Mistletoe Miracles

by Jodi Thomas

  Tonight, he faced November winds as he walked the edge of the river and let the noise of the water drown out his thoughts. Later, he’d run the hills until his muscles burned so he’d be able to collapse in dreamless sleep. When it grew too cold to run, he’d work with the pine and mahogany stacked in his workshop and pretend all was normal in his life...and in his mind. He’d spend late hours studying for online classes he’d taken without any direction of a degree.

  At thirty-six, Jax felt like he was an old man inside. He couldn’t remember ever being young. He might look straight and tall, but he feared if he turned around too quickly, he’d catch sight of his shadow, all twisted and deformed.

  He had nothing to live for, and worse, nothing to die for.

  On rainy nights like tonight, he put on a black slicker and moved into the shadows. He walked the edge of sanity, tempting crazy, but not stepping off the cliff.

  As he did almost every evening lately, he climbed an easy two miles to the north edge of his property and sat on a mound high enough to see the ribbon of a two-lane highway a mile away. Part of him wondered where all the people were going, racing along like fireflies low to the ground. Part of him didn’t care. He just liked following the lights on a road shiny with rain.

  After a while, the lonely stream of cars and trucks relaxed him, and he stood. The rain was so slow he almost felt he had to bump into it to feel the moisture. The air was heavy, weighing down his lungs and pressing against his chest.

  Just as he turned to head back to his cabin, Jax heard the squeal of tires and saw a lone car suddenly fly off the pavement as it missed the one bend for ten miles along the county road.

  In a quick blink, the driver’s door flew open and the driver tumbled out, rolling across the uneven ground like a broken toy.

  With his heart pounding, Jax climbed down the mound, barely noticing the sharp edges cutting into his palms. He carried no phone. No way to call for help, and no doubt the driver was in crisis.

  By the time he reached the base of the hill, two other cars had stopped to help, and he was still almost a mile away.

  Jaxson began to run, but crossing the rough terrain wasn’t easy. He slipped several times and had to turn back twice to find a shallow place across the river.

  By the time he was a hundred yards out, an ambulance had pulled up. Paramedics rushed toward the body crumpled in the muddy field. The crew was loaded down with about fifty pounds of equipment and yelling.

  “She’s hurt bad,” shouted one man, who’d stood guard over the unconscious motorist.

  “We’re here to help,” the first EMT answered. “Stay back.”

  The driver hadn’t been moved, but one of the men who’d stopped had knelt close to her, which Jax saw as a good sign that she might be still breathing.

  Jax hesitated in the shadows, knowing he could do nothing to help. Even though he’d been trained, he had no equipment, no lights, no way to transport a wounded passenger. The cavalry was already on-site. They didn’t need him stepping in.

  All he could do was watch. Within minutes, the woman was lifted into the ambulance, and the silent flashing lights had pulled away from the scene.

  The two cars that had stopped moved on down the road and the only evidence that a drama had played out was the dark outline of a red sports car flipped ten feet off the road. In watery moonlight, the vehicle appeared twisted and trapped by a barbed-wire fence as if it were no heavier than a plastic bag.

  Jaxson stood stone still. Like his life, someone else’s had changed in a fraction of a second. He didn’t know if the driver was dying or simply knocked out by the blow. But if she lived, this moment would alter her and the world would never be the same.

  Something moved in the tall grass beside him. A whimper whispered in the wind.

  Jax remained still. The whimper came again. More movement in the grass.

  He glanced back to the road. Not a car in sight. Curiosity got the better of him. Snakes wouldn’t be out in this cold weather, and a rabbit or prairie dog probably wouldn’t attack.

  Moving slowly, soundlessly, Jax studied the tall grass. A long form, almost the size of a coyote, shown dark against the sand-colored grass.

  A pickup rattled along the road a hundred feet away. For a blink, the lights shone on the animal lying so still.

  A dog.

  Jax advanced and knelt as a low cry of pain came again.

  “Where’d you come from, boy?” Jax whispered as he slowly moved his hand toward the animal.

