His Christmas Sweetheart

by Cathy McDavid

  “I hate to impose...” Miranda glanced over her shoulder, making sure Will had accompanied her into the kitchen. It was empty, her part-time helper Nell attending to the residents and their afternoon medications. “There’s a leak in the pipe under the sink. The repairman can’t fit me in his schedule till Monday, and the leak’s worsening by the hour.” She paused. “You’re good with tools, aren’t you?”

  “Good enough.” He blushed.

  Sweet heaven, he was a cutie.

  Wavy brown hair that insisted on falling rakishly over one brow. Dark eyes. Cleft in his chin. Breathtakingly tall. He towered above her five-foot-three frame.

  If only he’d respond to one of the many dozen hints she’d dropped and ask her on a date.

  “Do you mind taking a peek for me?” She gestured toward the open cabinet doors beneath the sink. “I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Sure.” His gaze went to the toolbox on the floor. “You have an old towel or pillow I can use?”

  That had to be the longest sentence he’d ever uttered in her presence.

  “Be right back.” She returned shortly with an old beach towel folded in a large square.

  By then Will had set his cowboy hat on the table and had rolled up his sleeves to his elbows.

  Nice arms, she noted. Tanned, lightly dusted with hair and corded with muscles.

  Handing him the towel, she indicated the rubber band on his left wrist. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I do the same thing.”

  He stared at her.

  “Find rubber bands and put them on my wrist. Never know when you’ll need one.”

  “Yeah.” He was back to monotone answers.

  Miranda didn’t mind. Words weren’t the only way to communicate. She flashed him another brilliant smile.

  His blush deepened.

  Excellent. Message sent and received.

  Will dug through the toolbox and selected a wrench. Laying the towel down in front of the cabinet she’d cleared out in preparation, he sat on it and then rolled onto his back, adjusting his long body until he was half in, half out of the cabinet.

  “Water turned off?”

  “Did that when I first got home.”

  Miranda knelt on the floor beside him and, for the first time, got a good look at the large silver belt buckle he wore.

  U.S. Army. Not a rodeo event.

  That answered some questions. She’d often wondered how he was able to effectively play the part of Mrs. Litey’s late son. Where, then, had he learned to be such a first-rate cowboy?

  “How long were you in for?” she asked.

  He stilled. “Pardon?”

  “The army. How long?”

  “Six years.”

  “Where did you serve?” she persisted.

  “Overseas.”

  “The Middle East?”

  “Some. Also stateside.”

  He was certainly a challenge. Luckily Miranda didn’t give up easily.

  Minutes of silence passed, then a low grunt, a loud thud and a softly spoken curse word.

  “Everything all right?” Miranda leaned her head down to peer under the sink.

  “The fitting’s frozen.”

  “I have some pipe-joint compound.” She reached for the jar in the toolbox.

  “Don’t need it.” His arms strained, she swore to the point of breaking, only to relax. “Done.”

  “Really? The leak’s fixed?” The pipes were as old as the house, and she’d expected the repair to take considerably longer. He really was strong.

  “Keep the appointment with the plumber. What I did is only temporary.” Will pushed out from beneath the sink and sat up. Because of her proximity to him, they were nearly face-to-face.

  Miranda couldn’t be more pleased, and tilted her head appealingly. “Thank you. Don’t know what I would have done without your help.”

  She’d said something similar to him the day of the fire, after he’d coaxed her residents into the van and calmed their fears, when nothing she’d said or done had worked. In relief and gratitude, she’d thrown her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. She’d been wanting to do the same ever since.

  Kiss him, not evacuate her residents.

  “No problem.” He swallowed.

  She wondered if he was remembering that day, too. “Someone who works as hard as you deserves a reward.”

  His eyes widened a fraction and a thin sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead.

  “Can I get you a cold drink or a snack? Nell made some cherry cobbler for dessert. I’m sure I can sneak you a piece without her getting mad.”

  “I have to get back to the ranch.”

  “One small piece?”

  “Thanks, but no.” He scooted forward and stood.

  Miranda had no choice but to give him room. To her surprise, his hand appeared in front of her face.

  She took it and let him pull her to her feet, noting his calluses. A working man’s hand. Like her foster father’s. She found comfort in that.

  “Such a gentleman.”

  He met her glance briefly before turning away.

  A warm glow bloomed inside her. His severe shyness, as much as his good looks, had kept her intrigued and putting herself in his path at every opportunity these past five months. There was also something about him, a complexity, a depth, a sensitivity that most women probably missed.

  Dropping the wrench into the toolbox, he retrieved the towel from the floor.

  “Where can I throw this?”

  “I’ll take it.” She did, and her attention was drawn again to the rubber band on his wrist.

  Odd habit for a man, she mused. Miranda had picked hers up from her foster mother, the queen of practicality and thriftiness.

  But then Will was a person of many odd habits. And mystery. She’d asked around after the fire. Few knew him, none well, and no one had any idea where he’d come from or what he’d done before arriving in Sweetheart. Besides serving in the army, which he’d confirmed today.

