by Arlene James
“What?” She felt insulted. “Zoey has school, her play group, gymnastics and play dates when I can arrange them...”
“Whoa.” Brett tilted up her chin so he could peer into her eyes. “No condemnation here. Everyone in Snowflake knows how devoted you are, Doc.”
But as they watched Zoey, Elizabeth realized her daughter didn’t engage with any of the other kids. How could a puppy help that?
How did Rex help you? She didn’t want to think about Rex.
“I was told you wanted to be a veterinarian. What happened to your dream?”
“I’m working on it.” Brett changed the subject. “You said you couldn’t lead the kids’ choir. Why?”
“Again with that choir. Why is it so important to everyone—to you?” Exasperated, Elizabeth glared at him.
“Even I was a kid once, Doc.” His wry grin caused a flutter to her breathing.
“Meaning?” Brett’s reticent expression reminded Elizabeth of patients who didn’t want to reveal something.
“My mom left us when I was young,” he said. “I don’t remember that, but I remember other things about Christmas. That’s when I most noticed how different I was. Other kids made Christmas cookies with their mothers. They bought them special clothes for Christmas, made them special gifts. Dad was a great parent but it wasn’t quite the same.”
“The choir?” she prompted.
“Was the only place I ever felt like every other kid in town.” Brett’s voice dropped. “I fit in there because we were all the same, just kids singing about Christmas joy. The Christmas Eve kids’ choir brings out joy in everyone.”
A wistful expression flickered across his face when a pair of little kids raced around the walking snowflake.
“Our choir director, Mrs. Mac, was fierce about our presentation. It had to be as perfect as we could make it.” Brett chuckled at the memory. “She made us feel it was our duty to pour our hearts and souls into the music.”
“She sounds like one tough lady.” Mesmerized by his animation, Elizabeth waited.
“Absolutely,” Brett said softly. “I loved that cranky old woman, never more so than the year she gave me a solo part. It taught me I mattered.”
“That’s what you want for Snowflake’s kids,” Elizabeth guessed.
“I want them to feel proud when the whole town shows up on Christmas Eve just to hear them, to experience the excitement of standing, buttons about to burst, shivering with the anticipation of Christmas Eve, to have that sense of wonder, hope and delight that makes Christmas like nothing else—I want to feel it again.”
“Mrs. Mac gave you a great legacy.” Elizabeth blinked her misty eyes.
“She taught me Christmas is about giving joy to others.” His gaze held hers. “But it’s more. Our Christmas Eve service bonds Snowflakers. It’s the final event in a monthlong celebration that draws us to God, the giver of The Gift.”
“You’re so passionate about the choir.” Trying not to sound flippant, she added, “Maybe you should direct it.”
“I don’t read music. I build sets. But you—” Brett’s dark eyes narrowed. “I overheard you singing harmony to that new congregational chorus we tried last Sunday, Doc. I could tell right away that you know music. Zoey’s right, you do sing good.”
“Thanks, but—”
“We need the choir. We’re a small town. We’re losing people right and left. Our Christmas traditions were originally intended to draw in tourists looking for a way to celebrate. The choir is for Snowflake. That we do for us.”
“That’s why you build the sets,” she mused beginning to understand.
“That’s why Mabel is eagerly waiting for you to tell her to create some costumes.” He grinned at her surprised expression. “That’s why Harry Pinder keeps his lambs groomed—in case you want them for the manger scene. And that’s why Pastor Bill keeps polishing his Christmas Eve sermon. Because Snowflake’s Christmas kids’ choir is the one thing hard times, families moving and losing loved ones can’t change.”
“I understand, Brett.” Though his words added guilt, they couldn’t cancel out James’s condemnation. “But I can’t.”
“You’ve had musical training?” he asked.
“I completed my degree in music,” she admitted. “But...I’m not your director.” The glint in his eye made her nervous.
“Can’t you become one?”
“No.” The familiar feelings of self-doubt overwhelmed Elizabeth. “I tried once. It went horribly wrong. I...uh, flop under pressure.”
