by Erika Marks
She squinted up at him. “I suppose we could try it.”
Jackson smiled. “Good.” Her ponytail had grown loose, copper strands falling across those rosy, freckled cheeks. He’d always had a thing for freckles.
She pulled her coat tighter around herself. “I should get back to Ollie and let you get some more rest,” she said, nodding to the cot. She reached into her pocket and held out a pill bottle. “These are some leftover pain meds I never used when I got thrown from a wild horse a few years ago. Considering your height, I might suggest taking two—but no more than that. They should help. And there are fresh toothbrushes and toothpaste under the sink in the bathroom—and bottled waters and energy bars in there,” she said, pointing to a standing cabinet on the other side of the room.
Toothpaste, energy bars? “Are you sure you’re not expecting someone?”
She shook her head with a sheepish smile. “Ollie and I spend the night in here from time to time when we bring in new horses. Saves me having to haul myself up the hill in the dark every two hours. And sometimes a horse will need round-the-clock attention for the first few days.”
“Like the one Oliver’s worried about?”
“In Twisty’s case, it wasn’t just about getting him nourishment—it was about making sure he knew he wasn’t alone,” she said, the blazing green of her eyes softening, the lilt of her smile thinning. “It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t spent a lot of time around horses, but they’re very sensitive animals. They get attached, just like we do. Between you and me, I think that’s what made Twisty so sick in the first place. He’d spent his whole life surrounded by people, little kids loving on him all the time. Then suddenly he’s—literally—sent out to pasture. Alone. Forgotten.”
“So you’re saying a horse can get depressed?”
“It happens to all animals,” Miranda said. “Loss is loss and grief is grief. If you think of it, you might talk to him once in a while.”
“You think that’ll help?”
She smiled. “It can’t hurt.”
And again, before Jackson could search for clues, her gaze shifted abruptly from his to a safer destination: the door. “Good night,” she said, stepping out.
“Good night,” he said. “And thank you.”
Watching her go, his thoughts circled back to her earlier admission. What—who—had she lost? Her father, Jackson had already gathered. But who else? Oliver’s father? Where was he? There had been no mention of a man in the house—permanently, or sporadically. After all, she’d threatened him with horse tranquilizers—not the brute force of a husband on his way home any minute.
But surely a beautiful, accomplished woman had plenty of men vying for her time?
Chapter Seven
Saturday
The next morning, Miranda pulled up the blinds and squinted out at the sea of white, glistening under a cloudless blue sky.
A winter wonderland if ever there was one.
Even the visible side of the stable was stippled with snow. Her thoughts swerved immediately to their guest inside. Had Jackson Wilder slept as well as she had? Miranda doubted it. She only hoped the pain meds had helped him find some comfort.
She pulled on an oversized cable knit sweater to cut the hint of chill the night had left in the house. On her way to the bathroom she reached for her phone and clicked the screen to life, startled to see the time—9:35. It wasn’t like her to sleep so late. She blamed the stress and chaos of the previous day for her exhaustion. God knew she faced busier days at the clinic on a regular basis, but navigating the panic of a stranger hiding out in her barn was a unique kind of wear-and-tear on a body. She’d do well to make an extra-big pot of coffee this morning, in case Jackson Wilder wanted some.
Padding out into the hallway, she tapped open a text from Temple.
Are you guys okay? I just tried calling and didn’t get voicemail. Worried! Text me!!
Miranda had never been good at lying, and certainly not face to face. She’d bet Temple knew who Jackson Wilder was. Her vet tech lived for celebrity gossip—and constantly rolled her eyes at Miranda’s unabashed lack of knowledge—or interest—in celebrities.
Which was exactly why she couldn’t tell Temple about Jackson’s arrival. At least not yet.
Miranda clicked her screen closed and smiled, recalling Oliver’s offer of the phone to Jackson to call Mrs. Claus. God bless her little man. Only six and already he was a thousand times more thoughtful than any man she had ever dated in the five years since Oliver’s father had left them.
