Mistletoe Maverick
by Shannon Curtis
Mistletoe Maverick
© Shannon Curtis 2015
First published December 2015
ISBN 9781310381867 (ebook, Smashwords edition)
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events or persons living or dead is coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever-electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other-without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
Edited by Debbie Phillips, DP Plus
Cover design by Kim Designs
Typeset by Debbie Phillips, DP Plus
Published by Info Block Pty Ltd
www.shannoncurtis.com
Dedication
Thank you to all the readers who so generously support me, spend their money on, and their time with, me and my characters … You guys are simply the best.
Chapter 1
Stephanie flinched at the unexpected peal of the doorbell, then hissed as she bumped her finger against the hot tray in the oven.
“Coming,” she called out, flapping her hand in a vain attempt to cool the burn. She grabbed the pot-holder gloves she should have used in the first place and quickly reached in and pulled the tray of cinnamon cookies out of the oven, dumping it on the draining panel of the sink. The doorbell rang again.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called out, then sucked on her finger as she jogged down the hallway. They never got visitors. Located on the outskirts of town at the furthest end of a dead-end street, the old former ranch house she now called home wasn’t on a thoroughfare. Nobody was ever ‘just passing by’. Oh, and then there was the story about the original owner dying in the house many years ago. Creepy, but as a result the rent was cheap; it wasn’t too far from the school, and the backyard was a bonus for her new family.
She reached for the door knob as the doorbell rang again. “All right, all—” She stared up at the familiar figure standing on her doorstep, a small flurry of snow falling beyond the porch. The cool air was such a contrast to the interior of the house, but she barely noticed, warmed by the sight of the man in front of her. The familiar tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped man who’d been plaguing her dreams ever since she’d moved into the small town of Patience, Texas, three months ago. “Uh, Sheriff King.” Sheriff Jackson King. Everybody knew the sheriff. One of the first things she’d learned when she’d arrived was that he was the most eligible bachelor in Patience—and the next two counties. And he was a popular sheriff, particularly with the ladies. With chiseled features, sandy blond hair, eyes a varying shade of hazel–green, the man had a body built for sin, which was ironic considering his occupation.
She absently sucked on her stinging finger. Not that she needed to be fantasizing about a handsome sheriff and his reputation in the bedroom—many bedrooms, if rumors were to be believed. Nope, she was beyond that. Her gaze dropped to his side, and she wasn’t fast enough to hide her surprise when she recognized her young ward. “Hi, Aiden.”
Wait a minute. She checked her watch. The craft day at the church wasn’t due to finish for another two hours …
The ten-year-old boy glared at her sullenly. Her gaze darted between the boy and the sheriff. Uh-oh. “What’s happened?” She stepped aside, gesturing for them both to enter the warmth of her home.
The sheriff removed his Stetson as he stepped over the threshold, revealing his close-cropped hair, and ran his long fingers over the brim of his hat. She tried not to stare at those long, tanned fingers caressing the hat. Those sexy, long fingers that—damn it. She shouldn’t be noticing his fingers. She wasn’t in a position to do anything about those fingers—or have those fingers do anything to her. She pushed the door closed, blocking the chill and snow from entering the house.
The sheriff turned to his young companion. “Will you tell her or will I?” he drawled, leaning a broad shoulder against the wall of the hallway, and cocking a sandy-colored brow. God, the man could make anything sound smoking-hot sexy. She turned to the young boy, concentrating on him instead, like a good parent would. Right? Not the sexy cowboy sheriff with the hazel–green eyes. She tried to school her features into something that resembled patience, because God knew, she needed patience when dealing with Aiden.
Aiden shook his head. No, he wouldn’t want to tell her. He didn’t want to tell her anything, unless it was where she could shove their new home, new school, new family … She looked down for a moment, masking her hurt. She wished he would talk to her, and she had no idea how to make that happen.
“He broke Mrs. Turner’s living room window,” Jackson supplied.
Steph winced. “Oh, no. Was anyone hurt?”
Jackson shook his head. “Nope.”
Relief relaxed her shoulders, if only for a moment. “I’m sure it was an accident …” She gazed down at Aiden hopefully, only to have her hopes dashed when his gaze slid away from hers.
“Well, it depends. If you can call using a projectile weapon purposely aimed at the glass an accident …” Jackson reached behind him and pulled something out of his pocket, and her heart sank with dismay as she recognized the slingshot. Uh-oh.
“Aiden, you promised me, that’s only for target practice in the backyard.” She rubbed her forehead with her palm. God, what would Merriam do in this instance? She was stumped. Her parenting skills sucked. “And why weren’t you at the craft session at the church?”
The boy shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Great. She’d planned this day so she could finalize some work before the Christmas holiday. Having children who required care and attention during school breaks was a new experience, cost and disruption to her work. She didn’t know how other parents managed it. She shook her head. She’d have to deal with that later. One thing at time. She glanced up at the man who was watching their exchange with keen interest. “Uh, look, Sheriff, I’m really sorry. We’re not looking at an arrest, are we?”
