A Snow Country Christmas

by Linda Lael Miller

  It was a generous offer about the dog, and an impulsive one, but he already had the impression that despite Raine’s wariness around him, she made a habit of following her instincts most of the time—not in an impractical way, but just acting from the heart. “Yes, that’s the plan. Real Wyoming. Solitude and a stunning view. A place where I can sit and read, maybe write something that isn’t a memo just for a change of pace, and relax on the front porch with a glass of wine or a cold beer and watch the sunset. I’m at a place in my life where I’m starting to realize that being driven has its perks, but working every second of the day isn’t necessarily good for you.”

  “Write something? Like the great American novel?” She was looking at him like he’d sprouted a second head.

  “Believe it or not, Ms. Artist, I do have some imagination.” He didn’t add that he could easily imagine her soft, warm and naked in his arms, but it was getting harder to banish those images from his mind.

  “I have no trouble believing that, actually. Excuse me, Jangles, your new friend and I have someplace to go.” She gently scooted away from the cat and stood. “I’ll get your coat, Mr. Boardroom. Time for a scenic Christmas Eve jaunt.”

  “Now?” He glanced at the clock, which had wands for hands and glass slippers in varying colors to represent the hours. Which made him think she’d designed it. It looked like, if he could read it correctly, it was nearly eleven o’clock.

  “As good a time as any, right? Snow falling, the mountains in the backdrop and winter magic in the air... I want to show you something. No, now I need to show you something.”

  He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but was willing to play along. “Okay, I’m game.”

  “You might be when you see what I’m going to show you. I’ll drive.”

  “Drive? Where—”

  “Let’s go.” She opened a hall closet and took out a coat, then disappeared to return with his, pulling on fluffy white mittens as he did up his buttons. “This is perfect.”

  Mystified, he said, “I’ll take your word for it. Care to give me a hint where we’re going?”

  “I’m a show-not-tell kind of girl. You’ll find out.”

  Two minutes later they were in the car, driving toward a destination unknown.

  * * *

  The place looked as she remembered it the day she put it up for sale, but was also lit by the moon now that the snow had subsided to flurries, and she spotted the twinkle of a star or two as the clouds moved overhead in the brisk December wind.

  Maybe fate had smiled on her twice this night.

  Raine took in the weathered structure before them and tried to stifle a pang over the prospect of it being torn down. She warned herself that a man like Mick Branson probably wouldn’t want the dilapidated wreck, and she could hardly blame him for that, but the setting was incredible.

  “If you want Wyoming, this is it,” she said as she parked the SUV. “There’s a small lake behind the house, fed by a spring. It’s so crystal clear, fishing should be a crime there because you can drop a hook right in front of a fish. I know it’s frozen over right now, but in the warmer weather it’s perfect for swimming in. And you have never seen anything so amazing in your life as the view from the back porch when you sit and watch the sun come up.”

  He was diplomatic, but she expected that. “The cabin looks really old.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century. The house is falling down.” She shut off the vehicle. “It was once just one room, but sections were added on here and there over the past century. Keep in mind the location. It isn’t a lot of land, just a hundred acres, but you don’t want to run cattle, correct? Just have a place to get away. Let me show you the inside.”

  “One hundred acres in L.A. isn’t even a possibility. Neither is me running cattle, since I’d have no idea what to do. I do just need a place to get away... Raine, why do you have a key?”

  “You can tear it all down as far as the buildings go, though I wish you wouldn’t, but this is really a nice piece of property.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  She sighed and turned to face him. “It belonged to my grandfather.”

  He paused. “Okay.”

  “And it belonged to his grandfather before him.”

  His jaw dropped. “You’re joking, right?”

  She wasn’t. “It was built a very long time ago obviously. Don’t those old pictures you’ve seen strike a chord? Slater featured a before and after of this place in his documentary. I have to say, he made his point about continuity across the generations. It hasn’t changed.”

  Snow was still drifting down as she stood there, reminded powerfully of Slater’s film. Mick said, “I remember. He didn’t tell me this belonged to your family.”

  Drily, she remarked, “When Slater is in work mode, the rest of the world just goes away. Plus I doubt he thought it’d matter to you one way or another. Wait until you see the inside.” She pulled out the flashlight she’d brought, the powerful beam catching the sagging facade. “No electricity. The water is piped in straight from the lake with no filtration system whatsoever, but since my grandfather grew up here, he just drank it anyway and swore it was better than any city water could ever be. I’d skip that top step—it was dicey the last time I was here and I doubt it has improved any.”

  Mick had a bemused expression on his face. “This has certainly been an interesting first date. Lead on.”

  She slanted him a sidelong look and hopped up over the tricky step. The entire porch creaked, but it had done so for as long as she could remember. “Date, huh? I thought it was a business meeting.”

  “I guess now’s the time for me to confess that that was a ploy to get you to have dinner with me. My reasons for talking business with you were genuine, but the minute that discussion was over, it became a date.” He was tall enough to step smoothly over the dicey step. “See how devious I am? You fell right into my wicked trap.”

  “Or you fell into mine.” She jiggled the key in the ancient lock. There was an art to cajoling it to cooperate. “Have I mentioned this place is haunted?”

