Stuck With You

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Not wanting to be charmed, she was anyway. She took off her glasses and cleaned them again. “The bull rider.”

  “When I’m lucky, I ride ‘em. Other times I just fall off and make a fool of myself.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “Unfortunately, Nora’s not here.”

  “I figured that one out all by myself. It was that word house sitter that gave it away. By the way, who are you?”

  “Charity Webster. I own a bookstore in town and I’m a friend of Nora’s.”

  “That figures. My aunt loves books.”

  “She meant to be back today. Did she know you were coming?”

  He nodded. “She found out I’d be in the area this week for a rodeo at the Garden. She invited me for Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, dear.” Charity frowned. “Well, I’m sure she’ll hurry back as soon as she can. She called me at work this afternoon to say the Bangor airport is paralyzed with this storm and she wondered if I could keep feeding MacDougal for her. In all the confusion she must have forgotten you were due to arrive.”

  He shrugged. “No big deal, Charity. I can fend for myself.”

  Sympathy tugged at her. He’d come here planning to be with family for Thanksgiving, and he might end up spending the day alone. Of course, so would she, but she’d already accepted the idea, and it was for a good cause. She needed to keep the store open on Friday, so driving to Boston to see her mother wasn’t practical.

  “I take it you tossed the keys through the flap when you left this morning,” he said.

  “Right.”

  “That’s good to know. I’d hate to think you’d been crawling in and out of the doggy door all week.”

  Her sympathy dimmed and she gave him a withering look. “Nora did mention that you could be a smart aleck.”

  He feigned dismay. “My devoted auntie said such a thing about her favorite nephew?”

  “Her only nephew, if I remember correctly.”

  “And cherished all the more because of it,” he said. “Listen, the snow’s getting heavier. We’d probably better find a way to fix that door.”

  “You’re right.” Charity glanced at the gaping hole in despair. Snow was already swirling through it. “But I have no idea how. We certainly couldn’t get a new door at this late date.” She polished her glasses again and glanced at her watch. “The hardware store closes in ten minutes.”

  “Are the keys to Nora’s Mercedes on that ring you worked so hard to get?”

  She glanced at the ring in her hand. “Yes, but—”

  “Why don’t you unlock the door, then give them to me? I’ll make a run to the hardware store.”

  She hesitated.

  “Unless you want to just give me the keys and crawl through the hole in the door. You should fit now.”

  She let out a sigh of exasperation. Nora had urged her to use the car, but her bookstore wasn’t far away and she’d chosen to walk instead of taking the expensive car out of the garage. “It’s just that I feel responsible for everything around here. I’d hate to have anything happen to the Mercedes.”

  “Are you implying I can’t drive it?”

  “No. I just—”

  “Because you can drive there, if you want. We can’t both go, with this hole in the door. We’re down to seven minutes, now.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to buy. I’m no carpenter.” She gazed at him. “Will you promise to be careful?”

  “I’m always careful. Six-and-a-half minutes and counting.”

  “I guess there’s not much choice.” Charity walked over and unlocked the door before handing him the key ring.

  He moved quickly toward the side door of the garage, which he unlocked in no time. Then he turned. “Would you bring my duffel bag in from the front porch? I left it there when I heard you calling.”

  “Sure.”

  “By the way, how do I get to the hardware store?”

  She’d assumed he knew his way around, but apparently he didn’t. Her misgivings grew, but she still couldn’t see any alternative, so she gave him directions. As he disappeared into the garage, Charity thought of something else. Wyatt was from southern Arizona, where it hardly ever snowed. She hurried over to the door and peered in just as he pushed the automatic garage door opener and hopped into the car.

  “Wait! Have you ever driven in these conditions?” she called into the gloom.

  He started the engine and buzzed the automatic window down before answering. “Compared to riding a bull, how hard can it be?” With a cocky smile of farewell, he backed out of the garage much too fast. The car’s back end fishtailed, barely missing Nora’s mailbox as Wyatt swerved the car into the street.

  Charity closed her eyes and leaned her head against the doorjamb. “My life is over,” she muttered.