Aiden’s eyes rounded, and for a moment she wanted to hug him, tell him everything was going to be all right, just to rid the kid of the fear, the anxiety that flared in his eyes … but she’d already learned Aiden didn’t like hugs, nor did he believe her reassurances.
Jackson’s lips twitched. “Oh, I managed to talk Mrs. Turner out of pressing charges, as long as the window is repaired.”
Steph nodded earnestly. “Of course. I’ll call Mrs. Turner and make arrangements to have the window replaced,” she shot the boy a glare, “and Aiden will be shoveling the snow off her path for the next four weeks.”
Aiden opened his mouth to protest, and she held up a finger. “You broke it, you can pay for it. This is coming out of your allowance, so you’re going to have to work hard for it.” God knows how she was going to afford the repairs, but she’d find a way.
“But—”
“No buts. When your sister comes home from the Christmas craft day, we’re all going over there and you’re going to apologize.”
“I already apologized,” Aiden exclaimed.
“Well, you can do it again, along with me,” she muttered. She waved a hand down the hallway. “Now, go to your room until I call you.”
Aiden’s lips pursed, and for a moment she thought he’d again tell her where to shove her attempt at playing ‘Mommy’, but the boy must have thought better of it, because after a quick glance at the sheriff, he stomped to the staircase and thumped his way up to his room.
She took a calming breat
h as she turned to face the big man who took up so much space in her home, her thoughts … her secret fantasies. “Again, Sheriff, I’m so sor—”
“Jackson,” he interrupted her. “I keep telling you, call me Jackson.” His voice was husky, his gaze intent as he looked down at her with those incredible eyes. Even now she could see the golden-green splinters in the hazel warm with humor and something just a little darker.
Warmth crept into her cheeks. She needed to keep some distance between herself and the handsome sheriff. He was … too confident, too sexy and too much of a complication in her already complicated life.
He lifted his nose, his eyes closing as he sniffed the air. “Something smells good,” he said, his voice low.
She stared at his expression of bliss, and her mouth dried. He looked so darn sensual, so relaxed.
“Uh, I’ve been baking,” she said unnecessarily.
His eyes slid open, and one of his eyebrows rose. “You bake?”
She nodded. “I do.” It was a relaxing activity for her, and her life had taken on a couple of new sources of stress recently. “Uh, would you—” her brows dipped slightly as a thought occurred to her, and before she could stop herself, she found herself saying, “would you like a coffee? I’ve just pulled some cookies out of the oven …” Ugh. So much for keeping her distance. That had lasted what, thirty-seven seconds?
He straightened, then gestured down the hallway. “Lead the way.”
* * *
Jackson enjoyed watching the swing of Stephanie Farrell’s hips as she preceded him into her warm, heavenly scented kitchen. She lit the burner on the stove and placed the kettle on the ring, then opened a cupboard above the kitchen counter. The fabric of her long-sleeved T-shirt pulled taut across the soft curve of her breasts as she reached to pull down two mugs from the cupboard, and his body tightened.
The woman was tying him in knots. Hell, she had the same effect on pretty much every male in Patience. As far as he could tell, though, she hadn’t dated anybody since she’d arrived three months ago. He’d checked—casually, of course.
Everyone knew of the young woman and her new children. Well, most people knew of young Aiden. He’d made quite the name for himself in three short months. His brow dipped. The kid was going through a lot, and he was prepared to take his situation into consideration, but if Aiden continued on this path, he’d wind up a juvenile delinquent. He’d seen it plenty of times.
Sure, he was a boy, and boys did things. Jackson was one of four boys, so he had a good idea of the mischief they could get into. But Aiden—Aiden was angry, and angry boys did things that could be hard to come back from. He felt, though, that maybe with the right kind of attention, Aiden could turn it all around. He was a smart kid, and he’d actually enjoyed the conversation during the car ride over with the boy.
“So, have you heard from the Dickinson ghost?” he asked, and Stephanie grinned at him.
“Good old Dickie? I heard that story about this place as soon as the ink was dry on the rental agreement—some guy died right? Please tell me it was natural causes.”
Jackson chuckled as he leaned a hip against the counter. “Yeah. Heart attack over dinner. It happened a good sixty years ago, but nobody ever gets tired of it. They say the man was a direct descendant of one of the survivors of the Alamo. His granddaughter is your landlady.”
She made a face. “Well, that probably explains why so much of the junk still in the basement looks ancient. But no, Dickie hasn’t put in an appearance.”
“What did you mean when you said you would also apologize to Mrs. Turner?” He could understand the gesture, but something about the way she’d said it hinted at a guilty conscience.
“What?” She twisted to look at him.
“In the hallway, with Aiden. You said ‘along with me’ to Aiden. What did you mean?”
“Oh.” Her cheeks grew rosy, and he turned and settled his elbows on the counter. It was refreshing, talking with someone who didn’t realize her every emotion was plastered across her face. There was no subterfuge, no coyness with Stephanie Farrell.
She grimaced. “I helped him make the slingshot.”
Jackson’s eyebrows rose. “What?” He wasn’t expecting to hear that.