  “No, but what would Christmas Eve be without a snowy haunted old cabin? If it wasn’t, I’d be disappointed.” His tone was dry, but he looked intrigued.

  She liked his understated sense of humor. To her that was more important than good looks or money. The door finally decided they could come inside and obediently creaked open. “Here’s your slice of history.”

  4

  THE INSIDE OF the cabin was like a time capsule.

  Mick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Old wooden armchairs around a table made from what looked like an old trough turned upside down, an ancient washtub in the corner, a very old rifle over the hearth of a fireplace he suspected had been the only source of heat for the place. There was even a tin cup sitting on the table like it had been left there by the last occupant.

  And everywhere there were books. In homemade shelves against the walls and stacked on the floor. An ancient dry sink was part of the kitchen area, as was a rusted metal work table and several shelves with some significantly old dishes. In the corner, a wooden bucket right next to it was probably the way to wash them.

  Raine stood next to him, her mittened hands in her pockets, and said neutrally, “No electricity, no heat, and if you look around for the bathroom, it’s out back. My grandfather was a minimalist. He read Walden and never glanced back. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Matthew Brighton.”

  Mick about fell over. “The author?” It would certainly account for all the books...but really?

  “That’s the one.”

  “He was your grandfather?”

  “Yes.” She’d put on this cute white knit hat before they left the house and it set off her dark hair. Her nose was tinged pink
from the cold.

  He couldn’t believe it. “My father had some of his books. I read them as a kid. That’s how I got hooked on Westerns. Are you serious?”

  “Would I lie?”

  He didn’t think she ever would. In his estimation she was probably as honest as it was possible to hope for a person to be.

  He found himself grinning. “I loved those books. My favorite was Paintbrush Pass.”

  She smiled. “Mine, too. Do you realize that was set right here?”

  “Here...here? Like on this property here?”

  “Exactly.”

  Oh hell, that intrigued him. “I knew Slater’s film emphasized the legacy of a famous Western author and it was Brighton. I liked seeing the town through that lens.”

  Her eyes suddenly glossed over. “This is where my grandfather wrote. He sat right at that desk.” She pointed to the corner. “Impressive, right?”

  It wasn’t, certainly not by modern standards. But it was perfect—an old wagon wheel on a post covered with pieced together lengths of hand-shaved wood no one had ever bothered to finish other than to roughly plane it with a tool that gave it a moderately flat surface. Brighton’s typewriter was still there and should probably be in a museum.

  “He told me once that was all he’d asked for in his life. Solitude and a place to write suited his needs perfectly. Central air was an option he didn’t worry about, he’d just open the windows. He didn’t need a dishwasher since he had two perfectly good hands and that old bucket.”

  Mick walked over and ran his hand reverently over the surface on the typewriter, coating his fingers with dust. “I can’t believe this.”

  Raine still missed her grandfather. He could hear it in her voice. “He was a rather salty old character, but all in all, a happy man.”

  “I can imagine. You know, thanks to him I wrote a couple of short stories in college that actually got published. My major was business, but my minor was English. I started a novel, but then I got that fairly high-powered job right after graduation.” He lifted his shoulder in a negligent shrug, but life was full of what-ifs and he knew that. “Going that direction certainly made more sense at the time.”

  “This property would be a great place for a house.” She looked him in the eye. “I swear you’d get a bargain price if you’d just let the cabin stand. There’s lots of space to build. I’ve tried the Bliss County Historical Society, but they think it’s too remote to really be a tourist draw, so they can’t justify the funding for a decent road and maybe they’re right. Not even Mrs. Arbuckle-Calder can whip up some support. I want someone to enjoy the place and not tear down the cabin. If you want a scenic spot, this is it. Just tell me you won’t raze the cabin and I’ll practically give it away.”

  So this was why she’d dragged him halfway up a mountain in the middle of a snowy night. He sensed from the way she looked at him that she was somehow confident he was the man who might be worthy enough to take on this legacy that mattered to her.

  He had to admit he was flattered—and humbled. It mattered to him, too. He’d devoured Brighton’s books, reading a lot of them in one sitting. He couldn’t agree more that the place should stay exactly as it was.

  “I’m not quite ready to sign on the dotted line, but I’m definitely intrigued. Second date? We can come back and you can show me the property in the daylight.” It was difficult not to confess he’d see footage of it tomorrow, but especially now, he wanted her to be as surprised as Slater and the rest of his family when the documentary aired.

  “Second date.” Her smile was tremulous and he doubted that happened often with her. “I never wanted to sell it in the first place, but taxes are expensive. And though Daisy and I come up here for a picnic now and then, as ridiculous as this sounds, I think the cabin is starting to get depressed about being abandoned. I want someone who appreciates the history and doesn’t just see a dilapidated wreck. If you didn’t have vision, you and Slater wouldn’t get along.”

  He needed to set the record straight. “If he wasn’t a brilliant filmmaker we wouldn’t get along on a business level, but he is, and as a person I like him very much. It has nothing to do with me except I help other people believe in what he has in mind.”

