pulsing heat that only burned hotter when Miranda tipped too far to the side and nearly lost her balance.
She yelped, and Randall caught her, clamping his arms firmly around her. He held her close, and even the rush of wind from above couldn’t chill him. She wasn’t dainty or delicate. Her body was thin, but it had strength in it. She fit so well against him, matched his contours so perfectly. If he was any other man and she was any other woman, he would have thrown caution to the icy wind and kissed her.
In fact, he hadn’t entirely ruled out the idea when another gust pushed more snow down on them. Miranda squeaked as she was doused with snow and clung tighter to him. For a moment, Randall thanked God for the snow as he held her closer. But all good things must come to an end.
For now.
“Well,” he said, helping her off the stairs. “At least we know the snow isn’t piling up too badly.”
“Isn’t it?” Miranda hugged herself, shivering as they reached the floor and stepped back so that they could observe the patch of grey sky without being blasted by the wind. “That seems like a lot of snow to me.”
“It is.” Randall nodded. “But it won’t accumulate on a roof pitched at this angle. Still, we’d better try to clean at least some of it off.”
“How?”
Randall blinked and laughed as his mind answered her question before he said aloud, “Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes, of course! We’ve got brushes for every occasion, including clearing snow off a roof.”
Miranda laughed, shivery and high-spirited. “You’re joking.”
“Actually, I’m not. The regular brooms will be perfect for this job.”
To prove his point, he headed back downstairs to his tiny bedroom, where he’d left his trunk. Working as fast as he could, he assembled two of the push brooms contained in the sales kit, then ran them back up to the attic. While he’d done that, Miranda had put on her coat and gloves and a hat. She was far more ready than he was by the time they climbed the stairs again to start brushing.
As he’d hoped, it wasn’t difficult to push the snow down the slope of the roof. As soon as the area immediately around the trapdoor was cleared, he hoisted himself up onto the roof proper and began clearing from there. It was tricky work, and after slipping twice he decided it wasn’t worth risking a tumble that would break his neck. He sat awkwardly on the slope of the roof, his legs hanging down through the trapdoor, as he cleared everything he could reach. It was almost a pointless act, since the wind was doing its fair share of blowing the snow off, but the entire exercise did serve one purpose.
“Miranda, you’ve got to see this,” he called down into the attic to her.
“See what?” she called up, coming to stand at the very top of the stairs. She was tall enough that her head and the top of her shoulders stuck out above the line of the roof, but with all the snow, it wasn’t enough to see anything.
Wild Western Women Mistletoe, Montana: Sweet Western Historical Holiday Box Set Page 24
