A Kiss in Winter

by Susan Crandall

  The raccoon growled. Caroline thought it sounded like he was laughing.

  “And then what?” she asked.

  “Then I’ll slide the box across the floor and out the door.”

  “You ever tangled with an angry raccoon? They carry rabies, you know.”

  His gaze remained on the raccoon. “You have a better idea?”

  She grinned. “As a matter of fact I do. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re leaving?” There was an edge of panic in his voice.

  “Just going to my car. Try not to startle him while I’m gone.”

  “You sound like you deal with angry raccoons all the time.”

  “Haven’t for years, but this guy and I used to be well acquainted. Now, seriously, don’t piss him off. I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried to the van and dug around in the backseat. Finding what she was after, she ran back to the house, but was careful to slow her steps as she got inside.

  Entering the dining room, she pulled the sliding panel doors closed behind her. “Just ease away toward the kitchen and prop open the back door.”

  “He didn’t act like he wanted to leave that way when I asked him earlier.”

  She shook the box of animal crackers in her hand. “He will now.”

  The raccoon stopped hissing. His greedy little eyes settled on Caroline.

  “You remember me, don’t you fella?” she said softly. She opened the box and took out a couple of crackers and broke them into small pieces. “Remember how much you like these?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” The man’s voice wasn’t more than a whisper.

  “Just get outside and make yourself scarce.” Caroline moved slowly, laying a trail of broken crackers across the dining room and through the kitchen. Once out the back door, she continued her trail across the porch and down the steps. She left the open box at the base of the big maple tree in the backyard.

  Looking around, she saw the man standing beside the lilac bush near the barn. She joined him.

  “Don’t you think I should call someone?” he asked in a whisper.

  “You mean like the raccoon police?” she whispered back.

  He didn’t appear amused. “I mean like an animal control person—or an exterminator. There are a lot of valuable antiques in there. Raccoons can be very destructive.”

  “You want to separate yourself from your money, go ahead. Or you could wait about five minutes—”

  “I’ll be damned,” he interrupted.

  She followed his gaze. The raccoon had paused in the back door, sitting back on his haunches to eat one of the crackers. “Okay,” she said, “maybe five minutes was an overestimate.”

  Once finished with that cracker, the raccoon moved on to the next.

  Caroline said, “When he gets to the tree, we can go close the back door. Too soon, and he’ll skitter back inside instead of up the tree.” She turned to see the man was staring at her. She offered a handshake. “Caroline Rogers, raccoon tamer.”

  He shook her hand, admiration shining in his eyes. “Mick Larsen… embarrassed idiot.”

  “Larsen? As in the doctor clan?” Everyone in town knew who the Larsens were. Caroline doubted Mick remembered they’d been passing acquaintances back in the day, so she treated this as a first meeting.

  “Yes, ma’am. And that’d be Rogers? As in Rogers farm?”

  She nodded. “Accounts for my intimate knowledge of this particular raccoon. You can’t leave the door open for a minute, or this guy takes it as an invitation inside.” Then she added, “You’re lucky I never outgrew my addiction to animal crackers.”

  The raccoon was halfway to the tree.

  “Aren’t animal crackers bad for him?” Mick asked.

  She cocked a brow. “He’s a raccoon; he eats trash.”

  “Good point.” He dipped his chin in agreement.

  “We can go close the door now. But move slowly.”

  Once inside the closed back door, he said, “I owe you. What do raccoon tamers charge these days?”

  “An explanation will do.”

  “Explanation?” He raised a brow over startlingly blue Scandinavian eyes. He suddenly reminded her of a cocky Viking.

  “Why are you sneaking back into town and buying my farm?”

  Chapter 3

  Macie lay sprawled on her stomach across Laurel’s bed, dangling her arms over the foot. She had a magazine spread out on the floor at her fingertips and was leafing through the pages, looking at fashion ads but thinking of Caleb Collingsworth.