  Her breath was frosty as she blew out a laugh. “He’d so disagree. I believe he calls you ‘the driving force.’”

  “Maybe I am, of the funding of the production. He’s the inspired one. It’s collaboration, a sum of the parts.”

  “Slater Carson doesn’t collaborate with just anyone Take my word for it. I’ve known him for a while.” She suddenly put those fluffy mittens on his shoulders and rose up to give him a light kiss that was very nice but not nearly all he wanted. Her lips were warm and smooth. She whispered, “I’m glad you’re here. Merry Christmas.”

  At that moment a breeze brushed by, ruffling a stack of old, yellowed papers still sitting on the cluttered desk. Startled, he looked around, but the door was firmly shut and so were the windows. She said blithely, “I told you it was haunted. I think he likes you. Let’s head back.”

  One of the pages had floated to the floor and she bent to pick it up.

  * * *

  Well, there was no question she was an idiot.

  A sentimental idiot, but so it went. The minute Raine heard Mick Branson was looking for property in Wyoming, she thought about her family legacy. That he knew her grandfather’s name blew her away. That he’d read his books made it even more special.

  Fate, plain and simple.

  She was a great believer in spiritual signs, no matter if it was labeled fate or attributed to some divine power. If Mick bought the property, maybe he would leave the cabin standing. She’d resigned herself to saying goodbye to it someday, and Blythe had kindly offered to have the Carson Ranch pay the taxes, but Raine wanted someone to use the land, to enjoy the breathtaking views, to appreciate and find joy in it like her grandfather had his whole life. She’d thought about someday building a house on it, but it would have to be after Daisy was out of school. Their modest little house suited them perfectly for now.

  “Two people have looked at the property in the past three years,” she told Mick when they were back in the car and bumping along what didn’t even resemble a lane. “Both thought it was too remote and the cost of bringing electricity and making a decent road was prohibitive. The road has to be built in order to bring in supplies for building and fuel. I’d put in a generator and call it a day. Internet might be a bit dicey, too.”

  Mick was hanging on to the strap on the passenger side. “How did your grandfather handle it? I mean, everyone needs groceries.”

  “He rode a horse into town. He used saddlebags.”

  “Of course,” he murmured. “I just take the freeway or get on a plane. I guess I forget sometimes where I am. So he didn’t just write about it, he lived the life.”

  “There’s something to be said for convenience, but on the other hand, the middle of nowhere is pretty peaceful. There are sacrifices involved in both, I suppose.”

  “It’s tough to get what you want without sacrifice,” he agreed quietly. “I’m living proof of that. I worked very hard to please my parents when I would have rather have been one of those daring cowboys in your grandfather’s novels.”

  “Those fictitious cowhands would have thought you were the glamorous one. Ranch life is cold, it’s lonely, and you definitely don’t get any thank-you notes from the cattle. At least in your line of work you get invitations to the Oscars.”

  Mick had the grace to laugh. “I wouldn’t exactly call my life glamorous, but I get what you’re saying.”

  “I never thought I’d say this, but I really see why Slater likes you. You’re very real.”

  “As compared to being fake?”

  “As compared to being a snob because you probably own suits that cost more t
han some of the pickups people drive around here. I’m surprised the cabin didn’t collapse when you walked in wearing a cashmere coat and loafers instead of boots.”

  “There’s a part of me that would rather walk around in worn jeans and a flannel shirt. It’s all based on what we get used to, and what works for us.” He took a deep, appreciative breath as he looked out the window. “Man, it is beautiful here. Aspens in snow are about as Christmas as you can get.”

  She smiled to herself. He’d mentioned the aspens. That was a sign.

  It did look like quite the winter wonderland outside, the trees glistening and, now that the weather was clearing, a moon that illuminated the snowcapped mountains. Something slunk by in the shadow of the trees and disappeared before she could get a clean view beside the gleam of feral eyes. Big wolf or small mountain lion? Out here, either was a possibility.

  Mick noticed it, too. “What was that?”

  “Not sure.” The increasing wind picked up some snow and flung it at the windshield. “But I’m fairly certain we’d just as soon avoid it on foot if possible.”

  He muttered, “Me, too. I don’t see how the ranchers out here do it. Drake Carson in particular, riding fence lines after dark every single night.”

  “Not that I’ve ever known him to use it, but he carries a rifle and rides a really big horse. And I’m sure he doesn’t understand how you’re able to endure traveling the crowded L.A. freeways on a regular basis and having three-martini lunches in fancy restaurants.”

  Lightly, Mick said, “I usually keep it to just two martinis, no olive, just a twist of lemon.” She caught his grin in the darkness of the car. “Actually, I tend to stick to a glass of sparkling water. I work long hours. A drink at lunch, much less three, is just bad for productivity.”

  “I might do business with a winery, but I agree.”

  “You see? We have another mutual philosophy. What time are you headed out to the ranch tomorrow?”

  She turned on the county highway and it felt smooth as glass compared to the rutted, overgrown and disused lane that had never been graded in her memory. “About ten or so. We don’t open gifts until the morning chores are done and everyone rides back in. Cattle still need to be fed and the horses taken care of, even on Christmas day.”