by Casey Dawes
Montana Christmas Magic
Casey Dawes
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2016 by Casey Dawes.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance™
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-5072-0250-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0250-0
eISBN 10: 1-5072-0251-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0251-7
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art ©olaola/123RF, ©Shutterstock/Svitlana Sokolova, ©soleg/123RF
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
More from This Author
Also Available
For all my children and grandchildren. I am lucky.
Chapter 1
Julie Thompson rearranged the Easter chocolates for the fourth time that morning. Something about it still didn’t suit her. Bunnies and flower cutouts lined the walls, and Sue Anne Deveraux, the store’s owner, had pronounced it charming.
But no matter how many cute pictures she put around the sweet shop, piles of snow still lined 3rd Street. Spring didn’t look like it was making any effort to show up soon.
She moved a caramel egg half an inch.
“Will you stop fussing?” Sue Anne entered from the hallway that separated the shop from her living quarters, coat in hand. “As soon as someone buys something, all your arranging will be for nothing.”
“Could be, but I need to use my art degree for something. It may as well be to make Sweets Montana look the best it can.”
“Whatever,” her friend and boss said, waving a hand and sending sparkles from her engagement ring in rainbows around the room.
“Have you set a date?” Julie wiped her hands on her apron and rearranged packages on the side shelf.
“August 22,” Sue Anne said with a smile. “I’m counting on you to be my maid of honor, you know.”
“I’ll be there. But I have some say in the dress.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Just don’t make it southern—all bouffant with lace.”
“Please. My gown isn’t even going to be in that style. Speaking of which, we need to make an appointment at Rococo’s to look at dresses.”
“Sure.” After marrying off four sisters, Julie was used to the drill. Her wedding day was a long way off, if ever. Tony, her boyfriend, was a nice enough guy, but she didn’t feel the spark her mother had always talked about.
“Where are you going?” she asked, moving the egg back where it had been.
“Zach and I are looking at invitations. Be back in an hour or so.” The doorbell jangled noisily as she left with a sway in her step that hadn’t been there before Zach had come along.
“I shoveled the front walk!” The door banged open a few minutes later. Redheaded Jaiden dashed in, leaving wet boot prints across the floor.
She grinned. The nine-year-old had been one of their staunchest supporters since Sweets Montana opened more than a year ago. He’d quickly made himself indispensable for outside work—shoveling, weeding, and carting around boxes as big as he was.
It didn’t hurt that he had a sweet tooth partial to chocolate.
“Cash or candy?” she asked.
“Money,” he said, his dimpled grin fading a bit. “We’re going camping this summer. I want a new fishing rod, and Mom says I have to save up half.”
Smart mother.
Julie pulled the cash from the jar, and added in a few jellybeans.
“Awesome, Julie!” He stuffed the ones in his jeans pocket and the candy in his mouth, his full grin back on his face. “Fwnk u,” he mumbled as he sped back outside, almost knocking over a man with a cane as he opened the door to the shop.
“Sorry, mister!” Jaiden dodged around the man, whose gaze followed him. A slight smile played on his lips.
When he turned back, Julie steeled her expression. What had once been an aristocratically square-jawed face was marred by a series of scars on the right side of his cheek. His light brown hair was stylish in a way that announced, “Not from here.”
His classic blue eyes pinned her to the counter.
God, she wanted to paint him. Scars and all.
She had to find out everything about him. Why did he have a cane? The scars? Where was he from? Going?
Why had he walked into Sue Anne’s shop?
Bunnies and flowers couldn’t compare to the man in front of her.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Hopefully, the quivering mass of her insides wasn’t visible externally.
She’d never had this reaction to a man before.
• • •
Why was the store clerk staring at him? Logan Collins tensed his abs. He should be used to this by now. His scars and cane attracted attention. Usually, people were more surreptitious about it.
He bit back a snarky remark. Why should Montana be any different from New York?
“Can I help you?” the woman repeated.
She looked at him expectantly, her brown shoulder-length hair framing her parted lips and dimpled chin.
She was pretty.
No matter.
Squaring his shoulders, he moved forward, cursing the cane that aged him beyond his twenty-eight years.
“My uncle, Willy ...” he began.
“Willy!” A grin spread across her face. “How is he? You must be Logan—from New York, right?”
Logan nodded.
“He talks a lot about you. Here to get some chocolate?”