  Caleb said he played baseball. He had the height of a baseball player, and the shoulders. She was fantasizing about watching him pitch in the spring. He would ask her for a kiss for luck before every game. By the end of the team’s winning season, it would be a sacred ritual and the whole team would chant until she gave Caleb his kiss. Of course, they’d be planning their prom date, too, deciding what color cummerbund he should order to go with her dress. He’d be asking her which was her favorite flower.

  “What’s the matter with you today?” Laurel asked.

  Macie’s gaze jerked guiltily toward Laurel, whose focus remained on the mirror, studying her butt in her new jeans.

  Laurel turned slightly, getting a new vantage point of her backside, and asked, “Do these make my ass look big?”

  Macie decided to answer the second question—unsure why she was reluctant to tell her best friend about meeting Caleb. She always told Laurel everything.

  She cocked her head and pretended to be considering the size of Laurel’s ridiculously perfect size-three backside, which was just below her perfect waist-length blond hair. “No bigger than Mrs. Wakefield’s.”

  Laurel hurled a pillow at Macie’s head. “Very funny.”

  Macie deflected the pillow with her hand and rolled onto her back. “I thought so.” Mrs. Wakefield was their chemistry teacher; the woman was big enough to make sumo wrestlers tremble in fear. “That’ll teach you to ask someone with hips like mine to evaluate your ass.”

  “At least you’ve got boobs! Look at these things.” Laurel pointed to her chest.

  “They match your ass. Don’t complain. Tiny ass plus giant boobs usually equals the assumption you’ve had a boob job.”

  “Maybe I will… get a boob job.” Laurel turned before the mirror, taking a look at herself from all angles.

  Macie groaned. “Honest to God, when did you get so obsessed with your body?”

  “Since you turned down Rocky Road ice cream ten minutes ago in favor of nonfat yogurt.”

  “Hey, some of us have to watch it in order to squeeze into our size-nine jeans.” She hoped Laurel dropped it right there. Macie didn’t usually forgo ice cream, but the idea of passing Caleb Collingsworth in the hall gave her second thoughts about her choice of snacks.

  Macie changed the subject. “Did you know Ms. Stockton is moving?”

  “Creepy, pan-face Stockton? She probably found some castle in Transylvania more to her liking.”

  Macie asked, “Did your dad say anything about someone else buying it?”

  Laurel looked concerned and sat on the bed beside Macie. “Is that why you’re in such a weird mood?”

  Macie shrugged. She hated to admit that the fate of the family farm had been eclipsed by Caleb Collingsworth, a boy she didn’t really know.

  “What makes you think I’m ‘sneaking’ back into town?” Mick crossed his arms over his chest. He looked suspiciously into Caroline Rogers’s gray eyes (he’d always thought redheads had blue or green eyes), which had gone from laughing to serious in a blink.

  She lifted her chin, her solemn gaze holding him immobile. He felt nailed in place, like a student called before a teacher waiting for a confession. The fact that her remark had been so close to the truth gave him additional pause.

  Finally she blinked and said, “You’ve been somewhere else”—she cocked her head as if searching her memory—“Chicago?—forever. Secret deal, done by a third p
arty… before the property came on the open market. Did you know Ms. Stockton?”

  “She’s the sister of a colleague of mine.”

  She waited, and when it became obvious he wasn’t going to elaborate, she said, “So? Why so clandestine?”

  Running a hand through his hair, he blew out a long breath. “It’s complicated.”

  “I can imagine. Hiding from someone?”

  He could hardly believe she had him on the defensive. “Um, this is my place, remember? You’re standing in my kitchen. Seems I should be asking the questions. Like why are you here?”

  She smiled a smile that could only be called sly. “I’m the welcoming committee.” She paused. “And raccoon expert.”

  At that he smiled back. “Since I’m sneaking into town, it’d seem obvious that I don’t want a welcoming committee.”

  “Ah,” she said, waggling a finger in the air between them, “but you do need a raccoon expert.” She flipped that fascinating hair over her shoulder. He was having trouble giving the color a name—not red really, something just short of auburn, that looked red-brown when indoors and burnished with copper in bright light. “So you’re lucky I’m so pushy.”

