by Lisa Carter
“It’s like something out of a dream,” she said. “A dream of home, family and belonging.”
Jonas Stone’s eyes cut to her. Cheeks reddening, she set her face forward.
With great excitement, Hunter drew her attention to points of interest. The truck wound its way over the rolling terrain, past the split-rail fence that lined the snow-covered pastures.
She waved her hand. “I love the names of the cabins.” She savored the words. “The Laurel. The Azalea. The Hummingbird.”
Hunter hugged her arm. “I’m so happy you’re fine-a-wee here.”
“Finally here?” Touched by the sweet sincerity in the little boy’s face, she hugged him back. “So am I, sweetie pie.”
“Uh...” Jonas shifted. “Miss Cummings... My son...” An interesting look she wasn’t sure how to interpret fell across his features.
She smiled at him. “Yes, Mr. Stone?”
But his face resumed its usual aloof expression. “Nothing...”
She bit her lip. Reminding herself that not everyone enjoyed conversation, she concentrated on his son. “Why is the ranch called the FieldStone, Hunter?”
“My name is Stone.” Hunter broadened his chest. “And Gwam-ma’s name is Fielding.”
Jonas drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I’m the fourth-generation Stone to work the ranch.”
Hunter held up his small hand. “I’ll be... One, two, three, four.” He ticked off each finger. “Five.”
She tapped her finger on the tip of his button nose. “Yes, you will be.”
Jonas cleared his throat. “When my father died—”
“Oh.” She straightened. “I’m so sorry.”
Jonas shrugged. “I was too young to remember him.”
“I was young when my mother died, too.”
His stoic expression flickered for a second before the impenetrable barrier fell into place once more. “My mother married the ranch foreman, Wilton Fielding.”
“Field... Stone.” She smiled. “Got it.”
“He was great,” Jonas grunted. “Best stepfather I could’ve wished for.”
She settled her back against the seat. Unlike when her father married pushy Victoria, who, in her opinion, left a lot to be desired in the mothering department.
“Dat’s the Whip-po-wheel.” Hunter motioned toward the duplex cabin. “And over dere’s de Dogwood.”
Jonas never took his eyes from the road. “Whip-poor-will.”
Hunter gestured to the red, gambrel-roofed barn. “We have dances dere.”
At the curve in the bend of trees, his father palmed the wheel. “In summer.”
The hunky cowboy might not be much of a talker, but he had nice hands. Lived-in hands. Strong, work-calloused hands. When he caught her looking, she felt a blush creep up her neck.
Get it through your head, AnnaBeth. He’s married.
Although—she cut her eyes to his hands again—he wasn’t wearing a ring. But what did she know? Maybe some married men didn’t.
“Sweet potatoes,” she muttered, earning her another unreadable glance from Jonas.
“Haywides and twail wides and hoss-shoes.” Hunter motioned toward two tall poles, standing like steel sentinels on the snow-packed concrete. “And va-wee-bawl.”
Twilight was descending fast. But on a knoll above the cluster of cabins and outbuildings, lights from a two-story wood-and-stone structure beckoned.
Hunter grinned. “We’re home.”
AnnaBeth gulped. Home. She’d done more than just run away from her own wedding.
She’d spent her entire life trying to please her father. He’d been so ecstatic about her engagement. It made her sick to think of how she’d disappointed him today.
And after embarrassing Victoria in front of Charlotte society, she doubted she had a home anymore. She’d learned early not to make waves. Now she’d pay a heavy price for asserting her independence.
Pulling the truck into the circular driveway in front of the house, Jonas parked at the end of the snow-covered sidewalk. When he got out, the wind whistled through the open door, and she shuddered.
“Wait here.” He grimaced. “I’ll come around.”
She tried not to take his unfriendliness to heart. “Do you need help unbuckling the lap belt, Hunter?”
“I can do it.” He pressed the lever, and the belt whizzed free, retracting. “I’m a big boy.”
She smiled. “Yes, you are.”
Keeping his thumb down, he held up his hand. “I’m four.”
“So, so big,” she agreed.
