by Erika Marks
“And not all men sneak out in the middle of the night, either.”
Miranda’s lips curved into a teasing smile. “Says the man whose claim to fame is doing just that.”
Jackson chuckled and took another bite of cookie, considering her as he chewed. The light of the fire reflected on her face, turning her hair an orange gold. “Personally, I find it hard to believe that a smart, beautiful woman doesn’t have a caravan of suitors driving up to her door on a daily basis.”
“Right.” Miranda’s cheeks deepened in color, despite trying to mask her blush by reaching for a cookie. “You’ve been here for four days now—have you seen a caravan?” she asked before biting into a gingerbread man.
He smiled. “I blame the storm.”
She looked away, reaching over to brush something off one of the cushions. The fire hissed and crackled in the silence.
Jackson glanced up at the stairs, worry returning. “It must have killed him not to say anything to his friends at school today.”
“Tell me about it. All day I was half-expecting an email from his teacher asking why my son believes Santa is living in our barn.”
Another beat of silence thrummed between them but this time, when the fire refused to fill the quiet, Miranda rose instead. “It’s late. I don’t mean to kick you out but…”
Jackson grinned, rising too. “Don’t worry. I’ve played in enough bars to know how the saying goes at closing time: You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
Chapter Eighteen
Two thirty-five.
Miranda squinted at the harsh light of her phone screen and rolled back onto her pillow, frustrated. Her mind raced in the darkness, worry tumbling like clothes in a dryer. She had hoped memories of her warm evening with Jackson Wilder might help to bury the day’s news, but her dreams had other ideas. More like nightmares. Twisty in danger, the fragile horse falling through ice and sinking, even as Miranda raced across the frozen pond to reach the struggling animal.
She could still feel the dampness of sweat along the back of her neck. She’d woken up chilled with it. A realist to a fault, Miranda didn’t consider herself a superstitious person when it came to dream imagery, but this nightmare she couldn’t seem to shake. There’d be no getting back to sleep until she made sure Twisty was okay.
After a quick peek through Oliver’s cracked door, Miranda found her son sleeping deeply, Mr. Moo crushed against his cheek. She tiptoed downstairs, slipping on boots and her puffy barn jacket with equal stealth. The night air was still and crisp and the sky a black velvet blanket. She crunched over the flattened path, realizing she’d have to continue her quiet march even inside the barn to avoid waking Jackson. She’d come so close to confessing the reason for her nerves tonight—his eyes had pooled with such warmth and concern, it would have taken nothing to fall into those strong arms of his, to unzip her heart and let everything spill out—the news about the lease, the possibility that she’d have to close up Free Spirits—but she’d spent too many years alone, without a shoulder to cry on, and she wasn’t about to start leaning on someone else now. Especially not someone who had one—albeit still tender—foot out the door.
“Hey, pretty boy.” Miranda kept her voice soft and low as she approached the horse’s stall and slipped quietly inside, relief flooding her rib cage to find Twisty looking decidedly perkier. The horse’s eyes, dull and cloudy when he’d arrived, blinked with interest now. She ran her hand along his side, grateful to finally feel soft flesh between her fingers and his ribs. In a few days, she’d be able to give him some grain. He’d need his stall mucked out. Tomorrow.
She changed out his water, added another quarter of a flake of alfalfa, and then slowly backed out of the stall, swinging the door closed quietly, and trying to avoid a loud click as the latch was locked into place.
“Everything okay?”
Startled, Miranda spun, her hand clapped against her heart. Jackson stood in the archway, wearing a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair unruly, ruffled much too alluringly in the front. When was the last time she saw a man with bedhead? Too long obviously, because she couldn’t stop staring.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stepped closer, bringing the warm smell of sleep and body heat with him—making Miranda think of the tangled sheets he’d climbed out of, the warm, sunken valley of mattress where his body had rested…
She took a sharp step back, forcing room between them. Get a grip, girl!
Miranda swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You didn’t,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“You too? I promise it was decaf.”
Jackson smiled. “It wasn’t the coffee.”
“Your ankle?” she asked.
“My ankle’s great. I can put plenty of weight on it now.”
What then? Miranda wondered.
Jackson crossed his arms, rubbing his biceps. He had to be freezing in just a T-shirt. “How’s he doing?” he asked, looking into Twisty’s stall.
“Much better, actually,” Miranda said, grateful to have the attention shifted off their unexpected reunion. “See for yourself.”
After taking a look, Jackson turned back to Miranda and leaned against Twisty’s door. His smile fell. “I think I know why I can’t sleep.”
Alarm skittered up her spine. Miranda recognized that heavy brow, that patronizing tilt of the head. At last, here it was. The inevitable about-face that she’d been waiting for since she’d first googled Jackson Wilder days earlier. The moment when he realized he was far too important and famous to be sticking around to help some single mother and her worried son.
She rolled her shoulders back, steeling herself for his farewell speech. “Because you’re wondering what you’re still doing here, right?”
Her voice came out tight and crisp, cold enough that Jackson’s eyes narrowed dubiously.
