by C. J. Kyle
Miranda gave a nod of thanks and pushed open the heavy doors. She glanced around the dinner crowd, looking for anyone who appeared to be waiting for her.
A woman with high, nearly bouffant hair greeted her. “Have a seat. Anywhere you’d like.”
Miranda smiled. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. A, um, Taylor? Trevor?” She fished in her purse for his information while she talked. “He owns the Nativity Cottages near the river?”
“You mean Tucker?”
She stopped fishing. “Yes, that’s it. Is he here?”
“No, but I’ll make sure he finds you when he shows up.”
Miranda thanked her and chose a booth near the door. She’d barely scooted in when the bouffant woman tossed a menu onto the table.
“Specials are on the board.” She pointed to the chalkboard with the neon script detailing the nightly deals. “Be back in a moment to take your order. Anything to drink in the meantime?”
Miranda wanted wine. Desperately. But she was driving. “Water. With lemon please.”
She glanced over the menu, settled on the stew, and closed her eyes. A gust of cold from outside pulled her lids open again, and she found herself watching a tall man built like a quarterback stepping through the tinkling doors. Miranda swallowed, hating herself for even noticing how appealing he was. But who could blame her? She’d been so consumed with other things lately . . . getting laid had fallen so far down on her to-do list that she couldn’t even find it anymore. A man like that could spark even the deadest libido back to life.
The waitress led him to Miranda and grinned. “Here he is.”
The man smiled down at her. “Miranda, right?”
He eyed her, and she squirmed a little. The term landlord had conjured an image of an old man with glasses. This guy certainly didn’t fill that bill.
“Yeah, hi.” She thrust out her hand awkwardly and shivered as his warm one engulfed her fingers. It took her a moment longer than it should have to let go. “Tucker?”
“That’s me. Mind if I sit? I have some paperwork for you to fill out and then we can get you settled in.”
“Sure. I was about to order something. I hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk. It was a long drive.”
“Not at all. I could do with something myself.” He handed her a small stack of papers. “Have a look over those while I decide what I’m in the mood for and I can answer any questions you have.”
Occasionally, his gaze met hers over his menu and she looked away, embarrassed that her sixteen months of celibacy were catching up to her. She hadn’t come to this town for romance or sex. God, she needed her life back. Needed to get laid. Needed to be anywhere but here.
She leaned back as Bouffant slid a glass of water in front of her. Miranda glanced up to see the name badge that proclaimed her the Peggy Jo.
“What’s it going to be?”
“I’ll have the beef stew.”
Her new landlord flashed a grin that revealed two perfect dimples. Of course he had dimples. No Superman was created without them. “Coffee. Meat loaf. And your amazing cornbread.”
When Peggy Jo walked away, he turned those dimples toward Miranda. “The stew is great, but she tends to run out during dinner rush. Figured I’d leave some for you tourists to sample.”
She turned her attention to the papers in front of her and pulled a pen from her purse. “This is for weekly rentals, right? I’m not sure how long I’ll need the place and want to make sure I can renew without someone else’s reservation knocking me out of a place to sleep.”
“I block off the cabins a week in advance. If you think it might be longer, let me know before checkout on Sunday. The sooner the better each week.” He leaned back and Peggy Jo slid a coffee in front of him.
Miranda watched him, her pen hovering over the agreement. “I’m surprised you don’t have a line of renters. I saw the property on my way in. It’s nice.”
And a landlord like Tucker would draw women from all over for a nice stay in town. She wondered how many he looked at the way he was looking at her right now. Eyes slightly shielded by heavy lids and long, dark lashes. Sleepy-looking with a hint of no-nonsense.
“I do. But out of the five cottages, I try to keep two freed up for the week-by-week renters like you.”
She smiled. “Are you always this accommodating?”
“I try.” He flashed those dimples again. “So, what brings you to Christmas?”
She sipped her water. Why she was here mattered only to her right now. “Why does anybody come here? Christmas in Christmas. Quaint.”
“Yes. Families usually. Did you come to get away from yours?”
Miranda squeezed the wedge of lemon into her water and studied him. He had a friendly smile that caused little lines to crinkle around his eyes. Despite the warmth in those eyes, she had no desire to open up and spill her story to him. “Don’t have much left.”
Just her brother. And she certainly couldn’t spend the holiday with him.
She could all but see the gears turning in Tucker’s head as he tried to figure her out. His gaze dropped to her ringless left hand. She glanced at his, in turn, and found it as naked as her own.
Why did that make her smile?
Peggy Jo set their meals in front of them and pointed her pen at Tucker. “Let me know when you want dessert. Just pulled an apple cobbler from the oven.”
“Best cobbler in three counties,” Tucker said, digging into his meat loaf.
Miranda was content to watch him eat. She’d been around all walks of life and had learned to tell a lot about a person by the way he ate. The poor families she’d worked with in South America had scarfed down their food, their bowls held close to their chests for fear of someone taking them away. Busy people tended to share the same mannerisms, barely breathing between bites so they could suck down some nourishment before the next work-related emergency struck.