Reaching her son’s room, Miranda paused outside his closed door, not wanting to disturb him if he was still asleep. Getting him to bed the night before had been nothing short of miraculous. An extra glass of water, another bedtime story, anything to avoid having to close out such a dramatic day—a day which, she was eternally grateful for, had never been anything but thrilling for him, thankfully.
After another moment, Miranda eased the door open and peeked in. Oliver’s covers dangled off the side, revealing a navy-blue bottom sheet.
“Ollie?”
Panic grabbed her like two clenched fists around her throat. She bolted down the hall and clamored down the stairs. Why hadn’t she stayed with him in his room? What if he’d snuck out in the night and—!
“Hi, Mom! I’m making Santa breakfast.”
Miranda slid to a stop in the kitchen doorway, finding her precious son holding up a pair of cereal boxes, enormous in his small hands. “Which do you think he’d like better? Frosted Squares or Sugar Bears?”
She rolled her lips together to choke back the cry of relief that burst up her throat, and pulled in a deep breath—her first possibly since she’d discovered his bed bare.
“Sugar Bears,” she said. “Definitely.”
Oliver nodded enthusiastically. “Me too,” he said, tearing open the top and tipping it over the bowl, letting a waterfall of little frosted oat bears tumble out. “I’ll give him some of my comic books too. In case he gets bored.”
Ten minutes, and two spilled glasses of orange juice later, they were both suited up in puffy coats and carrying “Santa’s” breakfast out into the crisp chill.
Now, trudging through the snow, panic sparked. What if Jackson Wilder had taken off in the night? What if he’d realized he was a huge star who’d made a foolish pact with a desperate woman and had limped back to his car just to get the heck away from her? A quick glance over her shoulder offered relief—the Range Rover was still there.
After a stop at Twisty’s stall to give the horse fresh water and alfalfa, they made their way to the storeroom. The door was open, but the room—and the cots—were empty. Fresh panic flooded Miranda. Just because his truck was still there, didn’t mean Jackson Wilder hadn’t—
“Morning.”
The bathroom door opened. Miranda spun, startled—first by the unexpected sight of him still here, and second by the much-too-appealing sight of him in a snug long-sleeved T-shirt and equally fitted jeans. Seeing him in that bulky Santa suit, she’d had no idea he had such a nice body underneath. She might have, though. Rock stars rarely lacked for personal trainers.
Miranda blinked at him. “You’re—” She wanted to say still here, but deciding not to show her hand finished her declaration instead with: “—walking.”
“Only in the loosest sense of the word,” Jackson said with a good-natured grin as he pointed to his stockinged foot. “I thought I’d take the old guy for a test drive.”
“Look, Santa. We brought you breakfast!”
“It was all Ollie,” Miranda said, clasping her hands behind her back to resist the urge to help her son deliver his hard work himself.
“Wow,” Jackson said, watching Ollie balance the tray on the cot as gently as if it were a sleeping baby. “This is amazing. And my favorite cereal—how did you know?”
Oliver beamed. Miranda glanced at Jackson, long enough to give him a grateful smile.
“I put some cookies on there, too,�
�� Oliver exclaimed proudly. “I figured you had to have them with every meal. That it’s a Santa rule.”
“It’s a rule, all right.” Jackson picked up one of the gingerbread men and bit off a leg, moaning with pleasure as he chewed.
“My mom made them,” Oliver said. “We didn’t have time to decorate them.”
“They’re delicious,” said Jackson, meeting Miranda’s eyes. She allowed him to hold her gaze until she felt her cheeks grow warm and looked back at Oliver.
Her son screwed up his face. “You look kinda different this morning, Santa.”
Jackson shot Miranda a nervous look. She felt her color drain. Was their jig up already?
But Jackson kept his voice even, calm. “I do, huh?”
“You don’t look very old,” said Oliver. “I thought Santa was old.”
“I got a good night’s sleep. That always makes people look young.”
