by Dana Mentink
“Come, Charlie. I don’t have the energy to chase you.”
Charlie yowled and raced around her to a massive trunk. The rest of the tree had long ago toppled alongside the trail, and bark had fallen from the trunk like great pieces of a huge puzzle.
“There are bugs in there, Charlie.”
Charlie disappeared behind the pile.
Her last thread of temper frayed, the tension of the hunt was getting the best of her. “If you don’t come out right now, I’m not sharing my anchovies or bacon with you ever again.”
Charlie barked a high, shrill yip, repeated over and over until it frightened a pair of birds from the nearby branches. Marcy circled the trunk, stepping over clumps of rotted wood and praying there were no snakes within ankle distance.
“Charlie,” she started again. She stopped midstride, dumbfounded. Charlie sat on the lap of a very small boy who was curled up in the hollow center of the dead tree. The child did not look at her. He cradled Charlie, rocking back and forth while the dog licked the tears from his face.
She knelt. “Hi,” she said softly. “My name is Marcy. I think you must be Simon.”
He didn’t answer, and Charlie kept up the licking.
“I know you’re probably scared. Do you want to come with me so we can find your mom?” She reached out a hand, but he withdrew further into the hollow log.
“Okay. No problem. I’ll just call your mom and tell her to come here. How’s that?”
Simon did not reply, but he appeared to relax a little, a tiny smile emerging as Charlie snaked a tongue upward in search of the boy’s ear.
She dialed Jackson and had to hold the phone away from her ear as he whooped. Grinning, she described her location.
“I’ll be right there. Don’t any of you move a muscle.”
She settled down on the cleanest rock she could find and watched Simon and Charlie. Though Charlie was clearly interested in the flying insect that buzzed by his head, the dog did not leave his post beside Simon. Intractable all right, ill behaved, prone to destruction… and utterly wonderful.
“Charlie,” she breathed, “I take back every mean thing I said about you.” Charlie did not appear to hear, sitting patiently by Simon, listening to the small sounds the boy made that perhaps made sense to him in some strange way. Maybe dogs did not hear words anyway, she mused, just the feelings that fueled them.
In less than fifteen minutes, Jackson and a lady who had to be Simon’s mother galloped up on horseback. The woman was already crying before she leaped from her horse. When she ran to Simon, Charlie disengaged himself, content to snuffle the nearby detritus of the fallen tree.
Jackson dismounted from his horse and swept Marcy into a hug that lifted her feet off the ground. Then he kissed both of her cheeks before he planted a hard kiss on her mouth. “You are the greatest lady in the whole entire universe.”
She smiled, laughed, and blushed all at the same time as he lowered her back to earth. “Actually, the credit goes to Charlie. I would have walked the other direction.”
Jackson beamed at the dog. “Charlie, you’re a hero.”
Charlie sneezed, unconcerned with his elevated status.
“That dog is getting a T-bone steak,” Jackson said.
“He’d settle for an anchovy.”
“I’ll get him one of those too.”
He did not let her go, staring into her face in a way that awakened a cascade of emotions scattering through her body. Finally, he eased his embrace, and she found herself tucked in the hollow of his arm.
They watched Simon and his mother, and Jackson’s touch did not drift from Marcy’s shoulder. She snuggled there, marveling that nothing else seemed to matter at all at that moment, not novels or numbers or Agent Rhonda. The moment unspooled between them, binding them close until Simon’s mother finally coaxed him from his hidey hole.
Simon’s mother thanked Marcy and Charlie profusely, and then Jackson helped her and Simon onto one horse. He offered to give Marcy and Charlie a ride back to their cabin on the other.
“That’s okay,” Marcy said, her head still whirling from being so close to Jackson. “I’ve got to order my thoughts and get some work done.”
He looked disappointed. “I guess this did take a lot of time out of your day.”
“Well worth it,” Marcy said.
Jackson’s smile was the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen. It made her whole body prickle in happy goose bumps until good sense kicked in. Stop it, Marcy. You’ve got a job to do and don’t have time for the distraction of a real-life romance.
