Читать книгу His Christmas Sweetheart - Cathy Mcdavid - Страница 11

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.

The entire population was concerned about the lack of honeymooners. Especially the mayor. She and Sam had sponsored a contest for a free wedding and a week’s stay at the ranch, hoping to generate publicity. In addition to a ceremony in the chapel and a honeymoon cabin at the ranch, the couple would also receive free tuxedo rentals, photographs and a fully catered reception at the Paydirt Saloon.

The winning couple was scheduled to arrive next week with their families. Everyone in town, especially the business owners, hoped and prayed they were the first of many.

Will had been assigned to the contest winners and their families, his job to make sure they enjoyed themselves at the ranch and to teach them the basics of calf roping. The last thing he needed was to be suffering from panic attacks right now.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

Will considered his answer. His boss wasn’t one to stick his nose in Will’s personal business. Not that a simple, “You okay?” qualified as prying.

“Fine.”

“If you want to talk about what happened—”

“Nothing happened.”

“If you say so. But this is the first time you’ve taken a long lunch.”

Three more minutes of silence ticked by.

“You stop by Miranda’s today?” Apparently his boss wasn’t going to let this go.

“Yeah.”

“Is Mrs. Litey all right?”

“Same.”

Sam had known the ranch’s curator from when he had spent time in Sweetheart as a younger man. For thirty years the woman had given tours of the iconic TV ranch and had overseen the daily operations. Her Alzheimer’s and inability to remember Sam was hard on him.

“Then I guess it’s Miranda that’s bugging you.”

That got Will’s attention. He slanted Sam a sideways glance.

“Hey, I like the woman,” Sam said. “Even if she’s caused me and my contractor a pile of grief. Insisting the sheriff issue him all those tickets...”

“Not her fault her neighbor’s house burned down and that the work crews are always parking their trucks in front of her place.” Will’s defense of Miranda came out stronger than he’d intended.

“’Course it’s not her fault. And she does need unobstructed access to get those residents of hers in and out.”

Will didn’t respond. Instead, he focused on his breathing. Steady. Rhythmic. He didn’t feel another panic attack coming on, but why take the chance?

“Ask her out,” Sam said.

“What?”

“Just get it over with. Same as plunging into ice-cold water. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Besides falling apart in front of her? The last woman who’d seen that happen had left him on the spot, taking his pride and heart with her. “No.”

“Why not? You like her.”

“She’s not interested in me.”

“You’re wrong, pal.” Sam took a long swallow of his beer, making Will wait. Finally he said, “She asked Fiona about you. And Irma.”

Sam’s mother-in-law, who worked as manager of guest relations at the ranch, and the housekeeper.

“When?”

“A while ago. After the fire.”

That made sense and was nothing to get excited about. Miranda was probably curious about the man who’d shown up out of the blue to help her and her residents evacuate.

With no family in Sweetheart to worry about, Will had quickly gathered his few possessions, a week’s supply of food and water and his dog. On a whim, he had driven to the group home on his way out of town, deciding to make sure Miranda and her residents got out safely.

Good thing he had. Corralling five frightened and confused senior citizens was no easy task. Even with Will’s assistance, it had taken a while. That was the day he had first met Mrs. Litey.

While Miranda had transported her van load of residents to her parents’ house in Tahoe City, Will had camped out on Grey Rock Point, an area two miles from the fire, until they had been allowed to return to their homes. It was the farthest he could venture out of town without becoming violently ill.

Sweetheart was more than his haven. In some ways it was his prison. And Will was perfectly okay with that. All his needs were met right here in town.

Food. Shelter. Employment. Companionship, such as it was. If he was sick, he went to the clinic. If he had a cavity, he waited for old Doc Bulregard’s twice-monthly mobile dental visits. If he required something that wasn’t readily available in Sweetheart or couldn’t be shipped in by mail order, he did without.

“Then again, last week,” Sam said.

Will’s brows rose. “She asked about me last week, too?”

That seemed to be the reaction his boss wanted. “Yep. She’s interested. And I’d say it’s mutual.”

“Got too much on my plate to be distracted by some gal.”

“Like what? Taking care of the contest winners?”

“You said to make sure they had a great time. And there’s the cross-country ski trails. This whole place will be covered in snow within a month. Maybe sooner. I need those trails marked as of yesterday.”

Sam reached under his hat and scratched behind his ear. “Not sure how coffee or even dinner with a pretty gal is going to screw with your schedule.”