“And you’re not fat, either.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t eaten in a few days so I’ve probably lost quite a bit of the belly. You should have seen me when I left the North Pole.” Jackson placed his palm on his stomach, trying to suggest there might have been some real padding there at one point, but Miranda couldn’t imagine anything even remotely round on that flat surface.
She felt an unwelcome flush at the attempt and cleared her throat.
But Oliver wasn’t done. “And where are your glasses?” Her son squinted up at Jackson. “Santa’s supposed to have glasses.”
“I lost them in the snow,” Jackson said, without missing a beat. “But they’re just for reading, so I think I’ll be okay.”
Miranda bit back a smile. Boy, this Jackson Wilder was quick, all right—she’d give him that. Perhaps it was a skill of being a celebrity. Learning to always have just the right answer. You never knew what your audience might throw at you, what kind of crazy questions a fan might cast your way. Whatever the reason, Miranda felt the heat of gratitude bloom in her stomach.
But despite her admiration, she still felt compelled to rescue Jackson Wilder from her son’s version of the Spanish Inquisition.
She touched Oliver’s shoulder. “We should let Santa have his breakfast in peace, bud.”
“And I’m sure you’re itching to get out and sled on all this snow,” Jackson said.
Miranda felt her son slouch dejectedly under her hands. “Our sled’s broken.”
Jackson’s gaze met hers, pooling with concern. “Broken how?”
“It’s an old toboggan that my dad built when I was a kid,” Miranda explained. “Some of the slats cracked and need to be replaced.”
Jackson squinted at her quizzically. “A tah—what?”
Miranda smiled. Of course a California surfer dude wouldn’t know anything about sleds. “A toboggan. It’s one of those long wooden ones that curl up in the front. You can fit up to four people on it.”
“You know what a toboggan is, Santa,” Oliver said. “You brought one for my friend Brody last Christmas!”
Quick as a shot, Jackson’s eyes widened. “Oh, toboggan,” he said, raising his chin sagely. “Of course I know what a toboggan is. I thought you said to-mog-gan.”
A relieved smile spread across her son’s upturned face while Jackson shot Miranda another that-was-a-close-one look and once again she had to roll her lips inward to keep from giving their charade away.
“I keep meaning to pick up one of those disc sleds at the store,” she said, reaching down to brush Oliver’s bangs off his forehead. “But every time I get there, I hear my father’s voice in my head, chastising me for going with cheap plastic when a real sled is made with wood.”
“A purist,” Jackson offered a reverent nod. “I respect that.” He turned his gaze back on Oliver. “Okay, so sledding’s out. What else?”
“Mom and me are gonna decorate the house some more.”
“Good for you,” said Jackson. “Maybe hang ornaments on your tree?”
Oliver shook his head and looked down. “We don’t have our tree yet.”
Miranda felt a rash of guilty heat spread across her face. First no sled, now no tree. Regular Mother-of-the-Year, Jackson was probably thinking.
“I don’t like to get it too early,” she said.
“I know!” Oliver exclaimed. “Santa could get us one!”
Just when the warmth of Miranda’s embarrassment was starting to cool, it returned with a vengeance. “Santa’s hurt his foot, bud. He can barely walk.” She cast an absolving look Jackson’s way, assuring him she’d get him out of this latest request, but his smile was surprisingly agreeable.
“I bet I could manage a little excursion,” he said with a cheerful shrug. “Maybe it would be good for me to get some circulation back. Not to mention the benefits of a little fresh air.”
“You can test your ankle here in the barn,” said Miranda. “You don’t need to tromp through two feet of snow.”
“Please, Mommy?” Oliver hurled himself at her, pulling pleadingly on her coat sleeve. Maybe this plan of hers to keep up the Santa charade had been ill-advised…
She dropped down to be at eye level with him. “Bud, we’ve been over this,” she said gently. “We can survive without a tree for one Christmas.”
“People can survive without a lot of things,” said Jackson. “It doesn’t mean they have to.” He glanced over at Oliver. “And maybe it’s a little selfish on my part, too. The elves always cut down the tree for me. I can’t remember the last time I went with them.”
