Rescued by Christmas

by Erika Marks

  “Maybe,” said Miranda. “But it really is incredibly kind of you to play along.” She sipped her coffee then looked toward the fire. “I’ve been giving bad news to my patients for years—you’d think I’d know how to tell my own son that his horse might not make it.”

  “It seems to me this isn’t about being a vet—it’s about being a mom.”

  “Do you have kids?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I was sure you’d have read all about me by now.”

  “I prefer to get to know people the old-fashioned way,” she said. “One on one.”

  Jackson shook his head. “No kids. Not yet.”

  The addition of the last part surprised her. Didn’t most bachelor celebrities avoid family and settling down at all costs? She hadn’t meant to steer them down such a personal path.

  She searched for a quick change of subject, but Jackson beat her to it.

  “Truthfully, I have my own reasons for going along with it.”

  Miranda nodded. “You told me—getting away.”

  “Not just that. I was about Oliver’s age when my dad skipped out on us. Just took off. In the middle of the night. No note, nothing.”

  “Oh my God…” A pang of regret pierced her. No wonder he’d bristled at her suggestion for how to end their Santa charade. “That’s awful.”

  “It was,” said Jackson, “but I’ll never forget how bad I wanted to get him back. All the ways I thought I could do it. I was so sure there was a way if I could just figure it out. I wrote a letter to Santa that Christmas, put all my cards on the table for the big man.” He took a quick sip of coffee. “But Christmas came and went and my dad still didn’t show up. I couldn’t understand it.”

  She tilted her head. “Kids aren’t supposed to understand,” she said softly. “They’re just supposed to feel. And they do. Trust me.”

  Jackson met her eyes and held them. “Ollie’s lucky to have you in his corner.”

  Gratitude flushed warm and quick to her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to her coffee, hoping to hide the color. “It’s always just been me and Ollie, for as long as he can remember.”

  “Is there anyone now?”

  Miranda looked up, startled by the question.

  “Sorry.” Jackson raked a hand through his hair. “That’s none of my business.”

  “Isn’t it?” She smiled sheepishly. “You’ve been peppered with personal questions from an eager six-year-old—I think you’re entitled to ask a few of your own. No,” she said. “There isn’t anyone. But I’m not exactly a carry-on kind of relationship. You ride with me and Ollie, you get checked baggage.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m hardly light on that myself.”

  She shook her head. “It’s different for men. I can’t speak to being in a relationship in your world, but I think no matter what, men don’t have to worry about the same things.”

  Miranda watched his expression, waiting for his warm eyes to surely cool at her opinion, but his smile remained lifted, his gaze thoughtful.

  “How so?” he asked.

  “Women are caretakers,” she said with a shrug. “It’s understood that they have to make choices if they want a family and a career. Men rarely do.”

  “You have a career and a family.” His point was presented matter-of-factly, and entirely without accusation.

  “True,” she consented. “But I’m doing it on my own.”

  “And pretty well, too, from what I’ve seen.”

  Miranda gave in to a small smile, feeling the heat of his compliment warm her skin. She sipped her coffee, but even after she raised her gaze again, he was still studying her in the quiet.

  The flush from his words now grew with embarrassment. Why had she opened such an intimate can of worms, anyway? Suddenly she wished for Oliver to call for her, or for her phone to chime. Anything to break the heavy silence that seemed to hang over the room.

  She set down her mug. “It’s late. You must be tired.”

  “I’ll admit I forgot how tree-hunting can wear a person out.”

  “Tree-hunting, or a six-year-old boy?” she asked with a teasing smile.

  She rose and Jackson climbed to his feet to join her, taking up the guitar. “Don’t feel like you have to change your plans tomorrow on account of me,” he said as they walked to the front door. “Like I said, I’ve got a whole album of material due to my record company and I can’t think of a better place to start writing them.”