“I don’t believe that.” He studied her, eyes narrowing. “Someone else said that. Someone who put you down, made you feel valueless.” Brett’s lips tightened when she nodded. “He was wrong, Doc.”
“How do you know?” she whispered.
“I see commitment in the love you shower on Zoey, feel it when you sing in church on Sunday morning.” He smiled gently. “You have a lot to give. Don’t be afraid because of him.”
Elizabeth couldn’t break the intensity of Brett’s stare. Truthfully? She didn’t want to. His words, the way he said them, almost made her reconsider. Maybe...
His phone rang.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” Brett listened for a moment then frowned. “A heart attack? I’ll call the ambulance and head home.”
“Your father’s having a heart attack?” Elizabeth slid into medical mode. “I’ll go with you. Zoey, come quick. We have to leave.”
Without argument the little girl left the bouncy house and slipped on her shoes while Brett called the ambulance.
“Somebody’s having a baby?” she guessed.
“Not quite.” Elizabeth smiled at her. “Brett’s father is sick. We’re going to see him.”
“I’m ready.” Zoey nodded.
“Let’s go.” Elizabeth frowned when Brett seemed to move too slowly. “Well?”
“Uh, you should know—”
“We’ll discuss it on the way.” She slid her hand into his arm. “Fast walk to the truck then a quick stop at my place to get my medical bag.”
He nodded. It took only a few moments to retrieve her bag before they left town.
“Is this his first heart attack?”
“It probably isn’t a heart attack,” he confessed.
“What then?” Elizabeth frowned when he hesitated. “I’ll need information to help him.”
“It’s likely a panic attack. Dad gets them a lot since his stroke several years ago.” Brett’s embarrassment touched her. “Being alone too long upsets him. I should have gone straight home.”
“You’re saying he’s faking a heart attack?” She wrinkled her nose. “People usually don’t fake heart attacks.”
“He’s not faking. When he can’t catch his breath...” Brett’s confusion touched her.
“I’ll check him out when we get there,” Elizabeth assured him. “How long till the ambulance arrives?”
“Twenty-minute wait.”
“Good thing I’m going, then.” At least James had never criticized her medical ability.
“Thanks, Doc.” But something in Brett’s tone said he was troubled about her visit to the ranch.
Elizabeth asked several more pertinent questions, mentally preparing her treatment plan as they drove over stubble-covered hills with stands of green pines clustered here and there, boughs sagging as they caught gently drifting snowflakes.
Funny how eagerly she anticipated visiting Brett’s ranch.
Chapter Three
“It’s lovely.” Elizabeth’s rapt face reassured Brett as he drove toward the log house that had been home for as long as he could remember.
“Like a snow globe, right, Mommy?” Zoey said.
“Exactly.” Doc grasped her medical bag in one hand, her other on the
door lever signaling her impatience as he navigated the circular driveway. The moment he braked she was out of the truck and racing toward the house, unimpeded by her high heels.
“Wait!” Knowing he’d need to prepare his father, Brett hurriedly lifted Zoey out and ushered her toward the door. Clint Carlisle wasn’t one to filter his irritation.
Inside, Elizabeth had already knelt in front of his dad. One hand rested on his wrist, her stethoscope dangling around her neck. Her coat lay in a careless puddle on the floor. Brett picked it up, stroking one hand down the fabric while she took command.
“Pulse is good. Heart beat steady. Breathe in,” she commanded, slipping the stethoscope into her ears. When her patient didn’t immediately obey, she repeated more firmly, “Breathe in.”
Realizing he was still holding her coat, Brett glanced at the label before hanging it on a hook near the door. Yep, cashmere. Well, Doc was a cashmere kind of lady, something entirely foreign to him and the Double C.
“Dad, this is Dr. Elizabeth Kendall and her daughter, Zoey. Doc heard me on the phone with you and thought she could help.”
“Shh. Mommy needs to listen.” Zoey held a finger to her lips as Clint opened his lips to protest.
Silence reigned for about fifty seconds before Clint exploded.
