One Bright Christmas

by Katherine Spencer

  Lauren felt relieved. Not everyone saw her blunt style as an asset. Her former boyfriend, Greg, had found it amusing at first, then irritating. Each time her inner filter slipped, he quietly simmered, and she felt punished by his disapproval and the tension between them.

  It was hard if not impossible to keep a muzzle on her mouth and a lid on her authentic personality. It was bound to pop out from time to time, like a jack-in-the-box. At least now she didn’t have to torture herself. What if she and Greg had gotten married, as she had expected they would after dating for so long? Then where would I be? Wearing a gag to keep the peace, most likely.

  It helped to remember that, though it was cold comfort compared to the future she’d imagined—including the engagement ring she had felt sure would be on her finger by Christmas morning.

  Lauren pushed the thoughts aside. No sense spoiling such a beautiful afternoon outdoors. That was the beauty of a golf course. The setting was a distant, perfect world, and the game required complete focus, if you played it right.

  She was eager to tee off, but Joe was fidgeting endlessly as he addressed the ball. Which didn’t improve his shot any, she’d noticed. He gazed out at the pin, then down at the ball, shifting and wiggling, drawing the club back in practice swings but never quite committing.

  Just when it seemed he would finally take his swing, the oddest sound cut through the silence.

  Joe straightened up and lowered his club. “What was that?”

  He looked around, and so did Lauren. He was about to speak, but she pressed a finger to her lips.

  They heard it again. At first, she thought it was a person hidden in the woods, groaning in pain. Then she realized it wasn’t a human sound. She and her sisters had spent many a summer at 4-H camp. She knew a moo when she heard one.

  “Is there a farm around here? That’s definitely a cow.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Joe gave her a look. “How could that be a cow on the golf course? There isn’t a farm for miles.”

  She smiled and pointed. On the far side of the fairway, a large brown-and-white cow daintily stepped out of the woods. It sniffed the air, then headed to the fairway, where, head bent, it began to munch the bright green sod.

  “I bet that tastes good. Like prime sirloin. If you’re a cow, I mean,” Lauren said.

  “It costs about as much, too.” Joe was clearly upset.

  “She prefers the best. Totally bypassed the rough,” Lauren observed. “And she’s brought a few friends.”

  They watched in stunned silence as a shaggy gray horse emerged next. Lauren could easily see, even at a distance, that it was on in years. It walked with a limp and had a swayback. The horse was followed by a brown-and-white donkey. A pirate donkey, Lauren thought, noticing an eye patch and a battered ear.

  After the donkey, two large lop-eared rabbits and several ducks of various sizes leaped and waddled past the larger animals. The ducks dove straight into the water hazard, where they happily quacked and flapped their wings.

  Just when Lauren thought the animal parade was over, a large sow trotted out from the brush, as if in a hurry to catch up to the fun. Her big body moved with surprising grace and speed on her small black hooves. She stood at the edge of the rough and sniffed the air, then scuttled up a little hill and onto the putting green, where she grunted and sighed. She rooted the velvety sod with her snout, then chewed a great chunk of it with satisfaction.

  “Get off. Get off of there! Scoot! Scram!” Joe ran toward the animals, waving his club. Lauren knew he would never in a million years strike any of them. He was just trying to scare them away.

  The ducks took no notice. They swam in small circles and quacked in reply. The horse and donkey did pause grazing for a moment to watch him approach. Then, deciding he was no threat, they returned to their late-afternoon snack.

  Joe walked up to the donkey, taking a gentler approach. “You go home now, fella. Go along. Go back to wherever you came from.” Joe grabbed the donkey’s halter and tried to turn him.

  The donkey stared back, then flipped his head and brayed long and loud. “Hee-haw! Heeee-haw!”

  The sheer force of his reply, and the sight of his big yellow teeth and pink tongue, made Joe jump back so quickly, he lost his balance. His feet flew out from under him, and he fell flat on his bottom. The donkey stepped forward and gave one last bray for good measure.

