Montana Christmas Magic

by Casey Dawes

  “I think my mother would call that ‘splitting hairs.’”

  “Mine, too.” He grinned. “But it worked with her.”

  “Not with mine. She’d call me on it and discipline me anyway if she perceived I’d done something wrong.”

  “Ouch. All that effort for nothing.”

  “Probably why I gave it up. Seemed easier to take what I had coming, since it was going to happen anyway.”

  “Was she harsh?”

  “Not really. It seemed so at the time, and it was sure effective. Once in a great while, I’d get a swat on my rear, but mostly she’d tell me how disappointed she was and how I’d let the family down. I’d be banished to my room to think about it. If whatever I’d done was bad enough, like being out too late, she’d tell the pastor. Then he’d tell me how disappointed God was in me. And I’d get more room time, as well as an essay assignment outlining exactly how I’d disappointed God, my community, and my family.”

  “That was intense.”

  “Yeah. But like I said, it worked. My sisters and I kept to the straight and narrow, and I’m grateful for that.”

  He nodded and maneuvered into a parking place near Does.

  “I didn’t ask where you wanted to go. Is this okay?”

  “Sure. Basic food, friendly service, and a good price. Sounds good to me.”

  “Sarah might be working today.” He held the door open.

  “I’d love to see her again. Nice lady.” She looked up at Logan. “Sad their time together was so short. You never know what’s going to happen.”

  “No, you don’t.” He opened his mouth as if to say something, but was interrupted.

  “You guys going to stand there all day? Some of us need to eat, Logan.”

  They stepped aside, and Ira, the old man with the list, walked into the restaurant ahead of them.

  “There’s Sarah,” Logan said. “Let’s sit over there.”

  The touch of his hand on her back sent a zing through her, followed by a bolt of panic.

  He. Was. Leaving.

  Her body didn’t seem to care. The electricity sprinted through her body, eliminating any lingering chill from her stint in the field.

  “Hi,” Sarah said as she dropped menus on the table. “It’s good to see you again, Julie. It’s good to see you both again.” Her gaze lingered on Logan.

  What was that about?

  “Coffee?” Sarah asked.

  Logan nodded.

  “Could I get some iced tea?” Julie asked.

  “Sure thing.” She poured coffee into the white mug she carried and set it in front of Logan. “Soup’s chicken noodle and vegetable barley.”

  And off she went.

  “What are you going to have?” he asked.

  “A bowl of chicken soup. And some fries.” She grinned at him. “Can’t come to a place like this without getting the fries.”

  “They’re good. I’m having my usual.”

  “Meatloaf?” she teased.

  “Just like Mom never made.”

  “Mine did,” she said. “Mom is a good cook. Basic food but always tasty. All done on a tight budget. She had the greenest vegetable garden in the summer, and my sisters and I helped with canning and freezing all summer.”

  “Real country girl.”

  “Yeah.” What happened to the country mouse and the city mouse? She couldn’t remember.

  “Sounds like an idyllic but traditional childhood.”

  “It was. If my mother had her way, I’d be married and starting on my second baby.”

  “I never considered that.” He sipped his coffee.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That the expectations for how you’d live your life were so different from mine but probably just as restrictive. If my mother had her way, I’d be working next to my father and preparing for my wedding to the correct girl. I have Willy to thank for developing the spine to claim what I wanted ... well, almost what I wanted.”

  “Doing woodworking.”

  “Yep. My mother talked me to death—explaining all the reasons it was a bad idea, telling me I’d never make it, and urging me to join my father’s business. She got me to college, I found tennis, and for some reason, she approved of the sport. Probably had something to do with the snob factor the game can have.”

  “Oh, c’mon. She can’t really be that bad.”

  “She isn’t. But she has definite ideas about how I should run my life. And she is not happy that I’m out here in what she calls ‘the wilderness.’”

  “We prefer that people think of it that way. Then they come here to spend a vacation—and money—and get back to their homes, congratulating themselves on their escape from the woods.”

  He chuckled. “You do make me laugh, Julie Thompson. I believe you’re good for me.”

  Trying to keep her hand still, she took a sip of her iced tea. Whatever heat there was in her body slipped away as the ice melted on her tongue.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, placing his warm hand on hers. “Why, you’re ice cold! Maybe drinking that isn’t the best plan. I’ll get you some warm tea.” He raised a finger to catch Sarah’s attention.

  “I’m fine. Really. Just got a chill. No need to bother Sarah. She’s got her hands full.”

  “Sarah, Julie needs some hot tea. She’s freezing.”

  “Oh. Poor dear.” Sarah scurried to the beverage counter.

  I’m freezing because of you, not the ice.

  However, she’d already lost the fight; she may as well roll with it.

  “Thank you,” she told Sarah when the waitress arrived with the steaming brew.

  “You drink up, okay? Maybe it’s too early to be running around in just a t-shirt. Don’t you have a sweater or something?”

  “In my car.”

  “Well, why don’t you go get it? Or Logan can go.”

  “Her car’s at my place,” Logan said.