Miranda had to bite her lip from chuckling. Oliver practically jumped the few feet between her and where Jackson stood, throwing himself against the man’s leg with so much force that she cried out, “Ollie, be careful!”
But Jackson managed to steady himself against the wall in time. “No worries. You got the good foot.”
And as Jackson Wilder gave her son a warm smile, and flashed her one as well, Miranda’s thoughts burned with a singular question: Why was he doing this? He’d claimed he was only looking to escape fame for a few days—but his enthusiasm for their little charade still startled her. Twisted ankle or not, most celebrities—especially those of the gorgeous and single and male variety—would sooner crawl through fire than spend a day—let alone several—snowbound with a single mother and her son in the middle of nowhere. Miranda had skimmed through enough of the article titles on Jackson Wilder to know that his life bore no resemblance to hers and Oliver’s. So why would a man accustomed to eating filet mignon in first class be content with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a horse barn?
Or maybe the better question was, why was she—no pun intended—looking this gift horse in the mouth?
Maybe because when you spent your life never taking handouts, you learned to be suspicious of them, because kindness was rarely free.
She’d contemplate the price of Jackson Wilder’s generosity later. Right now she had a tree to find and decorate.
“Okay, Santa.” She grinned. “But you might need a better hat.”
Chapter Eight
While Miranda and Oliver were back at the house searching for hats and gloves, Jackson managed to force his foot back into his other boot and was layered up by the time they returned. He only hoped his fleece jacket would be warm enough. He hadn’t packed for tree-hunting excursions—only the occasional step-out-onto-the-porch-to-grab-another-log-for-the-fire ones.
“Well, hello.” Miranda smiled to find him waiting for them at the door.
In the few hours he’d been here, Jackson had seen the spectrum of her smiles—most of them falling in the tight and cautious category—but this one was easy, bright. And definitely on the big side.
She carried something in her arm. “This belonged to my dad,” she said, holding out a leather bomber jacket. “It’s a little dated, but the sheepskin lining makes it really warm.”
Even as he pushed his arms through the sleeves and zippered it up, Jackson knew he’d been given something of great value to her. “I’ll take good care
of it.”
“And last but not least.” She handed him a navy-blue knit ski hat and he pulled it over his head, grateful for the added warmth. He only hoped it wasn’t as precious to her as her father’s jacket—he couldn’t promise the white hair spray wouldn’t come off on the inside. Already the powdery color had started to brush off, a fair amount lost on his pillow overnight. If Oliver noticed, he didn’t mention it.
“You look funny,” said Oliver, stifling a giggle behind his mitten. “I bet you feel weird not wearing your Santa suit, huh?”
“Not really,” said Jackson. “I only wear it at Christmastime. The rest of the year I can wear whatever I want.”
“Really?” Oliver’s eyes grew big. “You mean you can wear shorts and T-shirts?”
Jackson pressed his lips together to keep a straight face. “Yup. Flip-flops too.”
“Did you hear that?” Oliver spun to look up at his mother.
Miranda patted her son’s hooded head. “I sure did, bud. Pretty cool, huh?” She motioned to Jackson’s foot. “I see you got your other boot back on.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” he said. “I only passed out from the pain twice.”
He’d meant it in jest but Miranda still winced. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“You bet.” Jackson turned his attention to Oliver. “Lead the way, young man.”
Through the opening, the property spread out before them, a field of white leading to woods of evergreens. Having been so long in the dim light of the stable, Jackson blinked hard against the glare of the sun bouncing off the snow, his eyes needing a few minutes to adjust before he followed Miranda and Oliver into the drifts.
The air was crisp and cold but remarkably dry.
“It’s so quiet,” Jackson marveled.
Miranda nodded. “The snow muffles everything. It’s like a big blanket over the earth.”
A nice image, he thought. “No wonder people love it up here.”
“How’s your ankle?” she asked.
“Feeling pretty good,” he said. Which was true. The height of the snow slowed their pace, which helped, as did the cushion of the snow itself each time he stepped down.