  The dog showed no aggression.

  Jax lightly brushed the animal’s side. Halfway down the body he felt the thick wet warmth of blood.

  The dog raised his head a few inches but didn’t growl. He was comfortable around humans, even appeared to trust.

  “I can’t see how to help you.” Jax guessed that if he left the animal here until dawn, he’d bleed out or, worse, be eaten by some predator. He tugged off his rain slicker and wrapped it around the dog, tying the jacket’s arms to hold the animal in the wrap.

  With little effort, he lifted what looked like a half-grown collie pup and headed toward his cabin. Within a few minutes, he was on familiar ground, moving slowly, making his way home.

  The pup didn’t make a sound. He was either too far gone to fight or somehow sensed he was being helped.

  As Jax neared the light shining from his cabin porch, a dozen possibilities sparked through his mind. There were no neighbors close enough to have an animal wander onto his place, but folks from town did drop off dogs and cats from time to time on country roads. Maybe they thought they were giving the pet a chance at another life. In truth, all they were giving him was starvation.

  This collie might have been dumped out here. Maybe he was in the road when the red sports car passed. He might have even caused the accident.

  Or, like the driver, he might have been thrown when the sports car rolled. If the driver hadn’t bothered to belt herself in, she probably hadn’t secured her dog.

  Maybe she’d glanced over at him and missed the bend in the road. Any way Jax looked at it, there was probably a fifty-fifty chance the animal caused the wreck.

  A head poked out from beneath the slicker. Big black eyes, golden hair, blood shining across his long nose. The collie pup stared up at Jax and tilted his head in question.

  “Hello there, buddy.” Jax climbed the three steps to his porch. “How about you let me take a look at you?” He laid the dog on a workbench and started unwrapping his coat.

  The dog pressed his nose against Jax’s palm and gave a low cry.

  “I know, buddy, it hurts. I’ve been there.”

  Slowly Jaxson slid his hand along the animal’s sides. Blood. Lots of blood.

  Gathering his fishing gear and a pile of rags, Jax put together his emergency kit. Hot water. Duct tape. A few boards to act as splints. Not exactly the medical supplies he needed, but he’d work with what he had.

  Not once did the animal growl or snap, but his low cries let Jax know that he was hurting.

  Jax tried to make sense of what happened. The dog must have crawled away from the accident. If the driver was unconscious, she couldn’t have told anyone. The men on-site were too interested in saving her. They probably never noticed the dog.

  Slowly, trying to cause no more pain or damage, Jax began cleaning the wounds and stitching up open gaps with fishing wire. The light was good but the night was cold, almost freezing.

  The emergency medical training he’d taken while he’d been a fireman was of little help on an animal. One broken leg. One deep gash just behind the dog’s ear. When he moved his hand over the animal, the dog jerked slightly. His shiny coat of fur hid other wounds.

  For the first time in two years, Jax forgot about his scars, his pain, his problems and went to work on a dog that had been overlooked.

  “If you live, I t
hink I’ll call you Buddy.” He talked to his patient in low tones. “If you could talk, you could call me Jax. I’ll fix you up the best I can, but I’m no doc. You’ll have scars.”

  Buddy raised his head and licked Jaxson’s right hand in a silent thank-you.

  Jax smiled for the first time in months. The dog had paid no attention to the knotted twisted skin crossing his hand. “Yeah, boy, looks like we all have our share of scars. If you don’t mind mine, I won’t mind yours.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Griffin’s Quest

  MIDMORNING, AFTER COLLECTING his mail and picking up a load of groceries for Mamie, Griffin Holloway pulled up in front of the Franklin sisters’ bed-and-breakfast just off the main street of Crossroads, Texas. He couldn’t put off what had to be done any longer. He was in town. Might as well stop by and talk to the chatty Franklin sisters.

  Their big old house looked newly painted, and apparently the three-story Victorian had gobbled up the tiny bungalow next door, because now both homes were joined by a rose garden path lined with faded garden gnomes. Maybe because Crossroads was growing, the sisters thought their place should also. Rumor was the town would be big enough to have its own Walmart soon.