“I have my own doctor, missy. I’ll call him if I need a checkup.” He tugged his shirt closed, roughly dislodging Elizabeth’s hand. She appeared unfazed. “What kind of doctor butts in on a guy when he’s sleeping?”
“One who’s concerned for the health of a man who said he was having a heart attack, though I do prefer treating kids.” She calmly tucked her tools into her bag and rose.
Clint glared at her, dark eyes glowering before turning on Brett, his face furious.
“You brought me a baby doctor?” he exploded.
Brett exhaled. It’s downhill from here, Lord.
Except that Zoey intervened. Her coat, like her mother’s, sank to the floor as she marched across the room in red-and-green-striped socks. Hands on her hips she glared at Clint.
“My mommy is a very good doctor. She always helps sick people, even cranky ones like you.” Her green eyes shot sparks. “You should say thank-you instead of yelling at her. We were at The Roaster an’ we danced an’ I was playin’ in the bouncy castle an’ havin’ fun till we had to leave to come an’ help you.”
“I don’t need help—The Roaster, huh?” Clint’s eyes widened as a curious smile filled his face. “My son danced?” He smirked as Zoey nodded. “Well, well.”
Brett almost groaned aloud at the innuendo.
“Did you taste the fudge, little girl?”
“I’m Zoey Kendall, an’ the fudge was really good.” Curly head tipped to one side she asked in a pity-filled voice, “Couldn’t you come ’cause you’re sick? Or ’cause you’re too old?”
“I am not sick or too old!” Clint’s glare returned. “I didn’t want to be around all those people. They get silly about Christmas.”
“Christmas is Baby Jesus’s birthday. That makes people happy not silly.” Zoey flopped onto the sofa beside him. “Is your ’tack gone?”
“My what?” His father raised an eyebrow and looked to Brett, who glanced at the doctor.
“Attack,” Elizabeth supplied. “As in heart attack. How are you feeling now, Mr. Carlisle?”
“As good as I did when I got up this morning.” Clint sniffed in disgust. “Doctors.”
Brett wished he could melt like a snowman.
“Make coffee, son,” his father ordered. “I need it.”
“Tea would be better,” Doc said. “Herbal, without caffeine.”
Brett admired Elizabeth’s pluck in returning his father’s glare. The lady brimmed with internal strength, yet she thought she was a flop?
“No stimulants until we make sure you’re okay,” she ordered.
“I’m fine,” his father snarled.
“You told Brett you were having a heart attack.” Unfazed, she held his gaze. “The ambulance will have a monitor to check your heart rate more thoroughly.”
“I told you not to call the ambulance,” Clint roared at Brett.
“Calm down.” Elizabeth’s command silenced Clint mid-rant.
No weak, ineffectual woman could shut down his father with two words. Brett smiled as he put the kettle on to boil. Doc was going to do the choir. She wouldn’t be able to help herself. Zoey tugged on his shirtsleeve.
“Don’t the puppies need to eat?” She sounded worried.
“Yes, they do. Thank you for reminding me. I’ll go get them.” He hurried to his truck, retrieved the box of now-protesting dogs and returned to place them in a little pen he’d built in the corner. “Want to help me get their lunch?”
“Yes.” Zoey followed his directions exactly then set the dishes in the pen. “Look at Mrs. Beasley eat.”
“Who?” Clint demanded.
“Mrs. Beasley. She’s going to be my Christmas gift.” Ignoring her mother’s muffled “No!” Zoey sat beside Clint. “Where’s your Christmas tree?”
“Don’t have one, don’t want one,” Clint snapped.
Elizabeth’s gaze locked with Brett’s, smiling at Zoey’s disbelief. At least Doc wasn’t worried about his cranky father’s effect on her kid.
“Mister, you gotta have a Christmas tree!” Zoey peered upward. “An’ a big one ’cause this house is high.”
“Christmas trees make a mess,” Clint said as if that was the end of it.
“Everything does.” Zoey shrugged. “But messes don’t matter at Christmas. When do we get our Christmas tree, Mommy?”
