Christmas Blessings: Seven Inspirational Romances of Faith, Hope, and Love

by Leah Atwood

  Conveniently Wed

  The Marriage Bargain

  The Rightful Heir

  Mail Order Brides of River Bend Series

  Safe in a Stranger’s Heart – Book One

  Mail Order Groom – Book Two

  The Doctor’s Lady Rancher – A Pine Haven Story

  Stolen Legacy – A Treasure Harbor Series Novella

  Christmas Lost and Found – October, 2016

  Included in Christmas Blessings –

  Seven Inspirational Romances of Love, Hope & Faith

  One Enchanted Christmas

  a novella

  Melissa Tagg

  © 2015 by Melissa Tagg

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the author. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Jones House Creative

  One Enchanted Christmas

  Melissa Tagg

  Chapter 1

  Once upon a time—specifically, last December—author Maren Grant had what she thought might be the most perfect night of her life.

  Actually, the word she used was “enchanted”—because she’s a writer and writers tend to get dramatic like that. She also might’ve said something to her best friend Remy about “being able to die happy now.”

  But let’s be honest. She was only 29 at the time. She didn’t really want to die.

  She did, however, want to relive that night. She talked about it all the time—at first to Remy and her other friends. And later, when they got sick of the story, to her dog Gilmore.*

  Why was it so perfect—ahem—enchanted? Well, it all started when… Never mind. Let’s just show you…

  *Named after her favorite TV show. Also, a stuffed animal, not a real dog. Because she teaches in addition to writing which means she’s crazy busy and she travels on weekends and so as much as she loves dogs, she’s very aware she’d probably be the worst pet owner ever.

  Last December

  There had to be more ridiculous things in the world than an author falling in love with her own cover model.

  Maren Grant simply couldn’t think of any at the moment.

  “All right, what are you going to say when you meet him?” Dayton Harris reached for the travel mug in the console tucked between car seats. Seemed the editor hadn’t been joking about his tea addiction back when they first met—via phone, thankfully. He’d called to talk about her manuscript, and she’d been so nervous her hands shook.

  Almost as nervous as she was now.

  “I’d bet money you practiced in a mirror.” Dayton’s tone sashayed with enough amusement it should’ve earned a glare.

  But Maren couldn’t possibly muster one—not with Colin Renwycke mere yards away in the downtown Minneapolis park, tossing the photographer’s camera his flawless granite stare while a breathy wind curled snowflakes around his feet. The man couldn’t have been closer to the character in her imagination if she’d somehow channeled Rembrandt and painted her fictional detective herself.

  Ethan Whitney, P.I. More Sam Spade than Sherlock.

  That’s how she’d pitched the main character of her mystery series back when her publishing dream was still just that—a dream.

  And now here she was, watching it come true right in front of her while Dayton’s Honda idled under her fur-trimmed boots. Jeans layered over long johns and one of those puffy marshmallow-looking coats would’ve been the smarter apparel of choice for this afternoon’s Minnesota cold. But a girl didn’t meet a man who might be the love of her life dressed like an Eskimo.

  Thus the black leggings that wouldn’t stand a chance against the chill once she stepped out of the car, the striped skirt that barely reached her knees, the cropped jacket. She’d hidden her usual mess of uncooperative brown hair under a cranberry red knit hat.

  Dayton had already pointed out the others at the photo shoot as they drove up—the photographer’s assistant, a stylist, the cover designer. She’d have met them all in person by now if a combination of afternoon snowfall and rush hour hadn’t delayed her drive across the Twin Cities. By the time she’d met up with Dayton and they’d trekked a few freshly plowed streets to the park, the shoot was nearly finished.

  “Well?” Dayton tapped the steering wheel. “What are you going to say?”

  “I’m going to say, ‘Hi there, I’m Maren Grant, author of the book you’re going to appear on the cover of and I think I might be in love with you.’”

  Dayton sputtered on his earl grey. “Try again.”

  “Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Maren Grant, and there’s a very good chance we’re soul mates.” The car’s heater chugged, and she leaned into the tufts of warm air.

  Dayton rolled his eyes. The editor had less than a decade on her, but his expression now was pure paternal, if exaggerated, disapproval. “You’re hopeless.”

  Maren grinned. Hopeless or simply the most starry-eyed romantic since Doris Day in…well, basically any movie but especially the ones with Rock Hudson.

  But who could blame her? Her debut novel, the first in what she hoped would be a long-running series about a cunning detective, would release nine months from now. Reason enough to trade in common sense for continual giddiness. But then a couple weeks ago Dayton had emailed the headshot of the model the publishing team had decided to use for the cover. And it’d been like seeing a sculpture come to life.

  Cue: instant fascination.

  ’Course she’d mostly been joking when she’d sent Dayton the gushing reply with enough exclamation marks to make her old college writing prof hyperventilate. She hadn’t really expected to be here today, the day of the photo shoot…to get to actually meet the man she’d forever picture from here on out as her beloved detective.