Maybe not, but Will couldn’t tell Sam the real reason. His boss, he was sure, suspected there was more amiss with Will than a craving for privacy and an aversion to conversation. They had worked closely these past months. And even if Sam had guessed Will suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, Sam didn’t know the real cause and never would.

“You don’t make your move soon, pal, someone else will.” Finished with his beer, Sam stood and left. He didn’t ask if Will was staying or leaving.

Will stayed. He debated ordering another beer and settled on a bowl of the mayor’s homemade chili and a side of corn bread. By the end of the meal, he’d reached a decision.

He wasn’t going to ask Miranda out. He couldn’t risk jeopardizing his job. His entire life. The contentment—if not happiness—he’d found after nearly sixteen straight years of living hell.

In fact, if possible, he wasn’t going to talk to her ever again.

And the only way to accomplish that was to stop visiting the senior-care home and Mrs. Litey.

* * *

MIRANDA SAT IN the visitor’s chair, her spine ramrod straight. Not an easy feat considering the cushion beneath her felt like a bed of thorns. She struggled not to squirm as the mortgage banker at the desk across from her reviewed her records.

“I haven’t missed a single payment. Until this month,” she amended when he peered at her from above the rims of his reading glasses.

“You were also late with your August, September and October payments.”

“Yes, sir.” She refused to let his brusque manner intimidate her. “The fire was unexpected. And a burden on all of us.”

“Your house was spared.”

“For which I’m grateful. But as I mentioned earlier, I lost one of my residents.”

“Will you be replacing him?”

“There’s nothing I’d like more, but Sweetheart’s a small town. We’re growing old folks as fast as we can.”

He scowled, apparently not finding her stab at humor particularly funny.

Well, fine. Be a stiff. If she’d had a choice, she’d take her business to a different bank. Unfortunately, the modest branch of Northern Nevada Savings and Loan was the only one in town. It was also where she’d originally obtained her mortgage and hoped to refinance.

“I bring in enough money to cover my costs with the four remaining residents,” she pointed out.

“Just enough. If I may ask, Ms. Staley, how is it you pay for your personal expenses? I assume you have some. Clothing. Health insurance. Credit cards.”

Her chin lifted a notch. “I’m making do.”

For about two more weeks. The plumber’s fee had cut into her rainy-day fund. Will was right last Friday when he’d suggested she keep her appointment with the plumber. The leak had worsened, defying even Miranda’s skills.

“If I could refinance my mortgage—” she looked hopefully at the banker “—and lower my monthly payments, I’d manage better until I took in a fifth resident.”

“Which could be a while. You said yourself there aren’t many ‘old folks’ in Sweetheart.”

“I’ve had some recent inquiries.” She was so going to pay for lying.

“I’m sorry to inform you, but refinancing isn’t possible without being current on monthly payments and after all late fees are satisfied.”

Late fees. She hated to ask how much those were. “I’ll have November’s payment first of the week.”

“Next week is also when your December payment is due. Do you by chance have it, as well?”

She lowered her gaze. “I will, I swear.”

He tapped her records into a neat rectangle and placed them in a file folder. “When that happens, we can continue this discussion.”

Disappointment welled up inside and choked her. “Please, Mr. Carter...” She couldn’t finish.

“Ms. Staley.” He removed his glasses, and his eyes weren’t unkind. “I wish I could be more accommodating. But the bank’s policies aren’t negotiable. You must be current on your payments in order to refinance.”

“I understand.” She wouldn’t cry. Not in this stuffy cubicle with the other bank employees hovering within earshot.

“There are some programs available,” Mr. Carter said. “For customers in arrears. Significantly in arrears. You don’t qualify yet. We can, however, check into it later.”

When Miranda was significantly in arrears.

Not going to happen!

“Thank you for your time.” She slung her purse over her arm. “I’ll be in touch. Soon.”

She made her way out of the bank and onto the street. Damn, damn, damn. Where was she going to get the money? Her foster parents would gladly assist. Except Miranda wouldn’t ask. They’d loaned her the down payment to buy the house with the agreement she’d repay them in five years.

At the rate she was going, five years was looking more like six or seven.

Fueled by anger and frustration, she walked rather than drove the short distance to the Sweetheart Medical Clinic, where an order of medications for her residents waited. One way or another, she’d figure out a solution to her dilemma. She was nothing if not resourceful.

Halloween had only been four weekends ago, yet storefronts were already displaying Christmas decorations. Normally folks in Sweetheart pulled out all the stops, transforming the town into a winter wonderland. She didn’t think the same would happen this year. Hard to be in a festive mood when most people were barely hanging on.