But it was kids she liked to watch the most. Their sheer enjoyment over something as simple as macaroni and cheese always brought a smile to her face. They were the ones she tried to emulate with each and every meal, never forgetting to take pleasure in a hot bite of something rich and creamy. Especially now, when she had to pick and choose which meals she could afford to eat.
Tucker was none of these types, though. He sat straight, one hand beneath the table, the other holding his fork lightly. Impeccable manners. Good upbringing. He reached for his coffee, and her gaze dropped to the Rolex on his wrist.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
As if on cue, her stomach grumbled. Tucker laughed. The richness of the sound washed over her. She shivered, her empty stomach quivering for something more than food.
“Go on, dig in.”
She took a spoonful and moaned with delight. The garland lady had been right. Miranda had never tasted anything so rich and flavorful in her life. She’d existed on fast food and gas station junk for months. In contrast to that, this was like eating at a four-star restaurant.
She looked up to find Tucker watching her. His lids were at half-mast again. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he worked to swallow his meat loaf. “Sorry, it’s just really good,” she said around another spoonful.
“No need to apologize.” He slid the plate of cornbread closer to her. “Wait until you try that. Better than cake.”
He wasn’t wrong. Miranda swallowed the moist, sweet bread and chased it with a gulp of water to keep herself from finishing it off. They were halfway through their meal when his cell phone rang. He set his fork on the edge of his plate and sipped his coffee.
She eyed the lit-up phone at the edge of the table. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
“Everyone’s entitled to an uninterrupted meal now and then. Including me.” The chirping silenced and he dug back into his food.
As Miranda finished filling out the agreement, Peggy Jo returned with two bowls of hot cobbler with a large dollop of cream on top and coffee. “Hope you saved room.”
She hadn’t, but she took a little bite, licking the cream from her spoon. She caught him staring and quickly tucked her tongue back where it belonged.
When was the last time someone had looked at her like that? She sighed. This guy was a charmer. Trouble with a capital T.
“Here you go.” She slid the paperwork across the table. “Think that’s everything. First week’s rent up front, right?”
He glanced over it and rose to dig a set of keys from his pocket and set them on the table. “Yeah. Plus a hundred-dollar deposit if you have pets.”
“I don’t.”
He pushed the keys toward her. “Then these are yours. Cottage C, the one you requested.” He picked up his fork and poked at his cobbler. “Why’d you want that one anyway? It’s usually the last rented out. Most people prefer the river view.”
She tucked the keys into her purse and retrieved the check she’d already made out. “I can see rivers anywhere. I’d rather have a view of the town.”
“Well, it was a pleasure, Miranda.” His deep voice sent another shiver down her spine. It had lowered an octave, as though he was purposely trying to make himself sound sexier. “My place is two over from yours. The main house. Can’t miss it. Don’t tell Peggy Jo, but I make a pretty mean stew myself if you want to share another mea—”
“Hey, Chief!”
In unison, they turned toward the shout. Peggy Jo leaned against the counter, her hand covering the mouthpiece of the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Lisa needs you to call her back. Says it’s important.”
“Thanks.” He mumbled an apology as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket.
Miranda swallowed, all the warmth he’d given her before now chilled solid again. “Ch-Chief?”
He stared at the phone as he pushed buttons. “Yeah. Small police department, but it’s mine.”
“I thought you were in realty.”
She struggled to wrap her brain around this new development. She didn’t like police. At all. Her Superman had just turned into Lex Luthor.
“When I bought the property, it came with the cottages. Might as well earn some extra on the side, right? Excuse me, I have to make this call. You know your way to the place?”
She nodded, unable to say more.
He lifted the phone to his ear. “It’s Tuck. What’s the emergency?”
Miranda toyed with her cobbler, trying to give him as much privacy as the booth allowed. Maybe she should try one more time to find an empty room somewhere else.
She sighed. She’d already done that search weeks ago before settling on the cottage. She’d have to sleep in her car or in another nearby town. If she hadn’t just filled out the agreement, either option would be more pleasant, but she had no choice. She couldn’t afford to lose that down payment.
She was stuck with the badge as her landlord.
“Send Andy . . .” he was saying. “How long ago? I’m on my way. No need. I remember where it is.” He disconnected. “Peggy Jo, can I get a to-go box for my cobbler? Duty calls.”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
“Is everything all right?” Miranda asked.
“Yeah it’s probably nothing, but I still need to check it out.” He pulled a card from his pocket and jotted a number on the back. “That’s my cell number. You can catch me at my office most days. If you need anything . . . like company for another meal, give me a call. I don’t usually have to eat and run like this.”
“It’s fine.” She took the card and slipped it into her purse. No way in hell was she calling that number unless her plumbing became an issue.
The cottage’s plumbing. Not hers.
Peggy Jo appeared with Tucker’s to-go box and two checks. Before Miranda could protest, he paid both bills and rushed into the snow flurries outside.
Both women turned to watch Tucker disappear inside a large white truck. “You’re one lucky lady.”
Miranda shifted her gaze to Peggy Jo. “What makes you say that?”
“The chief doesn’t smile like that at all the pretty tourists. Or buy them dinner. And he never shares his cornbread. Must mean he likes you.”