  The cocky way she was standing there suddenly just seemed too damn sexy. He laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  “So pay up. Give over the explanation.”

  “You’re a persistent little thing.”

  “So I’ve been told. Now give.”

  “Family complications.”

  “Hiding out from child support?” Her eyes narrowed with disapproval.

  “Persistent and negative.”

  “Realistic,” she countered.

  And tough. He kept that thought to himself. “Again, sorry to disappoint that suspicious imagination you’ve got there. No kids. No ex-wife.” He rubbed his chin, thinking he hadn’t had this much fun sparring with a woman in a long time. Kimberly refused to “engage in childish arguments.” He added, “Ex-girlfriend knows where to find me—but, according to her parting comment, I only expect that if hell freezes over.” The more he tasted Caroline’s need to know, the more hungry for evasion he became. Quite unlike him, actually.

  A devilish spark ignited in her eye. “Maybe I’m beginning to see why. Do you ever give a straight answer?”

  “Usually I’m very straightforward. There’s just something about you that brings out the contrariness in me. Maybe it’s that red hair.”

  “Red hair is supposed to bring out contrariness in the person who has it.”

  “Best defense…” He chuckled.

  She sighed in exasperation and he took pity.

  He said, “When I said family complications, I meant my dad. He ‘strongly advised’ me against coming back.”

  Her bark of laughter was surprising. “And you think he won’t notice? Pretty hard to hide in a place the size of Redbud Mill.”

  “Well, I had thought I’d make it at least twenty-four hours before being called on the carpet.”

  “Foolish dreamer.”

  She was right. It was only a matter of days. Or more likely hours. He and his father had had words about Mick’s leaving Chicago and his career. Once his father knew he was back, the war would begin. And, by not getting the battle under way before he arrived in town, he’d probably added fuel to the how-can-you-be-so-irresponsible fire that had been smoldering since Mick had drawn his first breath. Being the only male offspring had definitely counterbalanced the baby-of-the-family spoiling he might have enjoyed.

  He’d hoped that being able to talk to his dad face-to-face would be more effective than long-distance conversations. He still hadn’t told his father the worst of it, the event that strangled the last gasp of breath out of his life in Chicago. Once his father knew those details… well, there would just be no getting his respect after that. He wouldn’t care where Mick lived.

  Mick needed to get the move done; then he could begin to deal with his father’s reaction. One life-altering step at a time.

  Caroline watched a dark flash move across Mick Larsen’s face, like the flicker of a fish beneath the green surface of a lake before it dived for the obscurity of deep water. It appeared for only a second, then disappeared with an offhanded shrug. He was hiding something. She just hoped it wasn’t something dangerous.

  He seemed nice enough, charming even. He certainly had her marching to his beat. She normally didn’t pussyfoot around; direct questions, direct answers; that had always been her way. Maybe it was the sheer bulk of the man that had her adjusting her approach. Although he had kind eyes and a smile that could easily trip up the beating of a female heart, he also had shoulders that threatened to block the sun. It had been a long time since a man’s size frightened her.

  The image of him crouched with that box, trying to catch the raccoon reminded her that he wasn’t a violent man. A violent man would have armed himself with a gun, or a knife… or at the very least, a club.

  “Okay, so you’re running home.” She lifted a shoulder and gave a shake of her head. “Sorta backward; most boys run away from home, but I’ll buy it.”

  “Boys?”

  She ignored his insulted expression and kept her focus. “You’re a doctor; why do you want my farm?”

  “Would that be Ms. Stockton’s farm you’re speaking of?” he asked, looking from beneath his brows.

  “Pifft. That woman didn’t know a farm from her aunt Francie’s fannie.”

  “There we can agree.” He gestured toward the fallow fields. “What a mess. And I suppose that’s part of the allure.”

  Caroline groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re using this as a ‘solitary retreat’?” She emphasized the last two words with a tight-jawed imitation of the farm’s last owner.

