Snowed in with the Single Dad

by Melinda Curtis

  Laurel would have made an excellent lawyer. She knew exactly how to box a person in.

  “Some choice.” He mentally girded himself. “Hit me with it, then.”

  “Go with the flow.” Her voice lowered, softened, became an echo of her famous sister’s. “What interests a newly minted preteen today probably won’t interest her tomorrow.”

  “She’s got a crush on Zeke,” Mitch blurted.

  “The ginger-haired cowboy downstairs?” Laurel went back to sparkling. “Two redheads. They’d make beautiful babies.”

  Mitch gave Laurel a hard stare. “Gabby’s just a little girl.”

  Her sparkle dimmed. “That was a joke, Counselor.”

  “One that hit too close to home, Miss Laurel.” He felt like rolling his eyes. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel like leaving. He just stood there, juggling baskets and trying not to stare at her. The only thing he succeeded at was juggling baskets.

  “I apologize for the redheaded baby remark. It was out of line.” There she went again, being admirably honest. “You have a crush on her, don’t you?”

  “Who?” His eyes felt buggy.

  “My sister.” Gone was her wide, friendly smile. In its place was a small, rueful thing. “I’ve caught you looking at me every once in a while. You must be thinking of Ashley. My sister has a great presence on-screen and off. Guys fall for her all the time.”

  “I can assure you I don’t have a thing for a movie star.” He had a thing for Laurel. Made no sense on paper. Made no sense when he lay awake at night. Made no sense, period.

  Laurel might have less outright charisma than her famous twin. But she glowed when something amused her. And that glow ignited something in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Something he couldn’t ignore.

  But something he could refuse to act on.

  “Since you’ll be leaving town soon—” he refused to give up hope “—I’d appreciate it if you’d avoid putting ideas in my daughter’s head,” Mitch said as unemotionally as he was able to. “If you’re bored, you should try that TV series with Wyatt Halford. I believe it’s streaming online.”

  Laurel’s smile stiffened.

  * * *

  SHANE GUNNED THE snowmobile he regularly borrowed from Mitch up the mountainside between two reflector poles that marked a driveway.

  His due diligence included finding out whatever he could about Grandpa Harlan from residents who’d sold to him. He knew about the nondisclosure agreements, but he couldn’t just sit around in the inn doing nothing. So he’d volunteered to deliver groceries. And it worked. Everyone he talked to let something slip.

  Ahead, a figure stood on the narrow porch of a one-story log cabin, holding a shotgun. The weapon wasn’t trained on Shane, but it was held in a way that it could be raised at any moment if need be.

  Shane shivered from a combination of cold and the sudden prickle of adrenaline. The snowmobile surged forward—had he done that? He overcorrected and slid diagonally to a hard stop against a wide snowbank.

  The figure on the porch laughed. “Are you sure you should be out on that thing unsupervised?”

  “Are you Phyllis?” Shane eyed the shotgun. It was old. The stock was cracked. Chances were it was not be loaded, but he wasn’t willing to bet on it.

  “Folks around here call me Flip.” She changed the grip on her gun. She didn’t wear gloves. Her fingers were red from the cold. She didn’t seem to care.

  Loaded. Definitely loaded.

  “Mack sent me. I’ve got your groceries.”

  Flip chuckled. There were deep age lines in her face and forehead. “Used to be a delivery boy was just that—a boy.”

  “I’m helping out.” Mack ran the store and the garage. She had Zeke’s truck on a lift in her service bay and had been grateful when Shane offered a few weeks ago to be her delivery boy. It allowed her time on Zeke’s vehicle and Shane a chance to meet residents who didn’t live in the heart of town.

  Flip moved toward the door. “You can help me out by bringing those groceries inside.”

  Shane got off the snowmobile and opened the storage beneath the seat. “Potatoes. Celery. Canned carrots. Peppers and onions. I’d say you’re making stew.”

  “Venison stew.” Flip opened the door. “You’d best get inside before you freeze to death. You Monroe boys never did have a lick of common sense.”

  “You’ve known other Monroes?”