  Lauren had to put a hand over her mouth to hold back her laughter. She dropped her golf club and ran to help her friend. He was still struggling when she grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet.

  “He makes his point, doesn’t he?” Joe quickly brushed off his khaki golf pants and jacket, though his back was smeared with mud and a big grass stain.

  Other players had also seen the motley animal visitors, and someone must have alerted the groundskeepers. Lauren suddenly saw electric carts flying to the rescue from all directions. The groundskeepers jumped out and surrounded the larger animals, herding them slowly back into the woods.

  Two of the groundskeepers hunted down the rabbits, who were obviously tame enough to be tempted closer by bits of lettuce and carrots. The workers then headed for the water hazard and coaxed the ducks to shore with pieces of bread. The entire lot was soon corralled in a small trailer attached to a golf cart, one likely used to haul away leaves and branches.

  A few minutes later, the course was quiet again, and animal free. Joe sighed and finally took his shot. Lauren winced, watching with one eye closed as it flew straight up and fell straight back down just a few yards in front of them. He shook his head, looking as if he was finally losing his patience.

  “That interruption was enough to break anyone’s concentration,” she said. He glanced at her but didn’t reply.

  She cleared her head, took a breath, eyed the pin, and swung. The drive flew straight up the fairway at an impressive height and landed squarely on the putting green, then rolled toward the pin at the perfect speed, stopping less than two feet from the hole. She was almost afraid to look at Joe.

  “Lauren? For goodness’ sake . . . you almost had a hole in one.” Joe stared at her, his mouth agape. “If you won’t work at the firm, will you at least give me a few golf lessons?”

  Lauren had to smile. A lot of men she knew would have been so intimidated, they would have sunk into a snit. Joe was truly a good sport. And a really nice guy. Still a nice guy, she corrected herself.

  A cart roared up the path, the sound cutting into their conversation. The little vehicle pulled over and stopped at their tee, and the driver waved to Joe.

  “Paul—what a nice surprise.” Joe smiled, but Lauren could see the man’s appearance had made him a bit anxious. Joe quickly leaned close and whispered, “Paul Hooper. The head of the board here. The club is one of my clients.”

  Lauren nodded and fixed a pleasant, client-greeting expression on her face.

  “Sorry to break into your game, Joe. I know I’m not the first to do that today.” Paul began talking as he walked toward them. “You must have seen that pack of animals on the eighth hole?”

  “Hard to miss that gang,” Joe said.

  “They were pretty good sports. They didn’t mind us playing through.” Lauren had no sooner offered the little joke—very little, she realized too late—than she remembered that Joe should be the only one doing the talking right now.

  Paul forced a smile. “Good for you. Most of our members are not nearly as tolerant.”

  “Of course not,” Joe said quickly. “By the way, this is Lauren Willoughby. Lauren, Paul Hooper.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Lauren smiled, trying to say as few words as possible.

  “Likewise.” Paul nodded, then turned back to Joe. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had these stray beasts wandering in from who knows where.” He pointed to the woods, where the animals had come from. “It’s a farm or something, on
the other side of that wooded patch. I’ve told the fellow who owns the land to keep his livestock on his side of the property line. He doesn’t listen. If he can’t control his animals, we’ll sue,” Paul said decisively. “You’ll sue them for us, I mean. I want you to find him, whoever he is, and tell him that.”

  Sue? That was extreme. Before Lauren realized it, she was jumping in with advice. “Maybe a letter would take care of it? He is your neighbor, Mr. Hooper. There might be some reason, down the road, you’d value his cooperation. And I’m sure you don’t want the community at large getting the impression that this club doesn’t have compassion for animals?”

  Joe glanced at her, and she realized she’d spoken out of turn. Again. She stared at the ground, hoping to look contrite.

  Paul looked confused. He looked at Joe as if to say, Who’s the attorney here?

