by Deb Kastner
Which brought her back to thinking about her own vehicle. She’d loved her little yellow convertible from the moment she’d driven it off the lot. It was a gift to herself, a way to find joy in a life that was often rushed and empty. At least with her car she could control the speed, and she loved the feeling of the wind in her hair.
But a sports car with children?
Not so much.
She’d definitely given her tiny car careful consideration after that humiliating struggle to remove the twins from the backseat as Simon looked on, probably laughing at her under his breath.
She really didn’t need flash and speed out here in Wildhorn. She had nowhere to crank it up unless she sped off down the highway out of town, and there wasn’t much call for that right now, what with babies to care for. She was more likely to bend a rim on a deep pothole going up someone’s wash-boarded dirt driveway than impress anyone with the zero-to-sixty in ten seconds flat capability of her convertible.
Now that she was Hudson and Harper’s mother, she needed a sensible vehicle, one built for country living and something easier to get the twins in and out of.
One more thing of many to add to her ever-growing mental to-do list. She really ought to start writing everything down.
She pulled into the parking space next to Mason and proceeded to unload the twins, trying as hard as she could to maintain her dignity in the process. Thinking of her last foray into unloading them from her vehicle, she’d worn a practical pantsuit rather than a dress, which would have been a total disaster.
Miranda mentally nudged purchasing a new vehicle to the top of her list. She didn’t want to lose out on the one opportunity that she had all week to put on a dress.
Miranda’s other little nieces and nephews, freshly unloaded from the SUV, pointed at the front lawn of the church and burst into giggles.
She whirled around to see what they found so funny.
Instead of glimpsing whatever sight the gathering crowd was looking at, her gaze was immediately drawn to a broody cowboy on the outskirts of the lawn.
Simon.
He was scowling at whatever had captured the attention of the other onlookers, although she still could not see what, exactly, that was.
The frown that creased his face was almost as deep as the one he’d given her the first time they’d met.
Why was he frowning when everyone else was laughing?
What was eating at him now?
She shifted her gaze, trying to see what was causing such a commotion, but the crowd, snapping pictures with their cell phones and raising a ruckus, was so thick now she couldn’t see through it.
She returned her attention to Simon, who was absently curling the brim of his brown Stetson. Miranda thought he might be bending it out of shape. He was so deep in thought, his brow so furrowed that—
“Well, now, that is interesting,” Charlotte murmured, taking Harper from Miranda’s grasp and threading her free arm through Miranda’s as if they were two friends in high school and not the mothers of enough children combined to create a basketball team.
“What’s interesting?”
Miranda surveyed the area, but she still couldn’t see what the gathering crowd was looking at. Maybe Charlotte had caught a glimpse of whatever was so funny and could fill her in on the joke.
“Simon,” Charlotte remarked thoughtfully.
“Simon?” Miranda parroted, hoping Charlotte hadn’t noticed she’d been staring at him. How embarrassing would that be?
Simon was Mason’s best friend, and had been since high school. Miranda didn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression about the two of them—especially Charlotte, who knew she’d been spending time with him.
“What about him?” she asked tentatively.
“He’s here.”
“And this is interesting because—?”
“He hasn’t attended church in years, not even on Christmas and Easter. The only time I’ve ever seen him cross the threshold of a church is at weddings and funerals—and at Hudson and Harper’s christening, of course, given that he was named their godfather. Otherwise I doubt he would have been there. Mason said they’ve been talking a lot about God, but I hadn’t realized Simon has come so far in his spiritual life that he is ready to attend church.”
Miranda found that kind of odd. For one thing, he didn’t look as if he was ready to attend church. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust.
For another, the first time they’d met after she returned to Wildhorn, he’d made such a big deal about being the twins’ godfather, which was a spiritual obligation. Wasn’t it?
At the time, she’d just assumed he was a regular churchgoer like Mason and Charlotte were, and that the obligations he referred to in such strong language had to do with his faith.
But if he wasn’t here to worship—then what was he doing here now?
She’d seen a lighter side of him yesterday, but there was no sign of that man today.
“You and the twins spent some time on his ranch yesterday, didn’t you?” Charlotte asked mildly.
“Almost the whole day,” she admitted, suddenly reluctant. “He wanted to show us the work he does, and one of his Australian cattle dogs was having puppies.”
She wasn’t sure she liked where this conversation was going, nor the sudden mischievous sparkle in her sister-in-law’s green eyes.
“Interesting,” Charlotte repeated.
“Doesn’t he look kind of angry to you?” Miranda asked, desperate not to go there. If there was any inkling of past feelings in her expression, a strange by-product of when she’d crushed on Simon as a teenager, she didn’t want Charlotte to notice.
Simon was still glaring at whatever was making the rest of the Sunday worshippers laugh in delight and take dozens of pictures.