“Maybe next week,” Doc answered.
“We’re havin’ a real Christmas tree this year,” Zoey told Clint, eyes sparkling. “Mommy promised.”
“If we can find one,” Elizabeth added.
“A good doctor might have noticed Snowflake is chock-full of trees,” Clint sniped.
“So’s the Double C. Acres of ’em.” Brett ignored his dad’s huff. “We could get one for you at the same time as we get ours, Doc. If there’s enough snow maybe we’d take the sleigh. Dad made it. It’s fun to ride in with the horses pulling.”
“Horses?” Zoey’s eyes widened. “Can we, Mommy?” she begged.
“That’s very kind, Brett. We’ll have to see.”
Zoey sighed before returning to the dog pen. Elizabeth’s troubled gaze followed. Then Doc was the one sighing as her daughter lifted her puppy and carried it to the sofa, where she flopped down next to Clint.
“Do you want to hold Mrs. Beasley?” Zoey asked.
“No.” But Clint’s gruff tone softened as Zoey lifted the puppy against her cheek. “Why do you call her that?”
“’Cause that’s her name.” Zoey snuggled the dog in her lap. “Mommy’s dog was Rex. Do you have a dog?”
“Had one when I was your age.” Clint smiled at some distant memory. The kettle whistled, so Brett made peppermint tea while his father reminisced. “Scout went everywhere with me. Even to school.”
“Teachers ’lowed a dog at school?” Her green eyes expanded. “Maybe—”
“I don’t think they allow that anymore,” Brett intervened, catching Elizabeth’s look of dismay.
“Where’s your dog now?” Zoey asked.
“Don’t have one.” Clint’s voice hardened. “Not anymore.”
“Why not? You gots lots of puppies. Least you did before they got buyed.” She frowned at Mrs. Beasley. “She’s mine but maybe Brett will let you have one of the other puppies. They need somebody to love ’em. You loved Scout. Didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” Clint’s face grew luminous as he peered into his past.
Just as Brett began pouring tea the ambulance drove up. Following Elizabeth’s bidding the
attendants strapped Clint to their monitor, which showed no evidence of heart irregularity. After a more thorough examination and a quick consultation with Elizabeth, the conclusion was that Clint Carlisle seemed fit. They departed after a radio appeal to another call.
“I should leave, too,” Elizabeth murmured.
“If I have to drink that stuff he made, so do you,” Clint snapped.
“Well, thank you. I’d like to stay for tea.” With a completely straight face, Elizabeth accepted a cup from Brett, who smothered his grin. Doc was good for his dad. She sampled her tea then asked, “What do you do with your days, Clint?”
“I’m retired. Brett handles the ranch.” Clint gulped his tea. His face screwed into a frown, then he smacked the cup on the table.
“Hey!” Zoey glared at him. “You scared Mrs. Beasley.” She snuggled the dog close then placed it on Clint’s knee before retrieving another mewling pup. “You can hold this one,” she said, exchanging it for Mrs. Beasley.
Clint seemed dumbfounded. “You’re bossy.”
“I’m just helpin’.” She snuggled her puppy.
“Would you like tea, Zoey?” Brett loved this child and her temerity.
“May I?” She glanced at her mom, who nodded. “Yes, please.”
He poured a few drops into a tiny china cup that had sat in the cupboard for as long as he could remember then added milk until it was almost full. “Here you are.”
“Thank you.” Zoey’s baby finger stuck out as she took a delicate sip then smiled. “It’s delicious.”
That smile caught Brett’s heart and hung on. This warm, bubbly feeling inside must be what it was like to have your own kids. He wished...
“That minister fellow called here a while ago. He’s emailing something about that Christmas program.” Clint frowned. “Haven’t you got enough to do?”
“More than.” Brett ignored his father’s irritable expression. “But I promised I’d help out. They’re shorthanded.”
“Mary Parker never needed help with the kids’ choir,” Clint snapped. “And she did it for ten years.”
“So why doesn’t she do it this year?” Elizabeth blinked at the sudden stark silence.