“Actually…just the opposite. It’s because I know what I’m doing here that has me thinking. More than thinking,” he said. “It’s got me realizing how far away I’ve gotten from where I came from. And I’m not sure I like that very much.”
Now it was her turn to look confused. “What are you saying?”
“You and Oliver. This house. What you’re doing with these horses. Making the world a better place.”
She sighed, his compliment only making the sting of today’s news even sharper. “Don’t be so quick to pin a medal on me,” she said quietly.
He squinted at her. “What do you mean?”
Maybe it was fatigue, or maybe it was the tender way he looked at her, but Miranda felt the words rising up her throat again, and this time, she didn’t try to stop them. “I got a letter today—well, Free Spirits got a letter. Informing me that the stable where I board our rescue horses has been sold. I’ve got two months to relocate them.”
Jackson searched her face quizzically. “So you have to find a new stable?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy. The man who was renting it to me had cut me a crazy deal. There was no way I could afford it otherwise.”
“But there must be someone else who could help out. Someone who’d be willing to do the right thing for such a good cause.”
He made it sound so simple.
Miranda fell against the stall door, holding herself. “Not in this town, I’m afraid. Half the reason I started the rescue in the first place was because I knew Louis’s generosity would allow me to do it. We’re not just talking one or two horses. I’ve got six boarding now, not including Twisty—and not including two in Tucson that I’m waiting to bring over.”
Jackson stared at her for several moments then gave a sharp, decided nod. “I’ll give you the money to build a stable.”
Miranda blinked at him, her heart hammering. Surely he wasn’t serious? “You can’t just—just—build a new stable,” she stammered. “It takes time and permits and zoning—”
“And money,” Jackson said firmly. “Most of all it takes mon
ey. Which I have. More than I need, frankly.”
Miranda spun away from him, still trying—and failing—to absorb his outrageous offer. “You don’t even know me, Jackson. You couldn’t possibly give a total stranger half a million dollars.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Anonymous donors do it all the time for causes they believe in.”
“And you believe in my cause? After five days?”
“I’ve seen how much you care for this horse, Miranda. You tell me I have a gift for writing songs, but you have a gift too. People pay to hear my songs—why is it so hard to believe someone should pay you to make the world a kinder place for these animals?”
She moved further down the corridor, but he followed her.
“Miranda, I vowed this year to do something that would really make a difference. You’d be doing me a favor if you said yes.”
She folded her arms and eyed him warily. She’d be helping him out? Now he was just being ridiculous. “I’m not taking your money, Jackson.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like being in debt to people.”
“But you didn’t mind being in debt to this Louis guy?”
“That was different. He cut me a deal—not a check.”
Only when she looked up did she realize how close he’d come, how little space existed between their bodies. Heat flooded her neck. Then the chill of sweat prickled along her hairline.
She wanted to lower her gaze, to break the current of electricity passing between them, but his eyes wouldn’t release her.
His voice deepened. “I stayed here to help give hope to Oliver, to make Christmas what it’s supposed to be: a time for wishes to come true. So let me do that now. In a way that counts.”
When he raised his hand up to cup her face, Miranda felt sure her hot cheek would scald his palm. His face dipped down, his eyes landing on her lips and holding there intently. She knew she should run, that she should slip from his embrace and race back to the house, where she and Ollie and her heart would be assuredly safe.
But more than safety, much more, in that instant she wanted Jackson Wilder to kiss her.
When his mouth covered hers, Miranda felt her body soften, felt her spine curve under his hands. The sounds of the barn hushed, the smell of hay and wood and old leather fell away. All that Miranda knew was the hard warmth of Jackson’s kiss, the taste of peppermint, and the faint sound of her breath leaving her lips when he finally released her mouth.
They just stared at one another, as if waiting for the other person to confirm what had just happened.
Duty and instinct won out. Miranda stepped back. “I have to get back to Ollie.”
She moved to go but Jackson caught her hand and turned her back to face him, his eyes warm with affection. “Just say you’ll think about it, okay?”
Dashing back out into the night, running back to the house so fast her lungs ached, Miranda was absolutely certain she wouldn’t be able to think of much else.
Chapter Nineteen
When dawn finally pierced the horizon, Miranda faced it with equal parts dread and relief. If she hadn’t woken to find her boots and jacket unloaded on the floor by her bed, she might have thought she’d simply dreamed her encounter with Jackson in the barn. After all, it certainly read like the script of a dream. Sexy, charming musician offers desperate single mother a blank check to save her floundering rescue organization and then kisses her!
Miranda touched her lips reflexively, as if she could still feel his mouth on hers.
Who was she kidding? It would take more than one night to forget a kiss like that.
But of course a man like Jackson Wilder knew how to kiss. Miranda could only imagine the hundreds of willing fans he’d had to practice on over the years. Did she honestly think she amounted to more than a snow-capped blip on that man’s radar screen?
Pulling on jeans and a heavy knit sweater, she padded downstairs, turning to more pressing thoughts. She had breakfast to make, a magnificent little human to get off to school, a full day of four-legged patients to care for. Jackson Wilder might think nothing of blowing in and out of this house, but she lived here. This life of hers and Oliver’s was no unexpected lay-over, no holiday vacation.