“Meh,” Charlotte said. “Simon is always frowning, unless he’s working with his dogs. It’s the only time the man’s face lights up.”
Miranda nodded. She’d witnessed Simon’s transformation firsthand. She’d even heard him chuckle a couple of times yesterday.
“That, and maybe the twins. He really cares for them,” Miranda added.
“You’re right about that. I think maybe you and the twins will be good for him. Won’t you, Hudson, sweetheart?” Charlotte tickled the baby’s tummy, resulting in a happy squeal and him holding his chubby hands out to Charlotte, who laughingly took him in her arms.
Mason herded his children toward the church entrance and Charlotte followed.
“We’ll save you a seat,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Miranda nodded.
She hadn’t a clue what Charlotte had meant, nor did she want to speculate. The twins were good for Simon, no doubt about that. But why Charlotte had added her to the picture was a mystery—one that she didn’t necessarily want to solve. While it was clear Simon wanted to be included in the twins’ lives, she wasn’t sure how far he would go to achieve this goal. In her experience, men often acted with ulterior motives—which was why she’d avoided serious relationships altogether, even before the twins had entered her life.
Los Angeles was like living on another planet, completely different from the hometown she’d come from. Everyone looked out for their own best interests in LA, and not so much for the needs of others.
Faith in God was rarely mentioned and practiced even less.
It was all fake. A bad veneer.
The one time she’d opened her heart to a man, it was only to discover he was using her as a stepping stone to further his own career, to make new contacts out of her friends and hopefully get some auditions.
She’d learned her lesson the hard way.
Pastor Corbit stood just outside the red doors of the white chapel, ringing a bell and urging his parishioners inside so th
e service could start. The crowd dispersed and was heading into the church building, finally allowing Miranda to see what all the commotion had been about.
A life-size, light-up Nativity scene had been set up in the middle of the lawn, a bright, happy reminder of the true meaning of Christmas.
Someone, or maybe a group of someones, had added their own bright and happy artistic embellishments to the display.
Miranda put her fist up to cover her mouth as laughter bubbled from her chest. Each figurine in the crèche had been uniquely and colorfully dressed for the season. She was actually impressed with the effort, although she probably shouldn’t admit that aloud.
Each of the three camels had different-colored scarves wrapped around their necks. Christmas colors—red, green and gold. The wise men, who no doubt weren’t used to the chilly Texas weather during advent season, seeing as they were from the Far East, had been gifted with warm mittens. The usually barefoot shepherds worshipping at the manger now wore sturdy farm boots.
The wooly sheep didn’t need much to complete their wardrobes, so they’d been outfitted with sunglasses.
The most humorous member of the ensemble was the donkey, whose long ears had been covered with warm woolen socks.
Inside the crèche, Joseph had been wrapped in a heavy fleece-lined jean jacket, while the Holy Mother was draped in a beautiful royal blue shawl.
The infant Jesus’s manger had been neatly covered with aluminum foil that shimmered in the sunshine, and he’d been covered by an old-fashioned homemade quilt.
With her background in photography, Miranda admired the artistry of whoever had pulled the prank. There wasn’t anything haphazard about the display. Clearly, a great deal of thought had gone into it.
Pulling out her cell phone, she glanced at the time to make sure she wouldn’t be late for the service and then, shifting Harper to her shoulder, began taking pictures from various angles, capturing each of the figurines in a different light. She wished she had her professional camera with her so she could document the scene with the justice it deserved.
As she snapped, she noticed twigs set up as a ranch brand just in front of the Baby’s manger.
Three interconnected Hs—Triple H.
The artists had signed their work, as all good artists did.
Were the pranksters perhaps three teenagers whose first or last names began with the letter H?
That was one guess, anyway.
From the corner of her eye she saw Simon staring at her. Or maybe glaring would be a more accurate description of his expression.
She stiffened and met his cool gaze with hers, and his disapproving scowl only deepened.
What was the man’s problem, anyway?
When she arched her eyebrows at him, he punched his hat back on his head and stalked toward her.
Apparently, she was about to find out what was eating at him.
“Miss breakfast?” she guessed when he stopped before her.
“What?” His frown deepened, if that was even possible.
“You just seem a little...sour this morning.”
“And I am absolutely astounded that you are actually lowering your standards to take pictures of this...this...”
“Artistic interpretation of the Nativity?” she suggested.
“I was going to say sacrilegious nonsense.” He scoffed and shook his head.
“Frankly, I’m surprised this bothers you so much.”
“Yeah? And why is that?”
“Charlotte said you aren’t much of a churchgoer.”
He caught his breath and jerked back in surprise.
“I’m not.”
“Then why does this,” she asked, gesturing toward the Nativity scene, “matter to you at all?”