  He cut the engine of his truck and frowned as he set his mind to what he had to do. Sometimes, you had to take action no matter how dumb the plan was, and marrying for money was the only idea he had.

  Lately, the sisters had been putting up billboards outside of town calling their place The Franklin Destination Event and Wedding Center. They’d even created a fairy-tale slogan: where your heart’s desire and midnight dreams become reality.

  No one dared to mention that for half the town, heart’s desire fit more into a topless club than a bed-and-breakfast. And Griffin didn’t want to think about the definition of midnight dreams. One evening at the Two-Step Bar, a dozen drunks had got together to list what they thought heart’s desire meant, and not one of the choices had the word wedding in it.

  “Hell,” Griffin mumbled as he walked up to the newly painted purple door. He’d rather spend the day at the smelly, loud and smoky Two-Step than have to talk to the sisters. But he had a real problem, and they were probably the only ones who could help.

  Rose Franklin answered the door and looked at him like he was planning to sell her expired Boy Scout popcorn. “How can I help you, Griffin Holloway? Don’t tell me that rambling old ranch house of yours burned down and you need a place to sleep.”

  “No, the Holloway headquarters is still standing. Electricity even works now and then.” He grinned. “I’m here to ask for your advice, Miss Franklin. If you’ve got a few minutes to spare me?”

  That one sentence seemed to be the magic open sesame. She stepped back and welcomed him into a cluttered entrance, then marched him to a sunny breakfast room decorated in Peanuts Halloween characters.

  “Little late for Halloween,” he mumbled.

  “We’re getting there,” she answered. “Decorating is an art that can’t be hurried by a calendar. It saves time if we take down one holiday as we put up the next.”

  Several of the two-foot fluffy not-so-scary statues started talking as he passed, and Griffin fought the urge to take a swing at them. He hated any kind of decorating, and this old house was ground zero.

  When he raised an eyebrow, Rose Franklin huffed. “We’re getting out Thanksgiving tomorrow. You are welcome to join us.” She turned toward the kitchen.

  Griffin guessed, if he hit Snoopy just right, all the decorations would tumble off the table at once. She might even see it as helping with the takedown. Only he had no hope Thanksgiving would look any better.

  He hated cute decorations. Hell, he hated all decorations. He hated holidays, period. Halloween to Christmas was not a happy time for him. But if he wanted Miss Franklin’s help, he’d better leave her creepy menagerie alone.

  She offered him the seat at the end of the table.

  “Daisy!” she yelled without noticing her sister standing three feet away at the door Griffin guessed led down a hallway. “The oldest Holloway boy has come to ask for our advice.”

  Daisy made a squeaky noise, then answered, “I’ll get the muffins and coffee. Don’t start talking until I’m in the room. If a Holloway thinks he’s got a problem, it must be huge ’cause them boys were all three spoiled by their mother to think they were perfect and knew everything.”

  “I heard that.” Griffin plopped his Stetson down on the table just to irritate the ladies. “Mom has been buried for over a dozen years. Perfection seems to have slipped a bit among her offspring.”

  Rose picked up his hat and set it brim up on the windowsill. “Except for being nearsighted about her sons, your mama was a good woman.”

  Griffin nodded and took the seat offered. He had no idea if he was being ordered to the head of the table or the tail. “That she was and I’m hoping the next Mrs. Holloway will be the same.”

  Rose’s bushy eyebrow raised slightly. He’d caught her interest.

  A few minutes later when Daisy rushed in with apple muffins, honey butter and a pot of coffee, he realized he was beyond dumb. Who goes to two women who’ve never married for advice? The gang at the bar would probably have better ideas. He shrugged. On the bright side, the gang at the bar wouldn’t offer apple muffins and coffee along with their advice.

  Besides, it was too late to bolt now. He’d set his course. While the ladies downed their coffee and two muffins each, he laid out his problem as quickly as possible.