Pulling out of the driveway with Oliver an hour later, she forced herself not to glance up at the barn, or at the Range Rover as she steered past it for the road. Just as Miranda had thought leaving yesterday morning, she wondered whether Jackson and his vehicle would still be here when they got home.
She was barely through the clinic’s glass doors when Temple popped up from behind the reception desk. “So how was dinner with Santa?”
“Fine,” Miranda said, coming behind the counter and glancing over the list of today’s appointments in the hopes they had an early one scheduled to rescue her from a round of Twenty Questions.
No such luck. Their first appointment wasn’t for another half hour.
Temple tugged the calendar from Miranda’s hands and fixed a steady, don’t-even-try-to-change-the-subject stare on her. “You look like you barely slept. And judging from the way you’ve refused to look me in the eye since you walked in, I’m guessing it’s not because you and Santa were under the mistletoe all night, either.”
Miranda managed a sad chuckle. It was clearly answer enough.
“You’re worried about the horses, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but…it’s not just that.” Miranda sighed. “Temp, I wasn’t straight with you last night. That guy Ollie thinks is Santa? You thought he looked like Jackson Wilder, right?”
“Just like him,” Temple said. “Except for the beard and white hair, of course.”
“Well, here’s the thing…” Miranda bit her lip. “He actually is Jackson Wilder.”
Temple blinked at her for several seconds. “You’re not serious? Jackson Wilder the singer?”
“Apparently.”
“Oh my God—” Temple grabbed Miranda’s hands, her eyes round with panic. “Are you saying you let me meet Jackson Wilder last night with my hair looking a total fright and you didn’t tell me?”
Miranda let go a tired chuckle. Leave it to Temple to find the lighter side of this mess.
Temple took a chair and tugged Miranda down into the other free seat. “Okay, start from the beginning and tell me everything.”
Knowing they only had a few minutes before the office would open, Miranda caught Temple up as quickly as she could. But she saved the best parts for last.
“He offered to donate the money to build a new stable.”
“What?”
“And he kissed me.”
“What!” Temple sprang forward. “How was it?”
Miranda wrinkled her lips disapprovingly. “I’ve got two months to save my horses and you want to know how he kisses?”
Temple’s smile was unapologetic. “It’s called priorities, woman. Now spill.”
“It was…nice.”
“Nice?”
“Okay, it was very nice,” Miranda said, but Temple’s brow remained arched until Miranda blew out an impatient breath and consented, “It was amazing, okay? Possibly the best kiss I’ve ever had in my whole life. Now can we talk about something else, please?”
“Gladly,” said Temple, sitting back with a satisfied smirk. “Like, you better make me maid of honor at your wedding, or I quit.”
“Very funny.” Miranda pushed out of her seat and walked across the lobby to unlock the front door and swing around the OPEN sign. “If he’s even still there when I get home tonight, I’ll consider it no less than a Christmas miracle. Please tell me there’s coffee?”
“Just made a pot—and don’t even think about trying to change the subject,” Temple said, as they walked down the hall to the break room.
Miranda filled a mug and took a long sip. No cream this morning. She didn’t need anything diluting her fullest dose of caffeine.
“So what did you say when he offered the money?” Temple asked coming up beside her
.
“What do you think I said? Absolutely not.”
Knowing this answer would make Temple’s eyes pop even more than news of their kiss, Miranda took a few preemptive steps to the mini fridge and plucked a yogurt off the door.
“You said no?” Temple blinked at her as she peeled back the foil lid. “Miranda, that’s like the stuff out of fairy tales.”
“Exactly. As in not real.” Miranda stabbed her spoon into the smooth top and stirred vigorously. “I’ll figure out a way to fix this, Temp. I don’t need some phony, fantasy prince pretending to care what happens to a woman he just met.”
Temple folded her arms, her chin rising sternly. “According to you, this phony has spent the last five days playing Santa to keep your son’s spirits up. He may be pretending to be Mr. Claus, but it sure doesn’t sound like he’s pretending to care, Miranda.”
*
Jackson set down the guitar and raked both hands through his hair in frustration, regretting the move as soon as he saw the flecks of white spotting his palms.
Never before had he worried if a woman thought he was serious. About anything. In his world, women were the ones always asking him for promises, for guarantees. And yet, all morning, he’d chewed over Miranda’s quick exit, her refusal to give him assurance.
He climbed to his feet and walked out of the office and into the corridor, reminding himself that only a few days earlier he’d been slumped against the same stack of hay bales he could see from where he now stood, dazed as a bird that had just flown into a window. Now everything was so sharp, it practically hurt.
He was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear the chime of his phone in his pocket for several seconds. Yanking it free, he saw Ted’s name flash on the screen.
His agent got right to it.
“Good news, pal! I told Comet about your idea for a Christmas album and they’re all about it. In fact, they want to get you in the studio ahead of schedule so you can drop a single right before the holiday. They’ve moved the studio time to Friday.”