“Apparently, you do go to church, so I’m going to throw that question right back at you. Why doesn’t this offend you?”
She didn’t bother to correct his false impression of how often she attended church services.
“Because I don’t see any malice in it. It looks to me like it’s the work of teenagers on a lark.”
“Exactly,” he said as if she’d just proven his point—whatever that was.
“Look. Whoever it was, they clearly put a lot of planning into it and coordinated it well. No harm done.”
“This time,” Simon muttered.
Miranda didn’t even know what that meant. And she still didn’t know what had brought on Simon’s bitter mood. But she didn’t want him to ruin her morning.
This was her first Sunday back at church, and she’d actually been earnestly anticipating it. Better to change the subject before Simon’s attitude started rubbing off on her and she decided to scrap the whole idea.
As far as the Nativity scene went, Pastor Corbit could remove the coats and hats if he found them offensive. It wasn’t as if any permanent damage had been done.
“Mason and Charlotte are happy to see you made it to church this morning,” she said, hoping her statement would be taken as the peace offering she meant it to be.
She didn’t add her own name to that list.
There had been the briefest of moments right there in the beginning, when she’d first spotted him standing by the side of the lawn, that her heart had sparked of its own accord, but that was before she’d seen that perpetual frown lining his face.
Always judging, that one, and as far as she was concerned, he was actively looking to find fault, even when there was none. Miranda. Blanche—although Miranda could sort of see his point there. But he didn’t appear to have the capacity to see the good in people.
Only animals. And Mason, but that was kind of the same thing.
Such a shame, but not her problem.
Simon scoffed. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint Mason and Charlotte, but I’m not here to attend church.”
She raised her eyebrows. She didn’t have to voice the obvious question—if he wasn’t here for the service, then why was he here?
He reached into the chest pocket of his burgundy chambray shirt and pulled out a sealed white envelope.
“For the twins,” he said, pressing it into her palm.
Before she could open the envelope and see what was inside, Simon had turned away from her and was striding back to his truck.
Miranda stared after him, dumbfounded.
He showed up at church, but not to attend the service?
What was with the man, anyway?
As much as she would have loved to have had time to ponder the answer to that question, or at least open the envelope he had given her, she could already hear the congregation singing the opening hymn.
Great.
Now Simon had made her late for church.
Chapter Five
Simon really had shown up at the church this morning with the intention of attending the service for the first time in...well, it had been a long time.
Too long.
But he couldn’t very well go in now. Not with Miranda asking so many nosy questions, and then him blurting out that he wasn’t going inside.
With a growl of frustration, he loaded himself back into the cab of his pickup and turned for home.
He had a feeling that Miranda was going to continue to be a major pain in his side—and worse yet, she was getting into his head. She could be so sweet, like with the puppy she’d saved, but then there were days like today when they were like oil and water. He never seemed to say the right thing when he was around her. His mind got all muddled up. It was all he could do to keep his boots clear of his mouth.
Women in general were a dangerous species where Simon was concerned. He’d had very few relationships over the years and they’d never gone well. He wasn’t great at expressing his feelings, and the ladies he’d dated needed fa
r more from him than he was willing to give—or even could give, if the truth be known.
Mason had teased him about becoming a hermit, and maybe he was right. Or possibly an ostrich, burying his head in the sand.
At least his life had been peaceful, before Miranda had arrived with the force of a whirlwind.
He didn’t even know how to begin to classify her.
Like how she not only made tents out of blankets, but crawled right in with the children and read fairy tales with separate voices for each of the characters, too.
The way she giggled when the twins giggled.
And why on earth she could possibly think the utter desecration of the Nativity scene had been the harmless work of teenagers on a lark.
No.
More than that.
She thought it was...
Artistic.
He scoffed aloud, even though there was no one in the cab of the truck to hear his disdain.
While he admitted the possibility of it being teenagers joshing around all in fun, as Miranda had suggested, that whole scene was anything but innocent.
Oh, it might start that way, harmlessly goofing around, but Simon had seen it before—how quickly harmless pranks escalated into greater and greater dares and hazing, which eventually became reckless, even dangerous.
He was probably overthinking it, but he’d seen the really bad stuff. Gang initiations. Fighting. Guns.
All of which might very well have started out as an innocent lark.
Another thing that bothered him was that the miscreants who’d gussied up the Nativity scene had felt compelled to sign their work with their mark—a Triple H, whatever that stood for.
Teenagers on an innocent lark didn’t tag their work.
Simon had been in enough brawls over the years to immediately expect the worst. He’d been a scrappy kid who’d been on the receiving end of “teenagers on a lark,” which had, on more than one occasion, landed him in a Dumpster. He’d started pumping iron in high school and had grown into his height, and all that helped him do was get into more trouble. His reaction today was a defense mechanism, one that had served him well over the years.