His father threw open the door and stepped aside as Hunter jumped to the ground. “Miss Cummings?”
Ignoring his outstretched hand, she slid across the seat and inched around the booster seat. At the edge of the cab, she hesitated. He took hold of her hand.
The moment his fingers touched her skin, sparks flew up her arm. His brown eyes widened. Mirroring, she figured, her own shock.
“Static electricity,” he muttered.
Of course. What else could it be? Discombobulated, she allowed him to assist her to the ground. Her heels sank into the snow.
Dropping his hand, she took a step forward. Snow sloshed inside her open-toed, ivory silk pumps. At the sudden cold, she gasped.
She slogged forward, but it was slow going. Gauging the distance from the truck to the house, she bit back a sigh. She was beginning to lose feeling in her feet. Her knees wobbled.
He flicked a look in her direction. “Miss Cummings?”
“M-m-maybe you sh-sh-should go first and warn your w-w-wife to expect c-c-company.”
Giving her a dour look, he folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t have a wife.”
Maybe that’s just what his face did whenever he looked at her. Then his words registered.
The hunky cowboy didn’t have a wife.
“Don’t want a wife,” he growled.
The small, irrepressible bubble of joy burst. Another dream dying an ignominious death. But that meant Jonas Stone was a widower? Or divorced?
Hunter tugged her hand. “My mudder died, too, Snow Pwincess.”
“I’m not a princess—Whoa!”
Jonas scooped her into his arms.
Sucking in a breath, she found herself pressed against the softness of his calfskin coat. “What’re you doing?”
“Getting you out of the cold before you get pneumonia.” He plowed forward.
Jostled, she threw her arms around his neck. He’d lifted her so effortlessly, thinking nothing of it. As if she was MaryDru or Victoria.
“I’ll get your bags later.”
She found herself at eye level with his square, stubble-covered jaw. A vein pulsed in his throat, visible in the exposed V of skin where he’d neglected to fasten the top button of his coat. But he fixed his gaze on navigating the slippery path.
Hunter didn’t wait for them. Racing along the sidewalk, he headed for the porch. The heavy oak door swung open. A cell phone in her hand, an attractive, auburn-haired woman in her late fifties ventured out.
“Look what Santa bwought me, Gwam-ma!” Hunter bobbed in his boots. “Me and Dad bwung her home.”
Jonas carried AnnaBeth up the stone steps.
“I was on the phone with Aunt IdaLee...” Eyes the same shade as the cowboy’s, his mother’s gaze darted from her grandson to AnnaBeth. “Who have you brought home, Jonas?”
AnnaBeth pushed the obnoxious bow higher on her forehead. “Mr. Stone rescued me on the mountain road after my car broke down.”
Tucking the phone into the pocket of her cardigan, Mrs. Fielding ushered them inside the house.
“She was walking on the woad, Gwam-ma. Dad awe-most killed her.”
Mrs. Fielding shut the door against the driving snow. “What?”
&n
bsp; “A misunderstanding.” Keeping one arm draped around his neck for balance, she held out her hand. “I’m AnnaBeth Cummings. So sorry to drop in on you like this.”
“Please call me Deirdre.” Eyes narrowing, his mother clasped her fingers. “AnnaBeth Cummings... Why does your name sound so familiar?” An amused expression lightened her features. “Speaking of dropped, feel free to put her down anytime, Jonas.”
The color of his neck immediately went brick-red. He set AnnaBeth on her feet so fast, she had to catch hold of the wall.
“Sorry to be so heavy,” she whispered.
“You’re not heavy. I’m used to hauling sacks of feed.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Not that you’re like a sack of feed... Or any other kind of sack... I just meant...” He closed his eyes. “I’m going to stop talking now.”
His mother planted her hands on her hips. “Silence might be for the best, Jonas.”
“I’ll go get your luggage.” A flush darkening his sharp cheekbones, he slipped out the door and back into the storm.
“Please forgive my inarticulate son.” Deirdre led AnnaBeth into a large, open-space living room. “He’s rusty when it comes to a woman’s tender sensibilities.”