  One of the Holloway men needed a wife, one with money or land. One willing to marry by Christmas. Leaning close, he lowered his voice and added, “I wouldn’t want this out, but come January, we’re liable to lose the place if we don’t come up with cash.” He winked at them. “You’ll keep that quiet, ladies?”

  They both nodded, swearing to a secret everyone in the county already knew. If the Holloways weren’t low on cash, now that might be something new. Word was, several ranchers were already planning to make the bank an offer as soon as the land was foreclosed on. Of course, no one would want the whole ranch, but the bank could split it up into a dozen smaller parcels.

  Griffin would rather have someone carve up his heart than sell off the ranch in pieces. Five generations were buried there. His father’s trees. His mother’s honeysuckle. Over a hundred years of Holloways had worked the land, and Griffin wanted another hundred years more to do the same.

  To his surprise, the sisters didn’t ask one question about the why to his plan. They were far more interested in the who.

  When he admitted he didn’t have a bride in mind, the Franklin sisters just stared at him as if they’d accidentally let in a serial killer.

  Griffin ate his muffin in silence and waited. The plan had sounded better in his head. Maybe he should have been more detailed, but the whole thing seemed simple. Find a rich woman, marry her, add her money or credit potential into the bank account. He’d heard a dozen women over the past year say they’d love to marry into his family. Only they didn’t seem to be around now.

  The only other choice was to sell part of the ranch, and every Holloway buried on the land would come back to haunt him if Griffin did that. He was out of options.

  “What about love?” Rose whispered. She said the words slowly, as if fearing he might ask for an explanation.

  “Of course we’d love her.” Griffin wanted to scream that love had nothing to do with this. The Franklin sisters didn’t seem to realize the sacrifice he, or one of his brothers, was willing to make. He quickly added, “Franklin men tend to fall in love fast. We’re kind of the at-first-sight types. So the falling-in-love part won’t take long, but meeting eligible women is hard when you’re busy from dawn till dark ranching.”

  Rose leaned so close he started counting the hairs on her upper lip. “Is only one of you boys looking to marry or all three?”

  “It don�
�t matter. We’re all unattached. We’re willing, ready and ripe for the picking.” When he’d been in his twenties, single women seemed to be everywhere, but now, those same women were all in their thirties and wanting to show him pictures of their kids.

  Both Franklin women frowned and crossed their arms over their ample chests as if deciding to be the guards at the gate. Griffin figured he’d said the wrong thing. He didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, and he didn’t plan on pretending now.

  “I mean, ladies. My brothers and I have talked it over, and we all three think it’s time we settled down, but the chance of us all three finding love before Christmas is slim. Though that would be all our hearts’ desire.” It couldn’t hurt to toss in the slogan the sisters used in their advertising. Now all he had to do was close the deal with his proposition. “If you ladies could help just one of us find our forever mate before the end of the year, we’d like you to also plan the biggest wedding this town has ever seen right here in your beautiful home.”

  Griffin knew he was laying it on a little thick, but the idea of making money might entice them to help. After all, the offer wouldn’t cost him anything; the bride’s family paid for the wedding.

  Rose stood and reached for the coffeepot. For a moment, he thought she might slam it against his head. She probably saw right through him. Hell, he didn’t like himself much at the moment either. Maybe they’d be better off to try the miniature horse idea again.

  He didn’t plan on losing the ranch. They were down to the Hail Mary play. There was no plan B.

  Daisy reached into one of the drawers of a sideboard that had to be a hundred years old and pulled out a pen and paper. “Write down exactly what you’re looking for in a wife. We’ll do what we can.”

  Griffin reconsidered his idea. The longer they stared at him, the dumber it seemed. He’d never put much thought into what kind of woman he wanted, but he had enough sense to know long-legged and big-breasted probably shouldn’t be at the top of the list.

  Pretty. That was a start. He didn’t care much about smart, but Elliot might, so he wrote that, too. From a good family, but she should be financially independent. He guessed they’d figure out that meant rich.