  “Oh?”

  “Julie’s here to paint.”

  “You’re an artist?” Sarah asked, her eyes bright with admiration.

  “Strictly wannabe.”

  “But still. You’re doing it. That makes you an artist in my book. Now let me get your lunches. Some hot chicken noodle soup is just what you need.”

  The soup was delicious and finished the job of warming the tea had begun. Maybe she had gotten chilled while she was painting. She’d have to be more careful this afternoon.

  “How are you feeling?” Logan asked.

  “Better,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “You frightened me,” he said.

  “It wasn’t that bad. Poor circulation. Sometimes my hands get cold, that’s all.” She needed to change the subject. “Do you watch a lot of sports on television?” she asked. All men liked to discuss their favorite teams.

  “Surprisingly, no. I get enough of tennis in my life. I’ll watch training videos or go over my own moves in a game to see what I can improve. I like the big ball games—Super Bowl, Thanksgiving, New Year’s. That kind of thing. You?”

  “Dad likes baseball for some reason. Too slow for my sisters and me, so he compromised by listening to it on the radio in his workshop.”

  “Poor man. Banished from his own house.”

  “With four daughters, it probably saved his sanity,” she said.

  The statement brought another chuckle from Logan.

  They spent the rest of their lunch in friendly banter, learning more about childhoods and letting care and worry slip from their shoulders.

  “So what now?” Logan asked when they pulled up to his house.

  “There’s another spot I’d like to try, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. So no work today?”

  “Not unless you consider this work,” she said.

  “It is, but unless it’s very different from tennis and woodworking for me, it brings you joy. Too bad all work isn’t like that.”

  “Kind of like running a chocolate shop is for Sue Anne.”


  Logan nodded. “I was wondering,” he began, leaning against the SUV. “I’ve got a steak in the fridge, a few beers, and some makings for a salad. There might even be a potato or two if I look. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  “I can’t do that. I’ve already imposed too much. You’ve already bought me lunch.”

  “Farthest thing from my mind. Truth is, you’d be doing me a favor. It’s a little lonely out here. I’m used to more people. A lot more people.” He smiled at her. “Please.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  A little thrill quickened her heart.

  Chapter 8

  Having someone to share his lonely meal made Logan’s steps a little lighter as he worked through his repairs. The exercise room was almost finished, which meant he’d be able to make some real progress toward recovery.

  When he returned to tennis, Logan wanted to hit the ground running. Well, maybe not running, but at least moving without a cane. The thing was impossible nuisance. Half the time, he forgot where he’d put it when he was in the shop. The other half, the damn thing had fallen to the ground.

  But it wasn’t the cane that occupied his mind now. He had to measure wood three or four times because Julie’s image was distracting him. It was becoming more and more impossible to ignore her lips. And he wanted to touch her hair, feel its silkiness as he brought her head to his for a kiss.

  Fantasy. She’d probably slap his face.

  And he’d deserve it.

  He was going back to the city. She was a Montana girl born and bred. His uncle had always warned him those types of girls never left the state. Not permanently. They failed to thrive in other environments, wilting as they spent too long away from the source of their vibrancy, like infants without a loving touch.

  No good could come from getting involved with her.

  “How did it go?” he asked when she returned close to five o’clock.

  “Fantastic!” Enthusiasm bubbled from her and burst overhead. “I’m finally getting my rhythm back. While I still think everything I do stinks, there are small patches in every picture that give me hope.”

  “Didn’t you say you have a commissioned piece you need to finish by June?”

  “That’s almost done. And it’s not commissioned; she just wants a piece she can put up for sale—more like on spec. If someone buys it, I get a cut. If not ...” She shrugged. “After a certain time, she’ll give it back, and I can sell it elsewhere. Actually, I might be able to finish a second picture to give myself more opportunity.”

  “Ah. You’re starting to think like a businesswoman.”

  “I suppose.”

  “It’s the thing that creative types forget the most, I think. They need to make a living with their work. And that means running a business.”

  “You and my father would definitely get along,” she said. “He has very strong ideas about what I need to do. I suppose since he risks the bank’s money, he’s aware of that stuff.”

  “Probably. Let’s have a beer on the back porch while the grill heats up. Salad’s already made, and the potatoes only take a few moments in the microwave. Uncle Willy has a pretty good setup out there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She grabbed the drinks, giving Logan the chore of holding open the screen door.

  He pointed at two Adirondack chairs. “Have a seat while I start the grill.”

  Surprised to find his palms a bit sweaty, he lit the grill. He was tense with anticipation.

  Of what? He’d never felt this way around Deborah.

  He took the beer Julie offered him once he’d maneuvered himself into the low-slung chair. “I figure if all I did was get in and out of this all day, my leg would heal up in no time.”

  She rewarded his wit with her laughter.

  “You’re the first person to ever laugh at my lame jokes,” he said. “Even my mother has a hard time with them.”

  “Well, they are kind of weird. Good weird. I like them weird. But not everyone likes that particular brand of weird.”

  “No wonder you like it. Your humor isn’t much different.”