Rough-hewn wooden beams bolstered the soaring ceiling. A wall of windows provided what in fair weather she guessed were magnificent views of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Deirdre eased AnnaBeth into one of the leather armchairs flanking the massive stone fireplace. Orange-red flames danced from the fire in the hearth.
“Thank you, Deirdre.”
At the sudden whoosh of cold air, Jonas returned. Using his shoulder, he heaved the stout oak door shut, cutting off the roaring wind.
Hunter plastered himself to AnnaBeth’s elbow. “I told her awe about de wanch, Gwam-ma.”
Deirdre smiled, tiny lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes. “Welcome to the FieldStone Ranch, AnnaBeth.” She nudged the brim of Hunter’s Stetson upward. “Hats off in the house, remember, Hunter?”
AnnaBeth liked the motherly Deirdre Fielding. Probably not her fault that her son was a surly, ill-tempered cowboy.
Shuffling his boots, Jonas handed Hunter his hat, too. Hunter hung both hats on pegs on the far wall.
Deirdre’s gaze fell to AnnaBeth. “Oh, honey. You must be frozen. We need to get you out of those wet clothes. And those shoes... Your feet must feel like a block of ice.” She turned to her son. “How long was she walking in the snow? We should check for frostbite.”
“F-frostbite?” she whispered.
All of a sudden, everything became too much. The wedding. Scott. MaryDru. Getting lost. Almost getting hit by a truck.
Now this? Her eyelids stung with unshed tears. Hunter, Jonas and Mrs. Fielding swam in her vision.
By running away, had she made the worst mistake of her life?
Chapter Three
Jonas could stand a lot of things, but not a woman’s tears.
Ducking out from under the strap of AnnaBeth’s camera bag, he set both cases at the base of the staircase. “Let me check for signs of frostbite.” He dropped onto the leather ottoman in front of her chair. Hunter hovered at his side.
“It won’t be long before dinner.” His mother moved toward the kitchen at the back of the lodge. “But we need to get something warm inside her now. Do you like coffee, AnnaBeth, honey?”
AnnaBeth started to rise. “Yes, but you mustn’t wait on—”
“Lots of sugar, Mom, for shock.” A hand on her arm, he eased her onto the cushions. “We don’t want her fainting again.”
A line puckered AnnaBeth’s otherwise perfect brow. “But—”
His mother had already gone.
Jonas felt sick thinking of what could’ve happened to AnnaBeth if he and Hunter hadn’t come along when they did. In the Blue Ridge, winter should never be taken for granted.
“Son, can you find some socks to keep her feet warm?”
“Yes, sir.” Boots clattering, Hunter dashed upstairs.
She lowered her gaze to her hands, clasped in her lap. “I don’t usually take my coffee with sugar. As a general rule, I don’t eat sugar. I mean, I try to avoid it.”
AnnaBeth twisted a button on her coat. “I’ve always had to watch my weight. I really don’t need any sugar.”
He sensed a lifetime of hurt in her words. And none of it true. She was taller than average, about five foot six to his six foot three. But she fit perfectly well in his arms. Far too well for his peace of mind.
Jonas frowned. “Who told you that you should watch your weight?”
She tucked her chin into the collar of her coat. “Daddy says I take after my mother. But Victoria said I was just big-boned, and I needed to watch my carbs.” Two spots of red burned in her cheeks.
His gut knotted. He didn’t know her father or Victoria—nor was he likely to—but on general principle he decided he didn’t like them. Not if they’d hurt AnnaBeth.
Although, hadn’t he done the same insensitive thing? Remorse flooded him. He recalled her earlier apology for being too heavy. And his response.
He scrubbed his hand over his face. He should be horsewhipped. His mother was right. He’d turned into a curmudgeon. An idiot who didn’t know how to treat a lady.
Open mouth, insert horseshoe. Actually, the entire horse—saddle and blanket, too. Which reminded him... He stood.
Startled, her gaze lifted to his and locked. For a second, his world went sideways. Blood pounded in his ears.
Only by sheer force of will did he direct his feet toward the sofa. He must’ve risen too fast. Made himself dizzy.