When she was alone again, Miranda pulled Tucker’s card from her purse. She couldn’t afford to let anything get in the way of why she was here. Not even two extremely charming dimples.
With a sigh, she left the card on the table and slid out of the booth, slipping her duffel bag over her shoulder as she went. She unlocked the Rover’s driver door and was about to climb inside. As she glanced over her shoulder, the table she’d shared with Tucker was in clear view.
“You are a damned fool,” she cursed herself, rushing back inside to snatch the card off the table before the busboy could toss it in the trash.
A damned fool indeed.
Chapter 2
THE CABIN WAS just what Miranda had expected. It was set up much like a motel room with the living area taking the majority of the space, a small kitchenette and dining area, and a decent-sized bathroom attached to the bedroom. A little Christmas tree set up in front of the window fit the red and green holiday decor. The best part was that the cabin was perched on a slight hill, allowing her an unobstructed view of the town in the distance.
Mascara wand in hand, Miranda paused her post-shower ministrations to peer out the small bedroom window at St. Catherine’s. From here, she could barely see the big brick walls punctuated with stained glass windows, the ornate door and grand steps leading to it. Under the evening sky, it looked just like most of the other Catholic churches she’d seen in her lifetime, just a tad smaller and with fewer people entering and exiting.
Of course, she was in the Bible Belt now. Likely the Baptist churches were a lot busier than the quiet St. Catherine’s, but other than a lone groundskeeper shoveling snow off the walkway, there was very little activity around the building itself.
No one really seemed to pay it much mind, either, as they strode past with their families toward the evening’s festivities at the Town Square. After her dinner at Peggy Jo’s, she’d driven the streets to get the layout and noticed the gridlike patterns of the roads here. Everything led back to the Town Square, where City Hall sat center stage, bordered by a busy park complete with snow hills for sledding, and edged all the way around by wrought-iron gates sparkling with green garlands.
It was all very quaint indeed, but given her reason for being here, that quaintness had become downright chilling.
She returned to applying her makeup. As she carefully traced her eyes with liner, she sneered at the black hair spilling around her face. It didn’t look natural at all. But she’d dyed her red hair on the slight chance she’d be recognized.
She touched up her lips with a combination of ChapStick and lip gloss to protect against the cold. The beef stew and cornbread she’d enjoyed only a short time ago now sat in her belly like bricks. She popped a couple antacids in an attempt to settle her stomach.
Flipping open her suitcase, she pulled out a clean ivory sweater and slid it over her jeans. The matching knit hat was a little too large for her small head, but it would help keep her ears warm. She slid her soggy Converse on over two pairs of socks, grabbed her parka and purse, and headed out into the cold. If she procrastinated any longer, she’d lose the courage to go at all.
Because almost everything she needed was within walking distance, she’d parked the Range Rover in a garage a couple of blocks over and covered it to conceal her Ohio plates. Better to save her funds for lodging and food and maybe a pair of shoes that didn’t soak in water like a sponge, rather than waste it on gas.
She frowned at her feet, carefully choosing her path down the gravel trail entwined around the cottages and leading to a paved drive near the main house. Tucker’s house. Chief Tucker.
Frowning, she wrapped her coat tighter around her body. His house was small for a man who owned a Rolex. It was a single-story ranch style that somewhat resembled a log cabin—painted a shade darker than the tan cottages surrounding
it. There were no lights on inside that she could see, and she assumed he was still dealing with whoever had called him away from their dinner.
Not that it mattered. She couldn’t afford to spend any more thought on him and his badge.
With a sigh, she opened the gates at the front of the property and stepped onto the sidewalk that would take her to Main Street. She walked, head down to protect against the cold, until she was at the street corner directly across from St. Catherine’s.
The groundskeeper she’d seen earlier had disappeared, and all the proof of the work he’d done on clearing the walkway and sidewalks with him. Already a fine layer of white dusted the concrete. Checking for traffic, or, rather, for horse-drawn carriages as that seemed to be the travel method of choice around here, Miranda jogged across the street and up the wide steps into St. Catherine’s.
She stopped in the vestibule and made a mental map of her surroundings. Discreet gold plaques marked the way toward the reconciliation chapel and church offices down the right wing. To the left, a children’s chapel and a nursery. The emptiness was eerie, but she wasn’t sure this place ever filled enough to make her not feel like she stood out.
She stepped into the nave, stopping by the baptismal pool. She didn’t dip her fingers into the holy water or cross herself. This had not been her faith in a very long time. The muted light accentuated the red sanctuary lamp and the tier of remembrance candles. The way the firelight danced across the stained glass windows did nothing to calm her tingling nerves.
Scanning the chapel, she saw no movement near the altar. All the pews were vacant. And if the confessional near the far wall was in use, there was no light to guide the lost. She stepped back into the aisle. This time, however, she did bow her head to the crucifix mounted behind the altar and offered a quick prayer for safety and guidance.
Returning to the vestibule, she collected several pamphlets and scanned them. Times of Mass and confession, prayer requests and upcoming events. She stuffed them in her pockets and made her way down the right hallway, stopping to glance into the confessional chapel. Finding it empty as well, she moved to the end of the hall.