  “Well, now, this is a bit of a sticky wicket,” commented a man from somewhere behind her.

  Charity’s shoulders sagged. The last person she wanted to deal with at the moment was Nora’s prissy neighbor, Alistair Updegraff. In addition to being Nora’s only neighbor on the rural side street, he was Charity’s best customer at the bookstore. A retired schoolteacher who had been widowed five years ago, he gobbled up mysteries at the rate of several a week, and he wasn’t averse to buying hardbound copies, either. Without him, her slim profit margin would be in trouble.

  So she took a deep breath and turned with the most pleasant expression she could muster. “Hello, Mr. Updegraff. Yes, I’m afraid we’ve had a little problem here this afternoon.”

  “Nora’s not going to be happy about that door.” Built round and low to the ground, Alistair reminded Charity of a peg person from a Fisher-Price playset. A peg person with no fashion sense. This afternoon he was decked out in a red buffalo-plaid jacket, yellow earmuffs and a purple knit cap with a Day-Glo-orange pom-pom on top.

  “I’m not happy about it, either, Mr. Updegraff.” Charity started to edge away. “In fact, I need to go inside and find something to put over the hole before more snow blows in.”

  “How’d it happen?” Alistair sidled in the same direction.

  “I got stuck in the doggy door.” She backed toward the house. “Long story.”

  “I saw somebody drive away in Nora’s Mercedes. Didn’t look like Nora.”

  “No, it was her nephew from Arizona, gone to get materials to put a temporary patch on the door. He’ll take over the house-sitting now, I imagine.”

  “Take over?” Alistair followed her toward the doorway, his orange pom-pom bobbing. “But Nora’s due back today. In fact, she should be here by now.”

  “True.” Charity was amazed at how closely Alistair kept track of Nora’s schedule. He really had a bad case for her. She reached behind her for the doorknob. “But the storm has stranded her in Maine for the time being.”

  “Really? That’s unfortunate. And her nephew is here to visit?”

  “Yes.” Charity mentally turned Alistair over to Wyatt. The nosy neighbor came with the house. Wyatt would find that out, just as she had. She’d warn Wyatt to be polite. Nora believed that a woman living alone couldn’t afford to antagonize her only neighbor, no matter how irritating he might be. “Now I must go in and find something for this door. Come, MacDougal.”

  “I might have something. In fact, I’m sure that I—”

  “Thank you, but I know just the thing,” Charity said as she opened the door. She had no idea what she’d use to block the hole until Wyatt returned, but if she let Alistair get into the act, he’d be entrenched for the evening. “See you later, Mr. Updegraff. Stay warm, now.” She slipped inside with MacDougal, grabbed the dog’s collar so he wouldn’t run all over the house in his muddy condition, and shut the door firmly.

  Alistair leaned down and peered through the hole. “I’ll come over later and see how you made out,” he promised.

  “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.” Solid doors were designed to protect against people like Alistair, she decided. “Everything will be fine.” Scooping MacDougal
into her arms, she headed for the laundry room.

  When she’d cleaned most of the mud off MacDougal and herself with an old towel, she moved cautiously back into the kitchen and peered out the window. No sign of Alistair, but a puddle of melted snow lay on the pine floor in front of the hole in the door. “Maybe he crawled in and melted, just like the Wicked Witch of the West,” she said to MacDougal.

  The Scottie woofed a response.

  “Yeah, well, that wouldn’t be so good for business, I guess.” She rummaged in a kitchen cabinet and came up with heavy-duty aluminum foil designed for barbecuing and a roll of masking tape. In a few minutes she’d covered the hole well enough to stop the snow. After wiping up the water, she went through the house turning on lights against the encroaching darkness.

  In the process she noticed the message light blinking on Nora’s answering machine. She’d been instructed to take messages off the machine and answer any critical ones, so she pushed the Play button.

  Nora’s voice came on. Charity noticed there was the same vibrant note of excitement in her tone this time as there had been when she’d called earlier in the afternoon, almost as if she were holding fast to a wonderful secret.