Her spirits sank lower when she saw a going-out-of-business banner strung atop the door of Forever and Ever Jewelry Store. Though she didn’t know the owners well, she felt sorry for them. One by one, all the wedding-related businesses that had survived the fire were closing.

On the plus side, several businesses were showing hints of growth. The Rough and Ready Outdoor Depot, Dempsey’s General Store and Trading Post and the Lumberjack Diner, for instance. Businesses not dependent on the wedding trade.

Maybe the mayor was wrong. Instead of trying to lure back the honeymooners, what if they concentrated on the tourists? Those wanting to experience cowboy life at the Gold Nugget Ranch, mountaineers and skiers and even amateur prospectors.

Only how would that help her? Honeymooners or tourists, it made no difference to the number of elderly citizens requiring supervised care.

At the clinic, Miranda was asked to wait until a staff member was available to review the medications with her. A young girl sat at a miniature table, coloring in a book. Her mother paid no attention, glued instead to whatever was displayed on her phone. The girl smiled tentatively when Miranda winked at her.

Someday Miranda would have children of her own. A houseful, like her foster parents. And like her foster parents, she didn’t care if the children were biological or products of the system. Both, hopefully. She was a pay-it-forward kind of person.

“Miranda,” the nurse called out. “Your order’s ready.”

She was just turning to leave when the door leading to the examination rooms opened and Will stepped out. She noticed his surprised expression first, then the splint encasing his left wrist.

Grabbing the sack of meds off the counter, she rushed toward him. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

She pointed at the splint. “That’s not nothing.”

“I had a small run-in.”

“With what? A two-ton tank?”

“A calf.” He started toward the exit.

She followed him, refusing to be put off. “A calf broke your wrist?”

“Sprained it.”

Honestly his clipped answers were sometimes quite annoying. “How, for crying out loud?”

“It pinned me. Against the fence.”

She gave him a pointed stare. “What shape is the calf in?”

One corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “This round went to him.”

Miranda was transfixed, like the other day in her kitchen. Only then, a flash of heat in his eyes had been responsible.

“Mr. Dessaro?” the nurse called right before they reached the door. “You forgot your pain medication.”

“Don’t need it.”

“You say that now,” Miranda cautioned. “Wait till tonight.”

He shook his head.

“Trust me. I’m a nurse. Don’t try to be tough. A sprain is painful. You’re going to want some relief. About ten o’clock tonight you’ll be crying like a baby.”

After a moment’s hesitation he returned to the counter and paid for his medication. The small white bag containing his prescription promptly disappeared inside his jacket pocket.

She waited for him by the entrance. He insisted on opening the door for her with his good arm despite her protests.

Miranda suppressed an eye roll. Men.

A chilly breeze swept along the sidewalk, engulfing them and forcing them to take momentary shelter beneath the clinic awning. She snuggled deeper in her wool coat. “Won’t be long now till the first snow.”

“Yeah.” He touched the brim of his cowboy hat. “See you.”

“Hold on a sec!” She had absolutely no reason to keep him from his next destination. Yet she couldn’t stop herself. “You haven’t dropped by to see Mrs. Litey since Friday.”

“Been busy.”

“She misses you.”

“How is she doing?”

“Obliging part of the day. Cantankerous the rest. If you could spare a few minutes, I know she’d love to see you.”

Oh, sweet Lord, Miranda should be ashamed of herself. Using poor old Mrs. Litey to manipulate Will for purely selfish reasons.

“Can’t.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“We’ll see.”

His we’ll see had the ring of not likely. “Did something happen? I mean, other than your sprained wrist?”

“No.”

Hmm. She didn’t quite believe him. “I know this is a ridiculous suggestion, considering the weather, but would you want to have an ice-cream sundae with me?”

She’d clearly rendered him speechless, not that it was hard. After several false starts, he uttered, “Thanks, but no—”

“Please,” she said, cutting him off. “I’ve had a really crummy afternoon, and I could use some high-calorie, high-fat comfort food. Along with an ear to bend. I promise you won’t have to contribute much to the conversation. I’ll carry it all. I’d invite you for a beer,” she blurted out when she sensed a refusal forthcoming, “but you can’t have alcohol with your pain meds.”

Just when she had decided her efforts were in vain, he muttered, “Sure,” under his breath.

Miranda smiled for the first time that afternoon.