  “By plans, you mean other than to avoid looking outside and kicking myself for not having bought my son a new sled for all this gorgeous snow?” Miranda smiled sheepishly. “If you’re up and hungry, Ollie and I make blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings. Say, nine thirty?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  *

  Back inside the stable, Jackson bolted the heavy door behind him, sealing out the cold. Crossing for the office, he heard the faint creak of Oliver’s horse shifting in his stall. He approached the stall slowly, not wanting to startle the animal, hoping to find Twisty alert this time. But just like before, the horse stood facing his window, head hanging.

  If you think of it, you might talk to him once in a while…

  Fondness clenched in Jackson’s stomach like a fist.

  “Hey, pal,” he whispered. “Feeling any better?”

  Also as before, the horse didn’t respond—other than a slight tremor across one flank. Still Jackson kept talking.

  “I know you’re probably thinking, I’ll never get back to my old self, but you have to give it time. Just look at me—” Jackson leaned back and pointed to his foot. “Two days ago I would have been hard pressed to beat an ant across this hallway, and now I might just tie with him.” He chuckled to himself, hoping the horse might swivel slightly to glance his way, but the animal held his pose.

  Jackson didn’t blame the old guy. It wasn’t one of his better jokes.

  He gave the stall door a parting tap. “Good night then, pal.”

  It was when he turned back to the office that Jackson saw the long sled leaned against the wall, its front end curved up. Oliver’s sled. What had they called it? A toboggan?

  Jackson turned the sled around and scanned the bottom. It had definitely seen better days—just as Miranda had said, a few of the slats were cracked and several of the cross members were loose—but it was hardly a lost cause. Hadn’t Miranda mentioned something about keeping boxes of her father’s hand tools in the office?

  It wouldn’t take much to fix it, Jackson thought, as he hoisted the sled under his arm and carried it down the hallway. Heck, he’d salvaged boards in much worse shape than this sled—and with fewer tools at his disposal. Some wood glue, a few good clamps. By morning, he could easily have this sled snow-worthy again. And just in time for pancakes.

  Jackson smiled as he began to dig through the shelves.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had blueberry pancakes, but something told him tomorrow morning’s meal would be hard to forget.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sunday

  Miranda sprinkled a few drops of water on the griddle and heard the telltale sizzle of good heat. She gave the pancake batter a quick stir then took up her coffee and blew across the top, savoring the spicy smell of the gingerbread blend she’d brewed before taking a creamy sip.

  The clock on the stove blinked to 9:18—two minutes later than the last time she’d checked. She’d told Jackson Wilder to come for breakfast at nine thirty. So why had she been obsessively glancing at the window for the past half hour, expecting to see him coming down the path ahead of schedule?

  Probably the same reason she’d risen at seven and given herself two hours to prepare pancakes from a powdered mix. Anxiety.

  And, okay, maybe a little excitement too.

  Which might explain why she’d thawed real blueberries for the batter instead of just using the mix with the tiny dried blue specks that no more looked like real blueberries than the silk flowers in her clinic’s lobby loo
ked like real roses.

  And never mind that she’d squeezed fresh orange juice too—not a pitcher full (she was excited—not insane) but enough for them to enjoy little glasses’ worth with breakfast.

  Overhead Miranda heard the telltale thump of her son’s feet landing on the floor by his bed. Better get started, she thought, pouring out two large pancakes and taking down a plate. She’d build a good stack and keep them warm in the oven. That way when Jackson arrived she could have plenty ready.

  “Where’s Santa?” Oliver rounded the corner, eyes blinking hard against the sunlight and hair wild from sleep.

  “He’s not here yet, bud. You sleep okay?”

  “I guess.” He climbed up onto one of the stools that hugged the breakfast bar and leaned over on his knees for a closer look. “Those pancakes aren’t very big, Mom. They need to be huge.” Her son held up his hands for emphasis, indicating a diameter more fitting for an RV wheel than a flapjack.

  Miranda arched a brow at him. “Just how hungry are you?”