Snatching the afghan off the sofa, he resumed his seat on the ottoman. “Prop your feet on my knees.”
Eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a frightened bird, she pursed her lips. “What? Why?”
What’s wrong with you? Manners, Jonas. Even four-year-old Hunter knew the magic words.
“Please.” He opened his hands. “I need to make sure your toes don’t have frostbite.”
“A-all right.”
She lifted first one foot and then the other. He was appalled—and scared—at how blue her feet appeared. Why on earth had she ventured out in such inappropriate footwear?
Gently, he eased off her left shoe, and set it on the floor beside them. Next, he removed the right one.
His thumb accidentally brushed against the skin on top of her foot. She quivered. His throat clogged. Her feet were cold, so cold, but thank You, God, no signs of frostbite.
Jonas wrapped her lower limbs in the folds of the afghan. Through the fabric, he rubbed the circulation back into her feet.
Her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink. “You don’t have to do that, Mr. Stone.”
Pausing, he frowned. “I told you, it’s Jonas.”
She fidgeted in the chair. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine. I am fine, J-Jonas...”
Was saying his name that difficult?
He glared. “Be still, woman. The storm out there is nothing to play around with. The Blue Ridge Mountains are beautiful, but they can also be deadly.”
As beautiful as AnnaBeth Cummings. The thought stopped him cold. Momentarily befuddled, he stared at her.
Her lips parted. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing. Everything. His mother returned to the living room, bringing him back to the present.
She handed AnnaBeth a coffee mug. “Cream and sugar.”
AnnaBeth’s face fell. “Thank you.” Dutifully, she brought the mug to her lips.
He squeezed her foot. “Not that you should worry, but the cream and sugar don’t count today.”
AnnaBeth arched an eyebrow. “They don’t?”
“Not when it’s the first thing you’ve eaten in forty-eight hours.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You said... On the road..
.”
“I didn’t think you were listening. Most people—” Averting her gaze, she took a big gulp of coffee and sputtered. “Wow. That’s strong. But good,” she added quickly.
Jonas had noticed that about her. Always so careful not to give the slightest offense. Yet with that red hair of hers, he wondered what she’d be like if she ever got mad. Did she ever allow herself to get mad?
His mother smiled. “My coffee’s like my two cowboys. Strong. Sometimes a little thick. But with undertones of sweetness.”
Jonas started to rise, but his mother waved him to remain where he was. “Look’s like you’ve got this under control.” She settled onto the nearby sofa. “Like I said, a little thick. At least at first.”
Hunter dashed downstairs, saving him from further comment. “Here you go, Snow Pwincess.”
AnnaBeth blushed. “I’m not—Why don’t you call me AnnaBeth, Hunter? Or A.B. That’s what my sister, MaryDru, calls me.” She set the mug on the side table.
Hunter jutted his jaw. “I’d wather caw you—”
“Son!” Jonas got to his feet so fast, the room spun. Again. “Give Miss AnnaBeth the socks.”
A pleased expression flitted across her features. And he realized it was the first time he’d said her name out loud. Although, he’d been thinking her name far longer.
Kasey used to complain he was emotionally unavailable. How she never knew what he was thinking. After she deserted them, probably better she hadn’t.
Hunter thrust the socks at AnnaBeth. “Dese awe so, so wawrm, Miss AnnaBef.”
Jonas narrowed his eyes. “Where did you get those, Hunter?”
His son grinned. “Dese socks keep your feet wawrm, Dad. You told me to go get socks.”
Jonas ran his hand over his head. “I meant for you to get a pair from Gramma’s room, Hunt.”
Bending, AnnaBeth slipped on the heather-gray, wool boot socks. “Already my toes feel toastier.” She sighed. “I’m in love.”
He gave her a startled glance.
She went crimson. “I mean I’m in love with these socks.” She stuck out her feet.
Deirdre snapped her fingers. Everyone jumped. “That’s where I’ve seen your name. You write the Heart’s Home blog. I love your tagline.” She smiled. “‘May your heart always know the way home.’ That’s you, isn’t it, AnnaBeth?”