Jackson was still eyeing her as his horse shuffled impatiently. “You know, if things go better than expected, with your writing I mean, I’d sure love to see you at Family Fun Night. It’s going to be even more of a party since Simon is back safe and sound.”
“We’ll play it by ear,” she said.
“Okay.” He mounted the horse and tipped his hat before he rode away.
If there was anything more adorable than that, she didn’t know what it could be.
“All right, Charlie. Time to go find you an anchovy.”
Eight
When the late afternoon shadows crept toward evening, she caught the scent of hot dogs grilling over a campfire. Opening the front door, she stood on the steps, breathing in the fragrant fumes.
Family Fun Night must be in full swing. Her yearning to go and be a part of the laughter and joy nearly overwhelmed her, as did the desire to see Jackson again, to feel his closeness, to see his smile.
But the words remained unwritten, and her six a.m. showdown with Agent Rhonda was approaching at lightspeed.
Charlie bolted past her and raced away down the path. He stopped once, turned to face her, and let out a shrill yip. It was an invitation if she ever heard one.
Oh, why not? She would be burning the midnight oil anyway to meet Rhonda’s crack-of-dawn phone call. Maybe a little mixer would get the juices flowing. One last hot dog for the road?
She hastened to catch up with Charlie. He set a blistering pace, but she did her best, breathless by the time they crossed the glade and headed for the center of the camp.
Ground zero for Family Fun Night was a clearing ringed with old pine logs that served as seating with a crackling campfire in the middle. To the side were a half-dozen picnic tables where kids and parents were munching hot dogs, baked beans, and potato salad. Several of the children were in wheelchairs, and the chatter of conversation and laughter brought a smile to her face. Charlie hastened off to leap into the lap of the first child he came upon. The startled boy dissolved into gales of laughter until Charlie hopped off in search of his next victim.
The boy she recognized as Simon perked up when he saw Charlie approach, hands flapping in excitement. Charlie accepted the boy’s awkward pats and took it in good stride when the boy’s mom moved the hot dog out of reach of the doggie snout. She broke off a piece of her own hot dog and offered it to Charlie, who needed no second invitation. Marcy did not hear the words she murmured to the dog, but the look on her face said it all. Marcy felt the prick of tears.
She caught sight of Jackson at the far end of the picnic tables, making his way along to greet each camper, a bottle of ketchup in his hand. Her heart skipped a beat seeing him take a knee to exchange a joke with a girl as he flourished the ketchup bottle over her hot dog with flamboyant style. He was relaxed, eyes crinkled with laughter, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a smear of grease—probably from his barbecue duties—on the knee of his jeans.
He looked up and noticed her, eyes widening, his smile growing larger, and then his expression colored by a flash of uncertainty. His shyness was absolutely heart melting. She wiggled her fingers in a greeting and busied herself grabbing a hot dog from the buffet table. Slathering it with plenty of mustard, ketchup, and relish, she’d stuffed in a bite when Jackson found her.
“Hey. I’m glad you’re here.”
Glad? She was happy to know he felt the same way she di
d.
“I thought you’d be too busy writing to come. How’s the book?”
She waved an airy hand as she chewed and swallowed. “Slow progress. This looks like a ton of fun.”
“Just finishing up dinner and then…” He looked suddenly uneasy. “Well, then we’ll have some entertainment before it’s time for s’mores.”
Odd. What was he worried about? An older lady in a green T-shirt shirt with Quarter Moon Camp lettered on the front hurried up. “Big problem, Jackson.” She held up two bags of marshmallows. “Jake sent over mini marshmallows. I didn’t think to check. There’s no time to get the big ones.”
Jackson groaned. “No way, Nancy. The kids were promised s’mores. I don’t want to disappoint them.”
They talked it over, Jackson’s face growing more and more desperate.
Marcy found herself speaking up. “I have an idea. Do you have any cast-iron pans?”