  “Please. Don’t patronize me.” She and her shotgun disappeared inside.

  “Right.” Shane carried the bag with her purchases.

  Her cabin was warm and had paintings everywhere—hanging on the flat log walls, stacked on the floor and furniture. It smelled vaguely of turpentine.

  He brought the groceries into the narrow galley kitchen, inching past an easel with a half-finished painting of a moonlit rose garden.

  “Here.” Flip pressed a coffee mug into his hands. “Coffee with whiskey. That should warm you up.” She had limp grayish-brown hair, but sharp gray eyes that looked him up and down. “What are you? A poor Monroe relation? You can’t buy proper winter wear?”

  “Something like that.” Shane had found early on that wearing his Nevada street clothes—slacks, polo shirt, serviceable jacket—got him entry into homes in Second Chance. And if the residents thought he was less of a threat because he didn’t have the common sense to at least buy snow boots, so be it. He’d suffer the twenty minutes or so it took to ride the snowmobile from the general store to a house, and then back again.

  “I didn’t order wine.” Flip held up the bottle of white wine Shane had bought. “Or cheese and crackers.”

  “It’s your bonus for letting me in the door.” Not everyone did. Shane removed his jacket and wandered the crowded, small living room, looking behind her paintings for photographs, trying not to think about how his toes stung from cold.

  “You want to talk about Harlan.” Flip opened a can of kidney beans with a hand-crank opener. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? My friend Dori said you were heartbroken over your grandfather and looking for connections to the past.”

  Shane sipped his coffee. She’d been liberal with the whiskey, but it did the trick, sending warmth radiating from his chest. He took several more sips before answering, “Grandpa Harlan was an all-or-nothing type of guy. When it came to his childhood, it was more like nothing.”

  He’d taken all twelve grandchildren twice a year—camping, fishing, to the four corners of the United States. And when Shane was in high school, he’d taken him in. But he’d said nothing about his roots or where he’d grown up. And now Shane was sorry he’d never asked.

  “Men of Harlan’s generation didn’t like to talk about their mamas or their upbringings.” Flip moved on to open another can. She wore baggy blue jeans and a beige sweatshirt stained with different paint colors. “It wasn’t considered manly.”

  “Did you know him? Before he bought this place?”

  “Yes.” Flip turned teary eyes his way. Not that she was broken up about Grandpa Harlan. She’d been chopping onions.

  Shane set his coffee on the kitchen table, grabbed a tissue from a box on the windowsill and handed it to her. He washed his hands and relieved Flip of the knife. “I’ll dice your onions. You heat up the skillet.”

  “First, grocery delivery and now kitchen service.” Flip tsk-tsked. “Am I supposed to tip you?”

  “Nope.” He had a rhythm with the knife and didn’t look up. If she expected him to grill her, she was going to be disappointed. He’d found more success letting people guide the conversation.

  “You have culinary skill.” Flip moved about the kitchen efficiently, adding oil to a deep frying pan and turning on the burner beneath it.

  “My brother Camden is a chef.” But Shane was competitive enough to have learned a thing or two himself. A skill that impressed th
e ladies. He switched to mincing garlic.

  They cooked together, making small talk about the weather and the residents Shane had met so far. Shane opened the wine and poured them each a glass, biding his time. When the meat and smaller vegetables were browned, Flip put everything in a pressure cooker and stared at Shane.

  “I sold to your grandfather because I don’t have children.” Her words lacked their initial sharpness. “My husband and I...” She gave herself a little shake. “I have no regrets. And you...”

  “I have regrets,” Shane admitted. “I wish I would have gotten to know my grandfather better. I mean, I knew him. I just...didn’t know about Second Chance.”

  Flip nodded. “I was going to say you should talk to Gertie Clark over at the Bucking Bull.” She stared into her wineglass. “She knew your grandfather better than most.”

  “You think she’ll talk to me?” More than the other residents had?

  “She used to be quite a talker.” Flip took a generous sip of wine. “And the Clarks didn’t sell to Harlan.”

  Meaning they wouldn’t have signed a nondisclosure agreement. Shane fidgeted in his seat, eager to take action. He’d seen the turn to the ranch and its closed cattle gate.