  “Hi, Charity. If you’re listening to this then you’ve successfully retrieved the key and are back in the house. I just remembered that my nephew and godson, Wyatt, is due to arrive anytime. He’s expecting Auntie Nora to cook him Thanksgiving dinner, poor boy. I feel just awful about inviting him to an empty house and a cold stove. I realize this is a dreadful imposition, but it would mean the world to me if you’d stay on in the house and cook him that dinner. I know the turkey’s thawing in the refrigerator because I asked you to put it there. Don’t bother to go back home for your things. We wear the same size, so feel free to borrow anything in the closet.”

  Charity stared at the machine. Stay and play hostess for this cheeky bull rider? Not likely!

  “Besides giving Wyatt a little company,” the message continued, “you might also protect my antiques from annihilation. Wyatt’s a dear boy but he comes from the wild and woolly West and tends to be a bit reckless.”

  The noose of obligation tightened around Charity. She grimaced as she glanced back at the kitchen door and thought about Wyatt driving around in Nora’s classic Mercedes. The warning might have come just a tad too late, Nora, she thought.

  “Wyatt, if you’re listening, too,” Nora continued, “this isn’t anything I haven’t said to your face. So convince Charity to stay and cook that dinner for both of you, and have a good time without me. There’s a sensational merlot in the wine rack. Just make sure Mac doesn’t get any. I’ll be home as soon as I can. ‘Bye.”

  Charity swore quietly to herself as she rewound the tape. After all Nora had done for her, she would be an ungrateful wretch to deny the first real favor Nora asked. House-sitting didn’t count. She’d loved staying here. A favor was something you didn’t want to do, like staying on and cooking Thanksgiving dinner for Wyatt Logan, bull rider. But if that was what Nora wanted, that’s what Charity would do.

  2

  ON THE RETURN TRIP to Nora’s house, snow flying at him through the beam of the car’s headlights, Wyatt had more respect for the slippery streets and the officers of the law patrolling them. Somehow he’d talked the cop out of giving him a ticket on his way to the hardware store, but then the store had been locked up tight. Fortunately the owner hadn’t left yet and Wyatt had roused him from the back with some hefty knocking. This visit to Saybrook wasn’t turning out to be the sort of holiday he’d envisioned.

  But it had been a hell of a lot of fun so far.

  Wyatt chuckled every time he thought about Charity’s fanny sticking out of the doggy door. The picture had become even funnier when he’d gotten a look at the front half of her and realized from the prim topknot of blond hair, the oversize glasses and tiny gold earrings, that she was not the sort who usually landed herself in such a fix.

  Then MacDougal had put the final touch on the scene with a generous spray of mud. Wyatt had tried to control himself in consideration of Charity’s feelings. He could tell that she didn’t think any of it was particularly funny, but it had been very tough not to laugh.

  To think he’d been worried that he might be bored spending the holiday with Aunt Nora. Of course, once Charity left, things could get a bit dull. Not that she was his type. He stayed away from intellectual women, and if she owned a bookstore, she probably qualified. But intellectual or not, when he’d held her close to pull her from the door, she’d felt very…nice.

  If he was brutally honest with himself, he’d squeezed the part Charity had presented to him and fantasized about the rest of her—waves of lustrous hair curling around her shoulders, bedroom eyes, pouting lips and generous breasts. His type. So much for fantasy.

  He pulled into the driveway and activated the garage door opener he’d found in the glove compartment. He then unloaded the piece of plywood, taking it through the side door into the backyard and propping it against the house. His presence caused MacDougal to start yipping, and Charity peeked out the kitchen window. He raised a hand in greeting and she waved back, a smile of welcome on her face.

  Or, more likely, it was a smile of relief, he thought. She’d been sure he’d wrap the Mercedes around a telephone pole. He wouldn’t tell her how close he’d come to doing just that. He noticed that she’d used aluminum foil as a temporary repair for the door and gave her points for ingenuity.