  “Not for me—for Santa. How’s he supposed to get fat in time for Christmas Eve if you give him small pancakes?”

  Miranda bit her lip to keep from laughing and forced a somber nod. “Good point,” she said, sliding the pair of cooked pancakes into the oven and pouring out an especially large one next. She couldn’t wait until Jackson Wilder got wind of her son’s latest mission.

  The doorbell chimed just as she gave the oversized pancake a successful flip.

  “He’s here!” Oliver scampered off the stool, all evidence of the sluggish boy of moments earlier gone in a flash as he bolted for the foyer. Seconds later, Miranda heard the clatter of something being dragged inside, then her son’s voice booming again with delight.

  When Miranda finally made her way to the door, she saw why.

  “Mom, look! Santa fixed the toboggan!”

  She blinked—first at the sled leaned against the wall, then at Jackson as he shrugged out of his coat and hooked it over a free arm on the coatrack.

  “You repaired it? But how?”

  Oliver gave her an exasperated look. “He’s Santa, Mom! He can fix anything, remember?”

  Jackson’s eyes pooled with compassion when Miranda met them across the foyer. Was he thinking what she was thinking? That he could fix everything—except a weak, neglected horse?

  Oliver flew to her side, eyes wide. “Can we go sledding, Mom? Please?”

  “After breakfast,” she said, giving her son’s wild hair a quick smoothing then glancing up to meet Jackson’s warm smile, feeling a flush of pleasure bloom at her throat, forcing unwanted apprehension back down. “We promised Santa blueberry pancakes, remember?”

  *

  “This way,” Oliver said, with all the authority of a seasoned museum tour guide, Jackson thought as he followed the boy to the breakfast bar where three place settings had been set.

  When Oliver struggled to pull out a stool, Jackson reached down to help him.

  The boy patted the seat. “You sit here by me, Santa.”

  Jackson complied with a smile.

  “Coffee?” Miranda asked.

  “Please.”

  He watched her add a splash of cream to his mug, as if she’d been fixing his coffee for weeks and not just once before. Jackson didn’t know why the simple action impressed him but it did. The quick but warm smile she delivered with his coffee pleased him even more.

  “They smell delicious,” he said, glancing over at the steaming griddle.

  “Best boxed pancakes in all of Granite Falls,” Miranda said, arriving with two plates. In front of Oliver, she set down a pair of coaster-sized pancakes, then placed the other plate in front of Jackson.

  “Whoa.” He blinked down. “I’m no Guinness expert, but this might be the biggest pancake on record.”

  “Isn’t it great?” Oliver beamed. “I told my mom to make all of yours extra big, Santa. On account of Christmas Eve, and all.”

  Christmas Eve? Jackson glanced quizzically at Miranda but she spun back to the griddle before he could decipher her sheepish grin.

  “You first.” Oliver pushed a bottle of syrup toward him, then a dish of butter, then a jar of strawberry jam. “I wasn’t sure what you liked on your pancakes so I got everything.”

  Jackson chuckled warmly. “You sure did.” He tipped the bottle and let the amber-colored syrup spill out.

  By the time Miranda arrived with a plate of her own, Oliver had nearly polished off his own pile.

  “Slow down, bud,” she said.

  “I just really want to try out the sled, Mom,” Oliver mumbled around a mouthful of pancake.

  “I know you do, but the snow’s not going anywhere.”

  Still Oliver kept shoveling in the pieces of pancake and chasing them down with swigs of orange juice until his plate was clean.

  He presented it proudly. “Now can I please go get changed so we can take the sled out?”

  Miranda pulled in a weary breath and let it out slowly, clearly defeated. “Go, go.”

  “Thanks, Mom! Be right back, Santa!” Oliver jumped down from his chair and took the stairs two at a time.

  “Maybe I should have waited until after breakfast to show him the sled,” Jackson said, squinting ruefully.

  Miranda smiled. “It’s fine. Six-year-old boys are basically human snakes. They can stuff obscene amounts of food into their mouths and somehow manage to never choke.”