  He could, she supposed, be an AWOL soldier. A criminal on the lam. A serial killer. A witness in the protection program. A deadbeat dad evading child-support payments.

  Her instincts told her Will was none of those things. She’d seen him with her residents and Crackers, her therapy dog. Will was innately good and kind.

  But something had caused him to close himself off from people. Something harsh and heartbreaking. If she wasn’t afraid of appearing nosy or gossipy, she’d prod Will’s boss, the new owner of the Gold Nugget Ranch, for answers.

  “Next time, perhaps?” Miranda dropped another hint, even though Will never took them. “Nell’s constantly cooking up delicious dishes with far too many calories. I swear I’ve gained five pounds this past week alone.”

  He took her in from head to toe and, for a fraction of a second, his gaze heated. “You look fine.”

  It was the most emotion Miranda had ever seen him show, and a shiver of awareness wound slowly through her.

  She inched closer. “Aren’t you the flatterer.”

  Grabbing his hat off the table, he all but stumbled out of the kitchen in his haste to depart.

  She saw him to the door, but he was three steps ahead of her and barely acknowledged Arthur’s booming goodbye and Babs’s wave. Mr. Lexington and Crackers didn’t so much as stir from their place in the recliner.

  Miranda returned to the kitchen, feeling quite satisfied with herself. Finally she’d gotten a reaction from Will. A small one, but there was no mistaking it. He was interested in her, and that was enough for now.

  She had considered being less intimidating—her big personality didn’t appeal to everyone—only to change her mind. Will seemed
to like her plenty fine the way she was, despite his wariness.

  Nell came into the kitchen just as Miranda was closing the lid on the toolbox.

  “Himey is finished with his bath, and Mrs. Litey’s napping. Took her medication without a fuss. What I’d give to have Will visit every day.”

  Miranda thought the same thing.

  “Leak fixed?” Nell inspected the cupboard under the sink.

  “For now.”

  “What a dirty trick you played on that poor unsuspecting man.”

  “I did no such thing.” Miranda pretended naïveté.

  Nell chuckled as she opened the refrigerator and removed items in preparation of dinner. “We both know you could have fixed that leak easy as him. Maybe easier.”

  It was true. Miranda had grown up scrappy. There wasn’t much she couldn’t repair, be it mechanical, electrical or automotive.

  “Men like feeling useful. I was merely feeding his ego.”

  “Right.” Nell’s reply dripped sarcasm. “You wanted a reason to get close to him.”

  “What if I did?”

  Her friend and employee arranged chicken breasts in a baking pan. “Honey, if Will Dessaro hasn’t succumbed to your charms by now, I doubt he ever will.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Other than he’s handsome as sin, I’m not sure why you bother. There are plenty of other single men in town more than willing to walk into any trap you set.”

  Miranda picked up the toolbox, planning on returning it to the garage. “I feel sorry for him. He can’t be happy living how he is. Alone and isolated.”

  Nell covered the seasoned chicken with foil and popped the pan in the oven. “And you think you’re the one to draw him out?”

  “Why not me? Besides, I owe him for helping me the day of the fire. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Ah! I see. You’re returning a favor.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Favor, my foot,” Nell scoffed. “You like him. More than you want to admit.”

  Miranda headed out the kitchen door, through the laundry room and to the garage, where she set the toolbox on a crowded shelf. Nell’s belly laugh trailed Miranda the entire way.

  She wasn’t annoyed or offended. How could she be, when Nell’s assessment was spot on? She did like Will. Liked him more every time she saw him. And she wasn’t about to let a little case of shyness on his part get in their way.

  Chapter Two

  Will didn’t make it to the end of Miranda’s street before his hands started to shake. By the time he reached the main street running through town, the shaking had traveled up his arms to his shoulders, making driving impossible. Luckily no one was behind him, and he waited at the stop sign.

  A whine and a nudge to his arm distracted him. Cruze pressed close, instinctively sensing his master’s need for comfort. Will draped an arm around the big dog’s neck. Only when he could safely steer the truck without causing a wreck did he proceed onto the main road.

  Up ahead, the Paydirt Saloon came into view. He turned into the lot and parked his pickup in the space farthest from the entrance. There he quit fighting and yielded to the panic, his first full-blown attack in over four years.

  No matter how he tried to relax, he couldn’t breathe. His lungs refused to draw in sufficient air. His heart labored to beat, hindered by the giant invisible vise squeezing it. Sweat soaked his shirt even as chills racked his body. His stomach pitched, threatening to expel the tea and cookies he’d recently consumed.

  Will was going to die. Even Cruze’s head resting on his leg didn’t calm him.

  The small part of Will’s brain hanging on to reason assured him the fear was temporary and would pass. It always did. But for the next five minutes, he believed in his imminent demise.

  All because Miranda Staley, with her long blond hair and laughing blue eyes, had flirted with him and had sat close enough that their legs had brushed.

  Little by little, the panic subsided. Eventually Will felt nothing but stupid. He was thirty-two years old. A grown man. Not some high school junior, when he’d suffered his first attack. Back then he’d had good reason, when a tragic automobile accident had changed his life.