  Lights were on and the house beckoned as a warm haven from the snowy night. At times like these Wyatt understood why men gave up the single life in favor of a cozy home and a steadfast woman. But those comforts came with a price. As it was, Wyatt didn’t have to consider how his risky profession would affect someone else, and that was the way he liked it.

  He found the tools he’d need in the garage—a hand saw, a screwdriver and a cordless drill. Taking them, along with the bag of nuts and screws he’d bought, he headed for the back door of the house.

  Charity opened it for him. MacDougal sat beside her like a good little soldier. He’d obviously been commanded to sit, but his rear end wiggled in greeting.

  “So you made it,” she said.

  “Never had any doubt.”

  “The car’s okay?”

  “Perfect.” He started to put the tools on a small table by the back door.

  “Not there!” Charity rushed forward, and MacDougal grabbed the chance to break his sit and run forward, too. “That’s a Hepplewhite.”

  He paused, frowning. “Which means?”

  “An antique. It’s priceless.”

  He snorted. “Then God knows why she set it by the back door where people are bound to put stuff. Do you understand that, MacDougal?”

  The little dog woofed once.

  “I didn’t think so.” Wyatt started to deposit the tools and the bag of screws on the floor, then paused. “Is this okay, or is the floor a Frank Lloyd Wright or something?”

  “You do have a smart mouth. Of course the floor’s okay. We walk on it.”

  “That’s a relief.” After he laid down his supplies MacDougal hurried over to sniff everything. Wyatt gave him a pat before straightening and glancing at Charity.

  She’d taken off the ski jacket that had been responsible for the whole episode and washed her face and glasses free of mud. He took in the high-collared white blouse, buttoned to her throat, the repinned topknot and the round-framed glasses. Behind them her eyes were an intelligent blue that seemed to be assessing him, as well. Her cheeks looked pink and soft as a baby’s receiving blanket and her skin had the sort of flawless perfection that required no makeup. She wore no lipstick, which left her mouth a vulnerable shade of pale rose.

  He had the inane thought that a woman who didn’t wear lipstick would always be ready to be kissed. The thought was inane because everything about Charity Webster was the opposite of his usual choice in female companionship. Besides, it was past time for her to leave and get on with her
own activities. For all he knew she had a date for tonight and he was holding her up.

  “I can take it from here,” he said. “I’m sure you have things to do. And don’t worry about the door. When Aunt Nora gets back, I’ll explain that it was all my fault that it got so torn up.” He started unbuttoning his suede jacket.

  “Um, there was a message from Nora on the machine.”

  He looked up and noticed the pink in her cheeks had deepened. “What did she have to say?” he prompted when she seemed hesitant to continue.

  “She, um, would like me to stay on until she gets back.”

  He rested his fingers against a leather-covered button as he gazed at her. “Stay on? Why?”

  “She feels terrible about leaving you on your own for Thanksgiving, after inviting you up here. There’s a turkey thawing in the refrigerator, and she asked if I’d—”

  “Hey.” He kept his voice gentle, still not sure what he was dealing with. “I’m sure you have plans for Thanksgiving, and I’m a big boy. I’m really surprised that my aunt would impose on you that way. It isn’t like her to put people out.”

  Charity immediately leapt to Nora’s defense. “She already knows I was staying in Saybrook for Thanksgiving, because I have to open the bookstore on Friday, and my mother lives clear up in Boston. It’s not worth braving the holiday crowds to go up. She probably thought she was doing us both a favor.”

  That was exactly what he’d been afraid of from the moment Charity started this conversation. The next question was difficult, but he needed the answer. “Do you, uh, that is, are you involved with someone?”

  Her cheeks flamed. “What in hell does that have to do with the price of beans?” She waved aside his attempt to answer. “Never mind. I can figure it out. You have some ego, Mr. Logan, if you think that I’d take one look at you and fall in with some matchmaking scheme cooked up by Nora.”

  “You don’t understand.” He hadn’t figured she’d be so quick on the uptake. “Lately my parents and Nora have been—”

  “I don’t care if they’ve been parading eligible females in front of you at the rate of one a week! I’m not now, nor will I ever be, in the market for a husband!”