He’d moved from the “not from here” to “related to someone here” category. Not entirely suspect, but a step up from the normal rural viewpoint of an out-of-stater. Had attitudes changed any since he’d been a kid? What the hell had prompted him to get on that plane?
He cleared his throat.
“Actually, he’s not doing so well,” he said. “My uncle’s in the hospital, being treated for cancer. I figured I’d pick up some chocolates to cheer him up.” He allowed himself a smile. “My uncle has a sweet tooth, but I suppose you know that.”
“I do.” Her laugh was like a thousand camera strobes going off at the same time. “In fact, he has a standing order with us. I was about to pack and ship it to Phillipsburg. How about you take it with you instead? It’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Only since college. I went to the university.” She looked at him and grimaced. “Even though it’s been almost two years, I haven’t managed to leave yet.”
“Why would you want to?”
“I grew up in Grass Range, out east a bit. It’s a lot more open. Sometimes it feels hemmed in here, like the mountains are too close.” She closed the box and tied a ribbon around it.
If she thought Missoula was too crowded, she’d never make it in a place like Manhattan.
“Here you go.” She handed him the box.
“What do I owe you?” He pulled out his wallet.
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head in emphasis. “Willy’s got an account. He’s all paid up. Please tell him to get well soon.”
“Well, then.” She was a girl in a candy shop. A pretty girl, but no one he’d ever see again. And he didn’t want to. It was all coming back. The only one in the family who’d ever taken to the West was his uncle. Like his mom, he was quite happy in New York, thank you very much. “I’ll be going. Thank you.”
“Wait.” She scurried around the counter, a chocolate bunny in her hand. “Tell him this is from me ... I mean Sue Anne and me. She’s my boss.”
“A bunny?”
“Willy has quite a sense of humor,” she said with a smile that looked out of practice but hit him in the solar plexus like it was a fast return from an expert player.
“Yeah, he does.”
As she handed him the plastic-wrapped package, their hands brushed. Heat exploded in his body. He gave a slight shake of his head as he stared into her eyes.
Not here. And not now.
• • •
The air in the shop must have left when Logan did because Julie couldn’t breathe.
What had Willy said when he’d picked up his chocolates a few months ago? His nephew had been in a horrible car wreck, something about the girlfriend dying, and Logan having to give up his professional tennis career.
A pro tennis player. Who was she kidding? That spark when they’d touched had been in her imagination.
Too bad it never occurred with Tony.
Shaking off the experience, she returned to the customer orders. The new plan Sue Anne had developed seemed to be working. They already had ten subscribers, and the program was only in its second month. Willy had been their first customer.
Willy. He’d always made them laugh when he came in, often bringing fresh produce from his ranch or a local market. Willy couldn’t be old enough to have cancer. Except these days, the disease didn’t have an age limit.
What about her? She’d done nothing with her art, using Sue Anne’s business as an excuse to put her career on hold. Her paints were drying out from lack of use.
It was time for a change.
• • •
Logan pulled into the underground parking lot of the hospital, his heart rate accelerating as the all-too-familiar atmosphere chilled his bones. Ever since the accident, he’d hated being anywhere near hospitals.
He located the elevator and got off on the first floor. An older woman with a nametag smiled at him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Everyone in this state was so damn eager to be of use. Totally different from New York where people had the good sense to mind their own business. He’d go crazy if he stayed too long.
His uncle was staring at the television when he walked into the semiprivate room. The other bed was empty.
Willy raised a hand in greeting, a smile gathering on his lips. He looked fit; only the pallor under his permanent tan and the fatigue in his eyes gave away his illness.
“Good to see you.” His uncle’s voice was raspy. “Sorry I wasn’t home to see you when you got here. How was your trip?”
Normal, everyday conversation as if nothing was odd about having it in a cancer ward.
“How’d you know I was coming?” Logan asked.
“Instinct.”
“I brought you these. They said you had a standing order.”
“That I do.” Willy took the box, touched the outside ribbon, and put it on his nightstand. “I’ll open them later.”
“Who waited on you—Julie or Sue Anne?” Willy asked.
“Julie, I guess.”
“Pretty little thing, isn’t she? And nice. Very sweet. She’d make a good girlfriend.”
“Don’t get started with your plotting, Uncle Willy.” Logan pulled out the guest chair and sat down. Ever since he’d turned fifteen, his uncle had been throwing one girl or another at him, hoping to get him to stay and work the ranch.