  “Lauren has a good point,” Joe said quickly. “It’s not only a matter of neighbor relationships, but it could turn into a public relations matter, too. We should approach the property owner in a firm but reasonable way. Enlist cooperation. Only a hint of possible consequences. He’ll get the message.”

  Paul Hooper sighed, the flush in his complexion fading a bit. “I’ve tried that route, but maybe some legal stationery will work. Copy the board on any correspondence and we’ll see what happens.”

  “Of course,” Joe replied.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Willoughby . . . I assume you’re in the legal field as well?”

  “I am.” Lauren wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “Lauren just left a big firm in New York. She might come work for me now.” Joe smiled, as if he’d finally gained the upper hand.

  “Really? Maybe you can solve this problem for us. You seem to have a clear idea of how to handle it.”

  Lauren felt awkward but knew she deserved it, after jumping in to advise Joe’s client before he could. That unfiltered mouth again. See where it’s gotten you now?

  Joe seemed to enjoy seeing her put on the spot. “Excellent idea, Paul,” Joe said. “I’ll have Lauren work on it right away.”

  “Great. Keep me posted.” Paul turned toward his cart, then stopped and looked back at them. “By the way, I saw that last drive off the tee, Lauren. Not bad.” For a woman, he meant. “You’ve set yourself up nicely for an eagle. Think you can make it?”

  Lauren almost laughed at the way Paul had praised her shot then undercut the compliment in his next breath.

  “Can she make it?” Joe asked. “I’d bet my new clubs on it.”

  Paul didn’t look convinced, but he smiled. “I just got a new set, too. I’ll pass on the wager this time. Enjoy the rest of your game.”

  They watched him hop into the cart and drive away. Lauren’s polite smile faded as she turned to face her golf partner. “I’ll get her working on it right away?”

  Joe shrugged. “Seemed to me that you were champing at the bit to deal with that animal problem. If you’ll excuse the pun.”

  Lauren’s eyes grew wide. “I will not,” she insisted. “That pun was awful. I’m not champing to do anything.”

  “I understand. I just threw it out there to get rid of Paul. You’re the one who offered the strategy.”

  “A little problem I have. I talk faster than I think sometimes.”

  “I would have offered him the same advice. Given the chance,” he added, teasing her. He glanced at his watch. “Let’s stop at nine. It’s getting cold, and I’m not sure I can stand a full eighteen holes of humiliation after you eagle this one.” He met her gaze and grinned. “The food here isn’t bad. Why don’t we figure this out over dinner?”

  Lauren hadn’t expected a dinner invitation, but once she thought about it, she didn’t mind at all. The sun had slipped down in the sky, making her remember it was almost winter. Joe was so easy to be with. And she did owe him an answer about whether she’d help out at his firm while she was in town.

  “I’d like that very much. Play on,” she said cheerfully.

  * * *

  * * *

  Lauren had never known Jack Sawyer to keep farm animals, but Paul Hooper claimed the unwanted visitors were coming from Sawyer’s Tree Farm. She did recall a big barn on the property, where Jack kept a huge red-and-gold sleigh trimmed with jingling bells and a big, shaggy horse to pull it. He sometimes even kept a pony, to amuse the children who visited the Christmas tree farm’s Winter Wonderland.

  She had been away a long time. Maybe Jack had started some sort of petting zoo? Or had given up growing trees for tending barnyard animals? Of course, it didn’t really matter why the motley crew was living there, so long as they stayed on their side of the property line, chewing their oats and not the golf course sod.

  Lauren drove over to Sawyer’s on Thursday afternoon, at the end of her first day at Joe’s office. She’d dressed to make a good impression on her new colleagues in a sharply cut, ink-blue suit with a pencil skirt, a stark white silk blouse, and black heels. With her long hair swept back in a tight ponytail, pearl earrings were her only adornment.

  The outfit was the norm in Manhattan’s high-rise offices and meeting rooms, though she had felt a bit overdressed at Joe’s firm, where most of the female employees wore tailored pants and sweaters.