Her head dipped. “I thought it would be a good bonding experience for us—you know, something fun and no pressure, and it was. Mostly.” She chewed her lip. “I didn’t expect him to take it to church.” Her eyebrows rose. “Although it seems he didn’t quite make it to church.” She frowned as she turned back to the cupboard. “They have this big kid’s day thing going on, and I needed to finish up some work before Christmas.”
“You’re surprised a boy wanted to go play with a weapon of minor destruction instead of going to church?” His lips quirked. “Seems to me Aiden is a typical kid.” He placed the slingshot on the counter. “Well, I guess I should return this to its rightful owner.”
She made a noncommittal sound as she opened the fridge door. “Do you take milk?”
He nodded. “Please. No sugar. How is Katie doing?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation to a happier topic. He watched Stephanie make them coffee with graceful movements, her hands quick and efficient at their task. She had great hands. He’d noticed them the first time they’d met. Hell, he’d noticed pretty damn much everything about her, the way her honey-brown hair tumbled down to her shoulders, her long legs and tight ass that she always seemed to encase in form-fitting denim … and her scent. There was something about her scent that captivated him, reached in and held him, put all his other senses on high alert.
If his brothers knew how he was going crazy over one little lady, they’d tease him into the next holiday and beyond.
Stephanie beamed, a genuine expression of happiness and joy at the mention of her other ward. He felt the jolt, right down in his groin, from the impact of the soft curve of lips, flash of teeth and the sparkle in her blue–gray eyes. “She’s doing great.” She shook her head, her hair swinging over her shoulders. “She’s made friends at school, she loves doing her homework …” Jackson grinned at her stupefaction over the comment, and she shrugged. “It’s almost like she’s trying to make up for her brother’s … attitude.” She placed some cookies on a plate and put it on the counter in front of him, along with a ceramic mug, tendrils of steam curling into the ether. He took the mug and sighed with appreciation. Something as simple as a cup of coffee and plate of homemade cookies was like heaven for him—a brief respite from the cold outside and his lonely car. He blinked. Huh. He’d always loved the peace and quiet of that car, the solitude, but lately, he had to admit it was wearing on him. He took a bite of a cookie and immediately groaned in appreciation.
“Oh, these are good. I’m amazed you’re not the size of a barn,” he said after he swallowed. He took in the woman before him, from the top of her honey-colored hair, past the slender column of her throat, the soft mounds of her breasts, the indentation of her waist and the flare of her hips, down the slender legs to the toes of her worn sneakers. She was perfect, as far as he could tell.
Her cheeks warmed, and he held back a smile at the tell-tale blush. It meant she was aware of him. He wanted her aware of him, he wanted her to feel the same bone-deep fascination with him that he did with her, the tight coil of attraction.
She laughed softly, her gaze dropping away from his. “I can bake, but that’s about the extent of my skills in the kitchen. Ask the kids, I suck at cooking.” She leaned a hip against the counter as she sipped her coffee, her face sobering. “I’ve never really had to cook, before. At least, not much more than opening a tin and turning it out on a piece of toast.”
He tilted his head as he watched her. He knew a little of her circumstances—everyone in Patience had talked up a storm at the arrival of a young woman with two children who didn’t call her ‘Mom’.
“Guess you’re on a steep learning curve.”
Her eyelids fluttered, and he saw her fingers tighten about the mug she c
radled. “Yeah. Cooking is just one of the skills I have to improve on.” Her gaze lifted to the ceiling, and he realized she was thinking of the boy sulking in his bedroom. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Jackson,” she admitted.
Something deep inside unfurled at her words. She’d used his name, for the first time, and satisfaction at that battled with the urge to reassure, to protect, to soothe her uncertainty, her worry. Oh, yeah, his brothers would have a field day.
“Tell me about it.” He wanted to know everything about her, and so far the brief exchanges in front of the town hall or Fred’s Diner weren’t enough to satisfy his curiosity.
She laughed, and this time the sound was self-deprecating. “How long have you got?” she said dryly. Her smile slipped. “Four months ago my best friend died from an aneurysm, and I found out she’d made me guardian of her two children. I had to sell their house to pay off most of the debts, and we moved here.”
He reached for another cookie. “Why here?” Not that he was complaining, but Patience wasn’t really high on the bucket list for a lot of people.
She shrugged. “I’m a graphic designer, I can work from pretty much anywhere, as long as I have an internet connection. Merriam—Aiden and Katie’s mom—had always wanted to move to Texas. Besides, Katie loves animals, has always wanted to live someplace close to horses … and Aiden was particularly challenging one night and the name seemed appropriate for our needs.” She closed her eyes. “I based the future of these kids on a sarcastic whim.” Her eyes opened, and he saw the bleakness, the worry—and then she blinked, masking her expression. “And there you have it. My story in a nutshell.”
His eyes narrowed. He sensed there was a lot more to her than just the current situation she found herself in. “What about the kids’ father?” he asked quietly.
She winced. “He was killed in Iraq.”
“Oh.”
The radio on his hip squeaked to life, and the call came over advising of an altercation at the Hitchin’ Post Bar, on the other side of town. He sighed. Old man Crompton was at it again, from the sound of things. His job always seemed to rear its head at the most inopportune times; he was used to that, but today the interruption was irritating. He wanted more time, damn it.
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