“Yes,” Nancy said. “In the kitchen, but I don’t see how…”
“Trust me,” Marcy said. “The kids will have s’mores if you can point me to the kitchen.”
Jackson’s hopeful expression warmed something inside Marcy. “You’re awful nice to step in.”
“I’m happy to help the kids.” And you.
“I sure do appreciate that,” he said, his fingers caressing her shoulder before she turned to follow Nancy. He leaned close, as if he were going to kiss her.
Her heart rammed against her ribs.
His mouth danced closer, his hands warm on her back.
He pressed his cheek to hers and talked low into her ear. “You’d be my hero if you could deliver s’mores to these kids.”
Be somebody’s hero? Plain old Marcy Deveraux? Why did that thrill her more than her spot on the New York Times bestseller list? The thought was as enticing as the scent of roasting hot dogs and the lazy crackle of the fire.
With an effort, she pulled herself away from him. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, her voice only a tiny bit unsteady.
Fifteen minutes later, she and Nancy brought out the heavy cast-iron pans filled to the brim with chocolate and mini marshmallows and set them on a sturdy rack over the glowing embers of the campfire. A familiar tune drifted through the air. With a start she recognized it as “The Happy Feet Hoedown” from Cowboy Cliff. Many a time she’d sung it with her niece and nephew. Her mouth dropped open as she realized she was not listening to a recording of the music, but a live presentation.
Jackson Parker was Cowboy Cliff, playing and singing to the delight of the children. She stood at the edge of the crowd, listening in absolute wonder as he joked, bantered, and strummed his way into the hearts of his young charges. “Jackson, I can’t believe you’re Cowboy Cliff,” she murmured. A flash of discomfort rippled through her.
Jackson had kept the truth from her, and wasn’t that the same thing as lying? No, she thought as things suddenly became clear. He hadn’t wanted to tell her he did something so sweet and simple as writing songs for kids because… because he’d thought she would not respect him for it. Respect you? Her heart filled in the rest. I adore you.
He wasn’t a Navy Seal or an FBI profiler or a prince, but to these kids and to her own niece and nephew, Jackson was a hero, to be sure. She blinked against the tears that gathered in her eyes. Wow, God, she thought. Thank You for reminding me what a real hero looks like.
When Jackson finished his last song, Marcy was busy fussing over the cast-iron skillets, making sure they’d had enough time to cool down to prevent any of the children from getting burned. She was still brimming over with emotions that she feared would come bubbling out of her mouth when she talked to Cowboy Cliff Jackson. Nancy helped her arrange the pans along the length of the picnic tables beside bowls of graham cracker pieces.
The hungry singers arrived and dove in, dipping their crackers into the chocolate, which had melted to perfect s’more consistency, complete with nicely golden mini marshmallows atop the goo. Giggles, sticky fingers, happy smiles. Her heart was so full, she felt as though she would burst. It was what she was made to do—to feed people—and this simple concoction was her most successful recipe ever.
The epiphany came in a sizzle of light, rippling across her mind and heart. Jackson was 100 percent right. She didn’t want to be a romance writer, no matter what her mother or Rhonda thought.
She’d told her story, and now she was done. God was giving her another story to live out, and she was not going to deny Him or herself any longer. Charlie trotted over, a blob of marshmallow clinging to his whiskers. The canine rogue might be a photo in the recipe book she intended to write, a reminder of an incredible time at Quarter Moon. She allowed herself to consider how it would feel to leave the ranch, to leave Jackson.
But then another plan stole across her thoughts, bringing a smile to her face. She hastened to find Nancy, and when their conversation was done, Jackson strode over.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, yourself. That was some concert, Cowboy Cliff.”
“Oh. Uh, thanks.”
“Is Cliff your stage name?”
“Naw. My middle name, but it sounds better after cowboy.”
Before she could process the thought, Jackson drew her aside from the munching throng. On the way she caught sight of Charlie, snuffling for dropped crumbs. “Don’t get stepped on, Charlie.”
“He’s growing on you, huh?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Any progress finding his owners?”