  “Having been one once—a six-year-old boy, I mean, not a snake—” Jackson clarified with a quick grin “—I can attest to that. It’s amazing any of us survive to see our tenth birthdays.”

  She laughed agreeably, lowering her gaze to her coffee. As she sipped, Jackson considered her in the quiet, her bare freckled skin still slightly flushed from sleep, her hair swept to one side. She was one of those rare women who wore morning well. Who made a man want to stay in bed all day long…

  “Are you sure I can’t make you another one?”

  Jackson blinked, her question snapping him back. So much for stealing a quick look.

  “No thanks,” he said, pushing his plate to the side. “Any more pancakes and I’ll crack those planks I just replaced on Oliver’s sled.”

  “Ollie wouldn’t mind. You should know he’s concerned about your weight.”

  Jackson frowned. “My weight?”

  Miranda’s smile curled sheepishly. “He’s worried that you won’t be…um…filling out your red suit properly.”

  “Ahh. So that’s what the giant pancake thing was about.”

  “It really was very kind of you to fix the toboggan, Jackson. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know I didn’t. I wanted to.”

  This time when Jackson caught Miranda’s gaze she allowed him to hold it a long moment. Memories of their night before flashed back at him, the easy way they’d been able to talk, to laugh. How quickly they’d lost track of time. He searched her face for evidence that she might be recalling the same, but before he could, Oliver reappeared, his enormous smile peeking out over his scarf.

  “Ready, Santa?”

  “You bet,” Jackson said, climbing to his feet. “We better get out there before all this great snow melts.”

  Miranda chuckled as she reached for their dishes. “If only.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Twenty minutes later, armed with the toboggan, a thermos of hot chocolate, and several sandwiches, they set out into the crisp morning, grateful for the sun’s heat to soften the frosty bite of the cold. Too impatient, Oliver rushed ahead, pulling the sled behind him on its long red rope, stopping every now and then to give them an exasperated wave to catch up.

  Jackson chuckled. “I think he’s excited—what do you think?”

  If not for the nip in the air, Miranda might have been tempted to pinch herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her son this thoroughly carefree for days at a time.

  Was he the only one?

  She smiled to herself
at the question, having to admit he wasn’t. Ever since Jackson Wilder had appeared in their barn, Miranda had found her own worries shifting further and further back to make room for lighter occupations. Glancing beside her at Jackson, his Santa boots landing firmly in the powdery snow, she felt a rush of fondness bloom behind her ribs. Even if Twisty didn’t pull through, Jackson Wilder would have still given her and her son the gift of distraction this Christmas.

  He turned to catch her studying him and Miranda shifted her gaze forward, motioning to the toboggan as it slithered over the drifts behind her son.

  “I still can’t believe you fixed it,” she said. “How did you know how to do that?”

  Jackson tugged his collar higher over his beard. “There was a surf shop down the street from our house,” he said. “I practically lived there growing up. The guy who ran it made his own boards. He used to let me help him sand them down. Taught me how to shape them to get the most speed.”

  Even as they crested the hill and a rush of wintry air blew at them, somehow Miranda could still summon the image of Jackson on a surfboard under the hot summer sun, his body tanned and toned, sea water curling his thick hair as he sliced his way through a wave.

  “Not exactly surfing weather today,” she said.

  Jackson grinned. “Not quite.”

  The path narrowed as they reached the edge of the woods, forcing them closer. Miranda breathed in a warm, spicy whiff of his skin.

  Jackson leaned in. “Before we get there, maybe you should give me some tips on how to actually use that sled—just so Oliver doesn’t get suspicious.”

  Once again, his thoughtfulness of her son’s feelings touched her. “There’s not a whole lot to it. You want to stay as far back in the sled as possible.”

  “And steering?”

  “You steer mostly with your feet, and a little bit with your body.”

  “Kind of like surfing,” he said.

  She smiled. “See? You’ll be a natural.”