  Outside the windshield and across the snow-quilted lawn, Colin Renwycke now perched against a lamppost under a wash of pale winter sun, powdery white dusting the air around him and the breeze lifting the shock of dark hair over his forehead. The upturned collar of his charcoal trench coat reached toward a shadowed jaw line.

  And then there were those eyes. Even from a distance, their frosty blue could wreak havoc on a girl’s heart.

  “Leg warmers.” She propped her elbows on her knees, chin on her fist. Dayton notched up the heat. “What?”

  “Something more ridiculous than an author falling in love with her cover model. Leg warmers. Why’re those a thing? Who decided ankles deserved more warmth and coddling than any other body part?”

  “It was the 80s. Fashion went off the rails.”

  “Yeah, but they’re back in style now. And it’s only a matter of time before I slip from making fun of them to wearing them myself. It always happens. Skinny jeans. Ankle boots.”

  “Now this conversation is off the rails.” Dayton sipped from his mug. “You do realize this is about a hundred kinds of unusual? An author getting to watch her own cover shoot, I mean. Especially a debut.”

  “But you invited me to see it because you’re secretly a closet romantic?” “Sure.” Dayton let the word dangle with faux agreement.

  “Because I only live twenty-five minutes away and it was about time I visit the publishing offices anyway?” She’d met Dayton a couple times since signing with the publisher, but never at his office.

  “Closer.”

  Another grin. Another glance out the windshield. “Because I texted you that photo of Colin Renwycke’s headshot hanging on my fridge and you wanted to make sure, in person, I haven’t gone completely out of my mind.”

  “Bingo.”

  So maybe she’d developed an unreasonable crush. So what? Wasn’
t Remy always telling her she needed to give romance a chance again?

  Forget Dean. Forget the way things ended. Move on.

  For half a year she’d put up with the well-meaning lectures, pretending to appreciate the advice all the while knowing her heart still needed space to heal.

  Maybe a silly infatuation with a man she’d never met—a model of all things—was the first sign it finally had. Maybe that set-aside dream of finding a love like what her parents shared—one full of big, enchanted, magic moments—wasn’t such an impossibility.

  After all, if her publishing dream could come true… “Hey, Dayton?”

  Outside, the photographer was unzipping the bag slung over his shoulder and dropping his camera in as his assistant lowered the flash umbrella. Done already?

  “Yeah?”

  “I know I’ve said it a dozen times already, but thank you.”

  “You haven’t met the guy yet. He could be a creep.”

  “I don’t mean for today. I mean for picking out my story from your slush pile. Liking it. Making my publishing dream come true.”

  She’d poured her heart into the book and oh, she’d fallen hard for her own main character. A paradox of a detective—rugged and still somehow soft, a lover of logic and justice and answers, with enough of a dreamer in him to woo even the hardest of hearts.

  Except Dean’s.

  And there it was again—the question she could never quite silence: If she hadn’t been so intent on her writing career, so enthralled with her own made-up character, might they still be together?

  Dayton turned the key in the ignition now, and the car’s rumbling stilled. “Wasn’t just me that made it happen. The editorial committee, sales and marketing, the pub board—lots of people were in on the decision.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the one who took the first risk. And the timing…” She’d still been in a post- breakup haze when her agent had emailed to let her know a publisher was interested in the story. Still numb.

  There’d been a six-month wait while the book sat with the publisher, its fate waiting to be determined. Time for Dean’s words to fade into mere whispers, only murmuring to the surface in weak moments.

  “If the man you described in your notes and what little I’ve read of your story is what you want, Mare, well good luck finding him. You’ll need it ’cause he doesn’t exist.”

  “Well, anyway, just…thanks.” Maren reached for the scarf she’d abandoned earlier.

  If Dayton heard the snag in her voice, he didn’t let on. Only tucked his travel mug back into the cup holder and pocketed his keys. “You’re welcome. For the dream-come-true and for today. Just promise me you won’t impulsively propose to the cover model?”

  Bag packed, the photographer was walking this direction now, Colin Renwycke not far behind him. His trench coat whipped behind him in the wind.

  Maren wound her scarf around her neck and reached for her door handle. “Promise I won’t propose. Can’t promise I won’t fall on a patch of ice, though. Or forget my name. Or spill something.”

  “Say again?”

  She opened her door and a blast of wintry cold pinched over her. “I may write mystery, not straight romance, but trust me, my dear editor, I know how meet-cutes work.” She slipped from the car.

  Dayton followed suit, tossing his next words over the Honda’s hood. “This isn’t a Hallmark movie, Grant.”

  The breeze sent her scarf fluttering as she reached back into the car for her purse. “I wish I had a dog. We could’ve done this 101 Dalmatians style.” She gathered her purse over her arm, turned while fitting on her gloves. “You know, where the leash gets all tangled around our feet and we’re thrust together—me and the model, I mean.”

  With a backward kick, she closed the car door and started forward…then instantly jolted back, one end of her scarf stuck in the door. At the strangling pull, her arms flew into the air and her back hit the car.

  She heard Dayton’s snort as her purse landed in the snow with a splat and the other end of her scarf matted itself to her face.

  And then the voice.

  “Is this the author I’m supposed to meet?” And the sound of her own groan.