“No, he sort of materialized here. Could be he wandered away from his camper family. I’ll hang onto him until we solve the mystery.”
“If you can,” she said as Charlie yipped and tore after a moth.
Jackson chuckled. “He’s a rambling rogue for sure. Wouldn’t surprise me if he wanders the countryside, inviting himself into families. He’s endeared himself to one couple in particular here in camp. The woman loves candy, and I think maybe she shares with him.”
“Doesn’t like to be owned, I think.”
The silence lingered between them. She raised an eyebrow. “So how come you didn’t tell me you were Cowboy Cliff?”
If it hadn’t been so dark, she knew she would have witnessed him blushing madly. He looked at his boots, and it warmed her on the inside. Her bashful cowboy. She was surprised at her own thoughts.
“Well, uh, you seemed to have this idea of what a manly sort of guy was like and, um, I didn’t think a kids’ songwriter would be at the top of that list.”
She laughed. “I think I’ve learned a thing or two about real heroes in my time here.”
“Yeah? So what does a real hero look like then?”
She drew close and wrapped her hands around his neck, tentatively at first, encouraged when he slipped his arms around her waist. The darkness made his eyes shine silver, but the softness of his expression was unmistakable as he looked down at her. “I think a hero is a guy who thrills children and helps homeless dogs and burgles people’s cabins when necessary.”
A jubilant smile lit his face. “Really? I would have thought a hero looked more like a gal who found a lost boy, made s’more magic out of mini marshmallows, and saved Family Fun Night.” He kissed her and she kissed him back, all uncertainty slipping away. Trickles of happiness coursed through her body like the wind through the pines.
“Quarter Moon S’mores is going to be the first recipe in my cookbook. I’m going to work on a version you can make indoors so people can enjoy it year-round.”
“Cookbook? What about the romance novels?”
“I’ve decided I’m going to tell Agent Rhonda that I’m not cut out for life as a romance novelist. I’m going back to San Francisco to break the news to my family too.”
His happy grin dimmed. “Oh. I guess I hoped you were going to stay around here.”
She thrilled at the words. He wanted her to stay. “I need to get some things squared away in San Francisco before I start my new job.”
“New job? Where?”
<
br /> “Here. Nancy said you need a camp cook, and what better way to field test some of my recipes? Then I think I’m going to see about renting the cabin on an ongoing basis.”
“Seriously?” His eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline.
“Seriously. So what do you think of that, Cowboy Cliff?”
He twirled her in a circle. “I think that’s a fine idea.”
“The lease is just for the summer, you know, in case I don’t pass muster as a camp cook, or I get tired of this place.”
His tone was teasing. “Oh, you’ll want to renew that lease.”
“So confident, are you?”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. You’ll be in love with Quarter Moon by the end of August.”
And in love with him too? She was already well along the trail to that happy outcome. “Well, the prince managed to capture the love of a pirate queen, defeat two assassins, and rescue his missing brother in two hundred pages, so anything is possible.”
“Best not to waste time then.” Jackson took off his hat and bowed. “Ms. Deveraux, will you do me the honor of joining me on a first date around the campfire with all my friends?”
She laughed, her soul light and fluttery as the mountain breeze. “I will indeed, Cowboy Cliff, but only if you promise to serenade me with one of your songs.”
“I know just the one,” he said, taking her arm.
Charlie raced in front of them, a gooey, smeared graham cracker clamped in his teeth.
“Hard to believe it was that rascal who brought us together,” Marcy said.
Jackson chuckled. “I never thought I’d be introduced to an amazing lady by a dog matchmaker, that’s for sure. I guess maybe God really did use this crazy mutt to change my life.”
She leaned into the circle of his arm, watching the sparks from the fire take flight into the night sky. The moment would be forever etched into her mind and heart.
“I feel a new song coming on,” Jackson said. “I’m going to call it ‘Matchmakin’ Charlie.’ What do you think of that, dog?”
Charlie turned once, wriggled his tail, and took off in search of his next adventure.