  “You should talk to Gertie,” Flip said again, sounding more like her prickly self. “But you’ll have to get Franny Clark’s permission first. Which you won’t.” She gave a little cackle.

  “Why not?”

  “Because...” Flip laughed some more, ruefully this time, never finishing her thought.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TRY THAT SERIES with Wyatt Halford. Pushing her hands through her hair, Laurel’s gaze swung around the room, seeking a target for her muttering. Avoid giving my daughter any ideas.

  Like she had fashion cooties or something.

  “Are you talking to yourself?” Sophie pushed Laurel’s door open. “You need to get out of this room.”

  “I’m completely balanced and Zen-like.” That sounded false, even to her own ears. Oh, Mitch had gotten to her, all right. She’d been unable to think of anything else since he’d left over an hour ago. “Do I look like a woman who’s a bad influence on little girls?”

  “You look like a woman who could use a hairbrush.” Sophie darted into the bathroom to get one. “Is this about Gabby? She’s the only little girl I know. You aren’t a bad influence on anyone. In fact, you always try to put the well-being of others first.”

  “Almost always,” Laurel said, inwardly cringing, thinking of the pink dress and how her pregnancy was going to upset the Hollywood Monroe applecart. She sighed, gaze landing on the hairbrush. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. I look like Bigfoot after a blustery day.”

  “Try Bigfoot with a bird’s nest.” Sophie approached, hairbrush raised.

  “I can fix my own hair and mind my own business.”

  “And here I thought my boys were cranky.” Sophie ignored Laurel’s wishes and wielded the brush. “I put them down for a nap without Aunt Laurel movie time. They were so wound up they wouldn’t listen to me outside. They nearly went sledding across the frozen Salmon River! They could’ve fallen through the ice. They could’ve drowned.”

  “But they lived to sled another day,” Laurel said. “Ow!”

  Sophie attacked a tangle with no care or finesse.

  “Oh, good. You’re both in here.” Gabby appeared in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically shy. “Sophie, I have those extra towels you wanted.”

  “Put them on Laurel’s bed for now.” Sophie tossed the hairbrush on the quilt and pulled Laurel’s hair to the base of her neck. “I’ll take the towels to my room when I’m done braiding Laurel’s hair.”

  “Okay.” Gabby set the towels down slowly, revealing a gossip magazine underneath the stack. “Laurel, I love the picture of your sister in that pink dress.” The teen turned the page so Laurel and Sophie could see the splashy headline: Is There Nothing Ashley Monroe Can’t Do?

  Ashley! Ashley! Who designed your dress?

  In a blink, Laurel was back in the bright strobe lights of the red carpet. Another blink and she faced her twin, taking in Ashley’s expression of shock and her mother’s one of anger.

  “Trash that.” Sophie grabbed the magazine and tossed it in the hallway. “Sorry, Gabby, but we’re mad at Ashley because Laurel made that dress and Ashley... Well, Laurel’s family isn’t appreciative of the sacrifices Laurel makes for them.”

  “Oh.” Gabby shrank back in the doorway.

  “We’re not mad at you, honey.” Laurel was quick to reassure her. “And only Sophie is mad at Ashley. The pink fiasco is my fault.”

  “Oh, stop being a martyr.” Sophie’s fingers stilled in Laurel’s hair. She bent to push her glasses up her nose with her forearm. “I’m going to take a picture of you in that dress, one that shows you here in Idaho, because you’ll need it for ammunition someday, I bet.”

  “I’m not wearing that dress again.” Laurel shook her head. “Good luck finding a model.”

  “Well, I can’t just take a picture of it on the hanger.” Sophie finished braiding, took a rubber band from the handle of Laurel’s hairbrush to hold her work in place and then went into the bathroom and returned with the evening gown. She held the dress up to her shoulders.

  Over one thousand rhinestones were sewn in lines originating at the hemline. They glittered in the muted sunshine streaming through the window, making the dress look three shades lighter pink than it really was.