  A pretty woman throwing herself at him, however, was nothing compared to that trauma, or the one he’d suffered when his grandmother had died. Miranda was no reason for him to lose it. Not when he’d come so far, done so well since moving to Sweetheart.

  Will flipped down the sun visor and studied himself in the small mirror. The face of a stranger stared back at him. Pale, drawn, with deer-in-headlights eyes.

  “I think I’m in big trouble, boy.”

  In reply, Cruze licked his face.

  When Will had told Miranda he needed to return to the ranch, he hadn’t been lying, and he had every intention of doing exactly that. But not now. The Gold Nugget was the last place he wanted to be. Too many people and too many questions. Especially with him looking the way he did.

  The Paydirt Saloon was familiar ground. He stopped by two or three times a week after work for a beer. Oddly enough, a bar was a good place to seek out when a person craved solitude. The patrons understood Will wasn’t the social type and respected his wish to be left alone. Routines also helped soothe him.

  Pulling out his phone, he texted his boss, Sam, and let him know he’d be late, confident there wouldn’t be a problem. Then he grabbed his jacket and gave Cruze a last pat before he cracked open the window and shut the door. This time of year the temperature could drop significantly the moment the sun dipped beneath the mountain peaks. The shepherd mix would rather wait for Will in the truck cab, curled up on a blanket, than be left at home alone.

  Inside the bar, Will received a round of enthusiastic hellos from the twenty or so customers. After that, nothing. As luck would have it, his favorite stool at the end of the bar was unoccupied.

  The middle-aged woman bartender, who also happened to be the owner of the Paydirt and the mayor of Sweetheart, was already filling a mug with his favorite brew by the time Will had settled himself on the stool, his jacket laid across his lap.

  “Thanks,” he muttered when the beer was slid in front of him.

  “Same here.” The mayor accepted the bills Will left on the bar, which covered his drink and a tip.

  That was the extent of their conversation. As the minutes passed, more patrons came in, Friday-night regulars getting a head start on the weekend.

  Before the fire, Sweetheart had boasted three drinking establishments. Two had burned down. While one of the other saloons was currently undergoing repairs, it wasn’t yet operational, leaving the Paydirt to service the needs of the entire town and the few tourists who had recently returned.

  Sitting there sipping his beer, Will remembered Sweetheart as it was before the fire. He’d worked for High Country Outfitters, taking tourists on trail rides, fishing trips and hikes in the summer, and cross-country ski excursions in the winter.

  Honeymooners had made the town into what it was. Named after a pair of sweethearts who had met on a wagon train passing through the Sierra Nevada Mountains during the gold rush, the town had gained popularity around the turn of the twentieth century. Couples had eloped here in droves, thanks to a judge who had turned a blind eye when it came to verifying ages. The mayor’s distant uncle, in fact.

  He had retired after ten years, but the honeymooners continued to come. Hundreds of weddings were performed every year. The entire town’s economy had relied on the wedding trade and—until the Gold Nugget had closed a few years ago—fans of the show The Forty-Niners.

  Last summer, careless hikers had abandoned a still-burning campfire, which had caught and destroyed over nine thousand acres of spectacular mountain wilderness—along with the town of Sweetheart.

  The honeymooners and tourists
had abandoned the town. Profound devastation didn’t exactly make a nice backdrop for a wedding. And tourists didn’t want to hike trails or ride horses through a blackened wasteland. As a result, the town had nearly died.

  Then three months ago Sam Wyler, Will’s boss, had purchased the Gold Nugget and converted it into a working cattle ranch where guests could experience the cowboy way of life. Will, who’d lost his previous job in the wake of the fire, was hired on and began the newest phase in a life of many phases.

  Even with the ranch, Sweetheart was slow to recover. Nearly one-third of the original thousand residents had moved away. Homeless and unemployed, they’d had no choice. Will was fortunate. His new job suited him fine, and the single-wide trailer he resided in, while not much, satisfied his needs.

  “There you are.”

  Will turned at the deep voice addressing him, surprised yet not surprised. “Howdy.”

  Sam Wyler claimed the empty bar stool next to him. Will turned his attention to his half-empty beer mug. He wasn’t much in the mood for company, even good company like Sam’s.

  “I was in town having the oil changed in the truck. Got your text and figured I’d join you.” Sam signaled Mayor Dempsey for a beer.

  “Sorry about not heading straight back to the ranch.”

  “No problem.” The beer arrived and Sam took a swig. “You’ve worked for me, what? Three months? Four?”

  “Something like that.”

  “If you want to take a long lunch once in a while, you won’t hear me complain.”

  They drank in companionable silence for several minutes. Will liked Sam. More than that, he respected the man. He’d done a lot to help the town after the fire. Not only had he brought back the tourists and created jobs for a few fortunate locals, he’d helped home owners and business owners rebuild by bringing in an architect and a construction contractor.

  As the hometown boy who’d returned after a nine-year absence, Sam was well liked, if not loved, by all. He’d further cemented his place in the community by marrying his former love, Annie Hennessy, last month. Theirs had been the first wedding in Sweetheart since the fire. It was also the only one so far.