“But she is pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. But she lives here, Willy. Even if I can’t do the circuit on my own anymore, I’m going to coach. That means New York or on the road.” Even if the plane, rental car, and hotel life was getting old, he hadn’t figured out what else he was good at doing.
“How long are you in here for? I mean, is it just for some more chemo, and the drive is too much? Are they doing other treatments?”
His uncle looked away for a moment before turning back.
“I’m afraid it’s a life sentence with no chance of parole.”
The air lay heavy in the room.
Shit.
“How long?” he managed to squawk out.
“Don’t know.” Uncle Willy gestured to the chocolates and forced a grin. “I’m sure these will extend my life for a few hours.” The smile broadened. “Of course I could be a here a little longer if you’d agree to stay and run the ranch with me.”
Logan groaned. He’d forgotten how much his uncle was like a one-issue radio talk show host when he got his mind on something.
What would happen to the ranch if ... when ... Willy died?
“I’ll miss you.” He touched the old man’s hand, a tightening in his throat choking any further words.
“Yeah. I’ll kinda miss me, too.” He stared at the blank wall for a moment. “I’ve left the ranch to you.”
Great. One more thing to take care of before he went home.
• • •
Logan put the Ford Escape into gear and pulled from the parking lot, his mood as dark as the day when he’d been told Deborah had died. Good thing he’d decided to fly to Montana over his mother’s protests to get away from her smothering. A day later could have been too late. Much as he’d never understood Montanans, he loved his uncle.
He pulled onto Interstate 90. The roads were clear, but the sun had set, and he had a long way to go. Loud country music and coffee fueled him until he got close to the ranch, where his phone chirped.
Whoever it was needed to wait. Willy’s drive was a bastard to navigate, hidden by partially melted then refrozen snow.
Why the hell did Willy want to deal with this all winter?
He negotiated his way up the porch and through the door. Then he poured his aching muscles into the armchair, exhausted, but effervescently alive from the exercise.
He stared at the phone for several minutes before he listened to the message. Gloom settled on his shoulders.
“This is St. Patrick’s Hospital in Missoula,” the voice mail informed him. “Can you please give us a call when you get this number?”
He erased the message but didn’t immediately dial. It couldn’t be good news.
When he’d gotten on the plane, he’d anticipated long talks with his uncle around the wood stove.
He’d gotten less than fifteen minutes.
“I’m sorry,” the woman on the other end said to him when he finally dialed. “There’s no easy way to say this. Your uncle has passed.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” he said.
She told him where to pick up his uncle’s effects and asked about the funeral home.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to get back to you.”
After he punched off, his hand sank to his lap. The braided
rug was barely visible until the moon came up, reflecting on the untouched snow to make the room almost as bright as day. Willy’s spirit settled into the other chair with a newspaper.
Gone.
An orb of pain throbbed in the pit of his chest, until he moved from the chair a few hours later, joints stiff from unfamiliar postures. Without turning on any lights, he shed his clothes and crawled into his childhood bed.
Chapter 2
The next morning, he ruffled through the papers in his uncle’s desk. Where would he have left instructions? The only thing that he could find was the note his uncle had left for him to find when he’d gotten there. This time he read it all the way through. At the bottom, Willy had scrawled, “If you need anything, ask Sarah.”
Who the hell was Sarah?
Maybe the girl in the chocolate shop knew. She seemed to be aware of a lot of things about Willy.
He took the card he’d found on Willy’s refrigerator from his wallet and dialed.
“Sweets Montana. How can I help you?”
The girl he’d met ... when? Only yesterday. His throat tightened.
“I’m ... I’m ...” C’mon, Collins, hold it together.
“Logan, is that you?”
What was her name? Think, damn it.
“Yes. It’s Logan. Is this Julie?”
“Your voice sounds strange. Is everything okay?”
“No ... um ... it’s not.” He couldn’t breathe.
“It’s Willy, isn’t it?” Her voice was soft.
Were his eyes tearing?
“I’m afraid so,” he said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Can I do anything?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t happen to know a Sarah, would you?”
“Yes. That’s who Willy was seeing. He brought her in a few times. She was a really nice lady.” She gasped. “Oh. You’re going to have to tell her, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He took in another gulp of air. “Do you happen to know where I can find her?”
“Willy said she waitressed at Does—you know, the place on the main drag in Phillipsburg?”
The place he’d gone for ice cream every weekend with Willy.