  Out here, in the open countryside, Lauren knew she looked positively . . . bizarre. As she drew closer to her destination, she wished she’d had time to stop and tone down her look before making the call, or even thought to toss some rain boots or heavy shoes in the back seat this morning. Who knew what she was likely to step in before this was over?

  Still, it was best to look businesslike. It would help get her point across, especially since she knew Jack. This wasn’t a social call. Paul Hooper expected an immediate resolution, and an apology, as well.

  Jack was a friendly, reasonable man. She doubted he would argue with her. She was sure he’d face up to his responsibility and make quick repairs on the fence and keep his four-footed friends on his side of it.

  She had faced down some of the toughest corporate attorneys in New York City. So why was she nervous about talking with Jack? Maybe because opposing counsel was usually assumed to be the enemy, and Jack was the cheerful man who sold her family a Christmas tree every year. She’d known him since childhood.

  She drove past the sign that read Sawyer’s Tree Farm and followed a dirt road that led to the barn, some distance from the big yellow farmhouse in front.

  The donkey with the eye patch and the old gray horse were trotting about in a small corral. The sight confirmed that she had come to the right place. She spotted a man tending to them. She could see it wasn’t Jack, even at a distance.

  He hooked a pail of water to the fence, then picked up a pitchfork and began to break apart a bale of hay, the effort outlining his broad shoulders and biceps under a dark blue thermal shirt.

  He glanced at the car when she parked and watched her wiggle out of the front seat. Her narrow skirt clung to her hips and legs, and she pushed down the fabric, silently cursing the invention of pantyhose. She grabbed her bag and tried to strike a confident stride—shoulders back, chin up—which was nearly impossible, as her thin heels stuck into the soft earth at every step. She would be lucky if she didn’t break off one entirely in the mess.

  About halfway to the corral she stopped and waved. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Jack Sawyer. Is he around?”

  The man turned and squinted at her. He had dark eyes and looked in need of a shave. Maybe two? His dark hair was cut short on the sides but thick and wavy on top.

  “No idea. Check the big house. He lives there with his family.”

  She tried again. “Yes, I know the Sawyers live there. I’ve known them a long time.”

  He seemed puzzled, then annoyed. “Then why are you bothering me?” He attacked the hay bale again, forcing Lauren to take a step back to avoid the flying bits of hay and
muck.

  She took a breath, holding on to her patience. “I’m here on a business matter. About the farm animals he keeps here now. Like that donkey and horse . . .” She was about to explain more, then shook her head. “It’s fine. Sorry to interrupt your work.”

  Lauren did believe that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, but couldn’t help herself this time. For goodness’ sake, you’re spreading hay. It’s not brain surgery, she nearly said. If he noticed her tart tone, he didn’t react.

  As she turned on her heel as smoothly as possible—which was actually not smooth at all—he finally put down the pitchfork and looked at her. Really looked at her.

  “If your ‘business matter’ is about the animals, I’m the one you need to talk to.” He was not above a dose of sarcasm either, was he?

  She struggled to hide her reaction—so important for a successful negotiation, she’d learned. But what luck, having to deal with this guy instead of good old Jack.

  “So you own the animals?”

  “I didn’t say that. But Jack certainly doesn’t.”

  Was he naturally annoying, or had she pressed some hidden button that set him off? Maybe he had an aversion to women in business suits. She wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.

  “The animals are housed on Jack’s property,” she replied.

  “It’s not Jack’s property anymore. I own this parcel now. The corral, the barn, those fields back there . . .” His gloved hand swept across the horizon. Then he turned. “The cottage,” he added.

  She followed his gaze to a small white cottage a short distance from the barn and corral. A battered pickup was parked in front.

  At least now they were getting somewhere. Maybe he didn’t work for Jack. She tried to start over. “I’m Lauren Willoughby. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” She tried to muster a polite, amiable tone, but she could see that he knew she was faking it.

  “Cole McGuire. You didn’t catch it because I didn’t give it.” He offered a brief gotcha sort of grin.