  And Dayton’s laughter.

  “Indeed. Colin Renwycke meet Maren Grant.”

  * * *

  Okay, you get the point, right? Thanks to the handiwork of her editor—who by the way, definitely IS a closet romantic—Maren got to meet the handsome model that would be appearing on the cover of her very first book.

  And it was, in her words, akin to sipping a peppermint mocha by a fireplace while watching the first snowfall of the year with Bing Crosby singing a baritone ballad in the background.

  Again, remember…writer.

  But she didn’t only meet Colin Renwycke. After that not-at-all-cliché meet-cute, the couple actually went out for coffee…which turned into dinner…which turned into one of those horse- drawn carriage rides through downtown Minneapolis. Colin regaled her with stories of his idyllic childhood in the charming town of Maple Valley, Iowa, and didn’t once yawn when Maren babbled about her writing.

  Hmm, so maybe “enchanted” isn’t such a stretch, after all.

  Alas, the evening eventually came to an end. Although Maren entertained hopes of seeing Colin again, she only heard from him once after their whirlwind evening. A postcard arrived shortly before Christmas with a wintry scene on the front and a couple scribbled lines on the back.

  Thanks for the date and best wishes for your book.

  Don’t forget my open invitation. -C

  I know what you’re thinking: “Open invitation? What’s Colin talking about? Why didn’t you let us see that part of their date? Or, for that matter, any part of their date other than that first adorable moment?”

  But this is a novella, dear reader. There’s simply not time to show you everything. And thus, we skip ahead to present day…

  Chapter 2

  This December

  To hear his neighbor talk, Drew Renwycke was about to throw away everything…

  [Narrator]

  Again, I know what you’re thinking: “Wait, what? Drew Renwycke? What about Colin?”

  No worries, reader friend. You’ll get to see Book Cover Colin again. But for now, try to settle in and give Drew a chance. I have a feeling you might like him.

  Now back to the story…

  To hear his neighbor talk, Drew Renwycke was about to throw away everything. Lose both his savings and his sanity in a doomed endeavor.

  But what was so crazy about resurrecting his grandparents’ dream? And how could Byron Pratt be so sure he’d fail?

  Drew tromped through the span of yard leading from the farmhouse he’d never stopped calling home to the machine shed where he honestly didn’t know what he’d find. A shovel, hopefully, if nothing else. His work boots—a size too big, but the only ones he’d located in the house—sunk into soggy, dirt-packed snow. Probably if he’d just wait another day, the snow might melt away. Save him the chore of shoveling.

  But he needed the physical labor today. Needed something to stave off the force of Byron Pratt’s words. “You’re not up to the task, son. This place needs more than you’ve got to give.”

  His neighbor trailed behind him, consternation hovering even now in his silence. “Mr. Pratt—”

  “Byron.”

  Right. The man had told him two times already to call him by his first name. Iowa manners—hard to shake even after a decade away from Maple Valley. Still, if he was to win his neighbor’s approval…

  “Sorry, Byron. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, and I understand what this means for you. You’ve been working Renwycke land for years now.” Ever since Mom and Dad moved away. Byron had likely planned to go on with the arrangement indefinitely.

  Drew reached the shed, its curved metal handle rusted and loose, white paint peeling and weatherworn. A perfect match for the farmhouse’s stripped siding and the barn’s faded color—spring rain and
hot summer sun, the bone-chilling breaths of winter too much for its once cheery red.

  The whole farm seemed to sag under the weight of age and neglect.

  And he had a mere five months to turn it all around in time for planting season.

  He yanked on the shed door, feet sliding against his oversized soles. He should get some boots that actually fit if he was really going to pull off this Farmer Drew thing.

  The door barely budged.

  “It’s not just the land I’m concerned about.” Byron stepped up beside him. Even with Drew’s six- foot-one height, the man nearly towered over him, his shadow gulping up Drew’s against the shed door. One hefty shunt and the door creaked open.

  But Byron stopped him from walking inside with a hand on his shoulder. “I watched you and your siblings grow up, Drew. I heard your father say more than once he didn’t foresee any of his children following in his footsteps.”

  Yeah, well, there was probably a lot about his children Dad hadn’t foreseen.

  Flashes of memory shoved in. The night that started it all. The barn crowded with teenagers, thumping base and humid air thick with the smell of cheap alcohol. Leigh with tear-streaked cheeks and desperation etched into her hollow eyes. And Colin…

  A dangerous mix of reckless frustration. They’d fallen apart at the seams, his family.

  But surely it wasn’t too late. It’s why he was here. Why he’d moved back to Maple Valley four months ago and poured himself into repairing as much of the house as he could before winter trundled in.

  But how to make Byron understand?

  “I have to do this.” Feeble words, perhaps. But their weight trekked through him, the same resolve that’d prompted him to walk away from his contracting job in St. Louis coaxing him inside the shed now. He’d already talked Leigh into moving into her old bedroom, had given his niece, Winnie, the one that used to be his parents’. She’d been plenty surly about it, but she was thirteen. Guess that was par for the course.