  “Hey, I recognize that phrase.” He pointed at Caroline. “It’s Miranda Stockton right down to the creepy lingering overtone.” He shook his head. “No, I’m going to work it—the farm, not the phrase.”

  “Farms aren’t a hobby. They take full-time effort.” If he made a half-assed, doctor-like stab at it, he’d most likely become discouraged before the first full rotation of seasons. She’d have to make sure she stayed abreast of the situation. A discouraged and frustrated nouveau-city guy like Mick would be easy pickings for Ballister Farms.

  “It just so happens, I know a little about farming,” he said with the confidence of a man who had yet to battle a blizzard to feed his cattle.

  She looked out the window. “Good thing. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  He didn’t appear worried. “All right, that’s why I’m here. Now what about you?”

  “Actually, I was curious.” She decided the place was safe from the wrecking ball for the immediate future. “And I’d hoped to be able to see the place again. It’s been harder than I thought, giving it up.”

  “I assume the NO TRESPASSING signs were Ms. Stockton’s addition?”

  “Not a friendly woman.” Then she realized she’d just insulted the sister of a colleague of his. “Sorry—”

  “I’d place Miranda Stockton somewhere between queen bitch and hateful lunatic.”

  The recollection of that awful graffiti on the barn made her feel like she’d walked into cobwebs. Somebody apparently agreed with him.

  She strove to keep the mood light. She tilted her head and grinned as she asked, “Is that your professional opinion?”

  His face clouded and that shadow moved behind his eyes again. “I don’t have a professional opinion anymore.”

  Caroline pulled into the post office parking lot two hours later, and in a much different frame of mind, than she’d expected. This morning, the paramount thing on her agenda had been getting her hands on that contract. Now, instead of looking toward distant horizons, her focus had swung around to her own backyard.

  She’d thought herself resolved, content—even eager—to let go of the past. Entering the old homestead had stirred up a whole host of nostalgic memories and her soul had been drawn back by the ghostly
fingers of reminiscence. Although her thinking-self told her those days were forever gone, buried with her parents, her heart longed to reach out and grasp the last solid marker of her old life. She even missed that damn raccoon.

  After all these years, and all the emotional miles she’d traveled, walking through those doors again had unsettled her more than she’d imagined possible.

  And then there was the man at the homestead. Equally unexpected and just as unsettling. Mick Larsen was a cocktail of contradictions: powerful and gentle; cosmopolitan and earthy; witty and disturbed; hiding from his father, but choosing to do it right under the old man’s nose.

  And what had he meant, he didn’t have a professional opinion anymore?

  “I’m going to work it—the farm…” Could he be giving up medicine?

  That was crazy; people who suffered through medical school, internship, and residency didn’t just walk away from their careers. She’d always thought of it more as a calling than a vocation. You were meant to be a doctor, or you weren’t. It wasn’t something you tried on for a few years to see if it suited. Besides, all of the Larsens were doctors. It was like… an unwritten law.

  Caroline reminded herself that Mick’s career—or, for that matter, his being witty—didn’t have anything to do with her. As long as he kept the farm whole and intact, he didn’t even need to be on her radar.

  She shut off the car and picked up the claim card for the certified letter. She’d been temporarily distracted. It was time to get back on track and look to the future; a future that didn’t include the homestead, a maddening raccoon, or the contradictory doctor.

  The line inside the post office was the usual—long and stagnant. Just as Caroline stepped inside the door, CLOSED signs appeared at two of the three windows and the workers disappeared behind the magic wall that separated public postal from the secret inner sanctum of the postal universe.

  This building had been constructed sometime in the early twenties, the air-conditioning nearly as prehistoric. As she waited, she once again fanned herself with the postcard.

  Suddenly, she felt a breeze move her hair. Spinning around, she realized it wasn’t a breeze but Kent Davies trying to blow on her neck. He grinned wickedly. Come to think of it, Kent did everything wickedly.