  “You saying I’m weird?” she said with mock horror.

  “You are.” He leaned toward her. “But you’re in good company,” he whispered.

  A connection zapped between them. Was she aware?

  He dragged his attention away from the girl and back to the scenery. If he concentrated, he could hear the birds in the nearby brush. A meadowlark trilled. Willy’s favorite bird. His uncle had taught him to identify birds as they sat here in the evening, but he’d never been as good as his uncle.

  “The sounds must be totally different from New York,” she said.

  “I’ll say.”

  She glanced at him. “Everything okay? You sound kind of funny.”

  He nodded, unable to trust his voice. The beauty and peacefulness of the moment and the presence of the woman next to him were very different from the pressure cooker of the pro circuit and New York society.

  “Sometimes I wish I had a different life,” he said.

  “You don’t have to go back, you know.”

  “I don’t see a way that’s feasible.”

  “You can do anything you want as long as you put your mind to it.”

  “Are you talking about me ... or you?” He cocked his head.

  “A little of both, I suspect.” She remained serious. “It’s beautiful here. I don’t know how you could ever leave and know you were never coming back again.”

  “Life moves on.” He stood and checked the grill, his movements sharp with unexpressed anger at the rigidness of his life. “Can you nuke the potatoes and get the salad from the fridge and put it on the table? It won’t take too long for the meat to grill.”

  Normalcy. Keep things casual. No need to discuss his deepest fears and desires with Julie, no matter how easy it was to talk to her.

  During dinner, he steered the conversation to safer topics—places he’d been, funny stories about celebrities, how New York dressed up in its finery for the Christmas season. Anything to emphasize the difference in their lives.

  But still she captivated him. She held her own with images of small-town life, football rivalries, and summers spent in a cabin at Glacier Park that had been grandfathered to the family when the park was created over a century ago.

  “And you still have it?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s amazing. To own a small piece of one of the grandest vistas on earth.” He’d been through the park once with Willy, over Going-to-the-Sun Road, and spent a night in a motel room in Many Glacier. The memory had stayed with him, providing a poignant counterpoint to the skyscrapers of the city.

  Julie’s unabashed joy at living where she did and her love for her family, no matter how conservative, showed through her eyes and added a luster to her cheeks, making her prettier than she already was. He’d never seen Deborah with a look that was even remotely as free. His former girlfriend’s face had reflected her quest for more, because, no matter how much she had, there wasn’t quite enough.

  He hated to end the night, but he needed her to make it home safely.

  “Don’t worry about the dishes,” he said. “I’ll clean up.”

  “But you cooked. In our house, that means I clean.”

  He gently took her arms and had her face him. “You have a long drive ahead of you. Let me do this. It’s fine.” He smiled at her.

  Then there it was again.

  Only this time, he couldn’t stop. He lowered his head and took the lips he’d desired from the first moment he met her.

  They were as soft and sweet as he’d remembered. For a second, there was no response, but then there was the return pressure, an acceptance tinged with a little taste of “more.”

  He obliged, deepening the kiss until he’d imprinted his lips on hers. Testing, he caressed her with the tip of his tongue, subtly urging her further.

  Her body
pressed against his, all soft curves and tenderness. Sweet nectar. Her female to his male. Completeness. The first time a woman had been able to look beyond his injuries to the man behind them.

  Was it only that? Or more?

  She moaned and pushed against his shoulders.

  He immediately released her, registering the panic in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “There are a lot of reasons why that’s true,” she said, the shadow in her eyes morphing into a sad smile. “The most important was how good it felt.”

  Relief loosened his tension.

  “But there’s no future to us, and I’m not a casual relationship kind of girl.”

  “I can see that. Again, I’m sorry. It won’t happen anymore.” At least he was going to try to keep that promise. “But I wanted you to know it was important to me. Other than the time in the shop, it’s the first time I’ve kissed anyone since ...” His gesture included his leg, the cane, and the scars on his face. “Thank you for that.”

  She nodded.

  “I’d best be going,” she said, giving Hobo a pat. She paused at the door, her face no longer bright with happiness. “We probably shouldn’t see each other for a while. It’ll be easier that way.”

  As she drove away, he raised a hand, the dog by his side, in salute to her disappearing taillights.

  • • •

  Julie worked intently on her painting over the next few weeks, squeezing every moment from the chocolate shop that she could. She’d hoped the intense focus would drive Logan from her mind, but it didn’t appear to be working that way.

  The memory of the kiss lent a different quality to her painting, deepening the lighter colors that had always made up her palette. Suddenly strong reds and yellows struck a contrast to the mystical greens and blues of nature.

  “I’m going to take the picture to Stevi tomorrow,” she told Sue Anne, using the shorthand locals had adopted for Stevensville. “I’ve got a half day in the afternoon, but I’ll be here in the morning.”

  “Can I see it?” Eagerness filled her friend’s voice. “I hope it sells right away. You deserve some encouragement!”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’m that good, but it’s a start. I’ll have it in the morning. I’ll show you then.”