Читать книгу A Snow Country Christmas - Linda Miller Lael - Страница 9

4

THE INSIDE OF the cabin was like a time capsule.

Mick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Old wooden armchairs around a table made from what looked like an old trough turned upside down, an ancient washtub in the corner, a very old rifle over the hearth of a fireplace he suspected had been the only source of heat for the place. There was even a tin cup sitting on the table like it had been left there by the last occupant.

And everywhere there were books. In homemade shelves against the walls and stacked on the floor. An ancient dry sink was part of the kitchen area, as was a rusted metal work table and several shelves with some significantly old dishes. In the corner, a wooden bucket right next to it was probably the way to wash them.

Raine stood next to him, her mittened hands in her pockets, and said neutrally, “No electricity, no heat, and if you look around for the bathroom, it’s out back. My grandfather was a minimalist. He read Walden and never glanced back. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Matthew Brighton.”

Mick about fell over. “The author?” It would certainly account for all the books...but really?

“That’s the one.”

“He was your grandfather?”

“Yes.” She’d put on this cute white knit hat before they left the house and it set off her dark hair. Her nose was tinged pink from the cold.

He couldn’t believe it. “My father had some of his books. I read them as a kid. That’s how I got hooked on Westerns. Are you serious?”

“Would I lie?”

He didn’t think she ever would. In his estimation she was probably as honest as it was possible to hope for a person to be.

He found himself grinning. “I loved those books. My favorite was Paintbrush Pass.”

She smiled. “Mine, too. Do you realize that was set right here?”

“Here...here? Like on this property here?”

“Exactly.”

Oh hell, that intrigued him. “I knew Slater’s film emphasized the legacy of a famous Western author and it was Brighton. I liked seeing the town through that lens.”

Her eyes suddenly glossed over. “This is where my grandfather wrote. He sat right at that desk.” She pointed to the corner. “Impressive, right?”

It wasn’t, certainly not by modern standards. But it was perfect—an old wagon wheel on a post covered with pieced together lengths of hand-shaved wood no one had ever bothered to finish other than to roughly plane it with a tool that gave it a moderately flat surface. Brighton’s typewriter was still there and should probably be in a museum.

“He told me once that was all he’d asked for in his life. Solitude and a place to write suited his needs perfectly. Central air was an option he didn’t worry about, he’d just open the windows. He didn’t need a dishwasher since he had two perfectly good hands and that old bucket.”

Mick walked over and ran his hand reverently over the surface on the typewriter, coating his fingers with dust. “I can’t believe this.”

Raine still missed her grandfather. He could hear it in her voice. “He was a rather salty old character, but all in all, a happy man.”

“I can imagine. You know, thanks to him I wrote a couple of short stories in college that actually got published. My major was business, but my minor was English. I started a novel, but then I got that fairly high-powered job right after graduation.” He lifted his shoulder in a negligent shrug, but life was full of what-ifs and he knew that. “Going that direction certainly made more sense at the time.”

“This property would be a great place for a house.” She looked him in the eye. “I swear you’d get a bargain price if you’d just let the cabin stand. There’s lots of space to build. I’ve tried the Bliss County Historical Society, but they think it’s too remote to really be a tourist draw, so they can’t justify the funding for a decent road and maybe they’re right. Not even Mrs. Arbuckle-Calder can whip up some support. I want someone to enjoy the place and not tear down the cabin. If you want a scenic spot, this is it. Just tell me you won’t raze the cabin and I’ll practically give it away.”

So this was why she’d dragged him halfway up a mountain in the middle of a snowy night. He sensed from the way she looked at him that she was somehow confident he was the man who might be worthy enough to take on this legacy that mattered to her.

He had to admit he was flattered—and humbled. It mattered to him, too. He’d devoured Brighton’s books, reading a lot of them in one sitting. He couldn’t agree more that the place should stay exactly as it was.

“I’m not quite ready to sign on the dotted line, but I’m definitely intrigued. Second date? We can come back and you can show me the property in the daylight.” It was difficult not to confess he’d see footage of it tomorrow, but especially now, he wanted her to be as surprised as Slater and the rest of his family when the documentary aired.

“Second date.” Her smile was tremulous and he doubted that happened often with her. “I never wanted to sell it in the first place, but taxes are expensive. And though Daisy and I come up here for a picnic now and then, as ridiculous as this sounds, I think the cabin is starting to get depressed about being abandoned. I want someone who appreciates the history and doesn’t just see a dilapidated wreck. If you didn’t have vision, you and Slater wouldn’t get along.”

He needed to set the record straight. “If he wasn’t a brilliant filmmaker we wouldn’t get along on a business level, but he is, and as a person I like him very much. It has nothing to do with me except I help other people believe in what he has in mind.”

Her breath was frosty as she blew out a laugh. “He’d so disagree. I believe he calls you ‘the driving force.’”

“Maybe I am, of the funding of the production. He’s the inspired one. It’s collaboration, a sum of the parts.”

“Slater Carson doesn’t collaborate with just anyone Take my word for it. I’ve known him for a while.” She suddenly put those fluffy mittens on his shoulders and rose up to give him a light kiss that was very nice but not nearly all he wanted. Her lips were warm and smooth. She whispered, “I’m glad you’re here. Merry Christmas.”

At that moment a breeze brushed by, ruffling a stack of old, yellowed papers still sitting on the cluttered desk. Startled, he looked around, but the door was firmly shut and so were the windows. She said blithely, “I told you it was haunted. I think he likes you. Let’s head back.”

One of the pages had floated to the floor and she bent to pick it up.

* * *

Well, there was no question she was an idiot.

A sentimental idiot, but so it went. The minute Raine heard Mick Branson was looking for property in Wyoming, she thought about her family legacy. That he knew her grandfather’s name blew her away. That he’d read his books made it even more special.

Fate, plain and simple.

She was a great believer in spiritual signs, no matter if it was labeled fate or attributed to some divine power. If Mick bought the property, maybe he would leave the cabin standing. She’d resigned herself to saying goodbye to it someday, and Blythe had kindly offered to have the Carson Ranch pay the taxes, but Raine wanted someone to use the land, to enjoy the breathtaking views, to appreciate and find joy in it like her grandfather had his whole life. She’d thought about someday building a house on it, but it would have to be after Daisy was out of school. Their modest little house suited them perfectly for now.