  Laurel’s throat threatened to close. Her first successful evening gown. Her masterpiece. She’d probably never make anything like it again. Because no one in Hollywood would hire her to create a dress or style a look for them after her pregnancy news broke.

  “My hips are too wide for this,” Sophie admitted. “They never went back where they should have after I had the boys.”

  Gabby covered her giggle with one hand.

  Sophie held the dress at arm’s length, turning it to and fro to make the dress sparkle. “I guess Shane isn’t an option as a model. His hips are too wide, as well.”

  “And his ego is too big.” Laurel laughed. “Even if he did fit, which he never could—” his shoulders were also too broad “—he’d never agree to be photographed in it.”

  “I’ll do it.” Gabby’s words were as tentative as her touch on a rhinestone.

  Sophie and Laurel exchanged glances. Laurel shook her head.

  “Oh, honey.” Sophie brushed Gabby’s soft red hair from her shoulders. “You’re too young for this dress.” Sophie was right. It had a severely plunging neckline and the back was nearly nonexistent.

  “But I can look older.” Gabby wasn’t easily deterred. “With my hair up and some makeup.”

  “Your father wouldn’t approve.” This, Laurel knew, was a fact.

  Mitch didn’t approve of Laurel’s silver leggings, much less a silver-accented evening gown.

  “Please. I don’t have a chance like this...ever.” There was longing in her eyes, along with a bit of desperation. “Dad will never see the picture.”

  Sophie held the dress up to Gabby’s shoulders. “It’s great with her coloring.”

  Gabby’s smile was radiant.

  “This is wrong,” Laurel said, trying to be responsible and keep the peace with both Mitch and Ashley. But the dress was one of the few things she’d created with pure joy. And joy was written all over Gabby’s face.

  “Laurel, you deserve credit for this beautiful creation.” Sophie carried the gown back into the bathroom. “This will be a little message to remind Ashley who made this luscious thing. Okay, Gabby, you’re on. It’ll be our little secret.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to wear Ashley Monroe’s famous dress.” The girl ran eagerly into the bathroom.

  Sophie took Gabby by the arms. “Honey, read my lips. It’s Laurel’s dress.”

>   “I can’t believe I’m going to wear Laurel’s famous dress.” Gabby squealed, but not at full volume. She knew this wasn’t a Dad-approved activity.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Laurel said, only half meaning it. Not that Sophie or Gabby were paying attention to her anyway. “Mitch is going to be furious. Look at her, Sophie. She’s just a kid.”

  Sophie was undeterred. “If we do her makeup and hair...”

  “Don’t,” Laurel said in a stern voice. Not that her tone mattered. She was ignored.

  “I know how to do that.” Gabby reassured Sophie. “Can I borrow your makeup, Laurel?”

  “Yes,” Sophie said at the same time Laurel said, “No.”

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll look college age,” Gabby said as if the older women would find this admirable. “I’ve been practicing. I have a cute little nose, but when I wear eyeliner my mom said it looks elegant.”

  “Indeed.” Sophie slipped Laurel a sly glance. “Gabby is just what we need.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, ladies.” Laurel tried to sound like a disgruntled traffic cop.

  “Relax.” Sophie looked as excited as Gabby. “It’ll just be us girls and a dress.”

  Gabby nodded enthusiastically.

  The girl’s love for the gown ate away at Laurel’s objections. It was a fabulous dress, meant to be seen. Laurel sighed, beginning to bend. “And you won’t get ideas in your head?”

  “I won’t disappoint you,” Gabby said, more to Sophie than Laurel. She knew who to work in the room.

  The bathroom door closed.

  Sophie grabbed the pile of clean towels. “I’m going to get my phone. I’ll be right back.”

  The bedroom door closed, leaving Laurel alone with a memory involving another dress, another argument about who should wear it.

  “That’s my dress!” Five-year-old Laurel had tugged on the skirt of the blue ball gown Ashley wore.

  Not only had it been a birthday gift from the Monroe grandparents, but this dress was also Cinderella’s ball gown. Princess seams. A tulle petticoat. A sheer overlay with sparkly swirls that looked like they’d been made with the swoop of a magic wand.