Christmas Romance (Best Christmas Romances of 2013) (12 page)

“I need to do one more thing before you can come in. Will you be all right for a couple minutes?”

“Of course. Can Sam sit on the swing with me?”

Sam wiggled his rear end in excitement, his tail flying back and forth.

“I can tell you’re going to spoil my pets. Okay, but only because it’s Christmas. Sam, up,” he commanded.

Sam responded with a gentle leap and licked her hand.

“Take your time. Sam and I are going to get acquainted.”

Halo heard a commotion inside the house, but stayed put. All of a sudden she heard a door slam, cursing, and around the side of the house, came another dog and a half dozen puppies yipping their little hearts out. Sam jumped down and the dogs wrestled in the snow. Playful growls erupted from the bunch.

Rich opened the front door, sat down next to Halo, and took her hand in his.

“Welcome to the McFarland zoo.”

“How many and what kinds of pets do you have?” she asked, with awe in her voice.

“I’ve lost track, but I love them all.”

Halo could tell he did.

“Let’s get you warm. I tried to wrap your Christmas presents, but they aren’t cooperating.”

“They?”

“Yes,
they
…” he laughed.

What a wonderful sound. Rich carried her into the house and lowered her down on the couch.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and walked down a hallway.

Meow…meow!

Rich walked toward her with a small box. The lip popped open and two kittens crawled up the sides. He grabbed them before they fell to the floor.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, with a grin on his face.

The kittens jumped out of his arms, landed on her lap, circled, kneaded her with their paws and fell asleep.

“They’re mine?” Halo stroked their heads and a rumble erupted from both of them.

“Yes, if you’ll have them,” he said and laughed.

“They’re beautiful. What are their names?”

“Tick and Tack. They were rescued and brought to my office. And I have something to confess.”

“Go ahead.” Halo couldn’t keep her hands off their soft fur.

“I was going to use them to get a date with you. I brought them by your office as an excuse to see you, but then things fell apart.”

“You’re shameless, but I’m so happy you did.”

“Open your present now.” Halo pointed to a large box on the table. “I wasn’t sure what to get you. I hope this is okay.”

Rich slipped his finger under the tape holding the paper closed and stopped.

“Just as long as the present isn’t alive,” he joked and continued to unwrap his present. “Wow. How great! Dog toys. We think alike.”

They leaned toward each other and shared a long, hot, holiday kiss, as the dogs roared into the living room. The kittens woke up, hissed, and swatted at the dogs.

Halo’s stomach grumbled and rumbled. Reminding her she hadn’t eaten a decent meal since leaving for Sue’s. “Do you need help with dinner? I like to cook. I can help.”

“Sure. Let me go shoot the turkey and you can sit here and pluck his feathers,” he said with a straight face.

“What? We have to kill our dinner?” Halo asked in shock.

He chuckled and shook his head.

“Oh, Halo, I’m just kidding. My neighbor is cooking dinner for us. She’ll deliver the feast in about twenty minutes.”

“You had me there for a minute,” she said.

He leaned forward, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. When they moved apart he rested his forehead against hers. He looked up, as though he’d just remembered something.

“Did I tell you, I have a pig named, Ziggy?”

“You… you… have a pig? Named, Ziggy? I’ve always wanted a pig,” Halo said, with longing.

His smile turned into a huge grin.

“Oh my sweet, Halo. Ziggy will love you.”

Rich leaned over and kissed the sensitive spot above Halo’s collarbone. She moaned. He moved to the other sensitive spot behind her ear. Another moan escaped her lips.

“You like that?” he asked in a husky voice.

“More…” that’s all Halo could manage.

Rich gave Halo more kisses, and soft touches. When she looked into his beautiful green eyes, she saw her future and everything she’d ever wanted.

The doorbell rang and the dogs barked, the kittens hissed, and she heard a
cocka-doodle-doo
in the distance.

What a wonderful Christmas!

A Christmas Hope

Casey Dawes

Chapter One

Clara Misowski was glued to the six o’clock evening news.

A man’s craggy face, guarded by a thick, but trimmed, black beard reflected the stony countryside behind him. His wild locks blew in the chilly late November wind.

Heathcliff in the flesh.

Clara leaned forward on her couch. She ached to reach through the plasma and touch him to make sure he was real. His piercing eyes taunted her with their vibrancy.

Or insanity.

Maybe she was the crazy one. Longing after a man on television was a sign of true desperation.

Three failed businesses and an abortive marriage had made her doubt her ability to make a success of anything. Her latest venture—a tasting party and culinary road trip business she’d named The Perfect Plate—would be her last chance at independence. Her most recent bank statement had shown a pitifully small balance. If something didn’t change soon, she’d need to get a job. The thought of working for someone else made her shudder.

When her husband had left her to move in with his secretary—
how clichéd is that?
—he’d made it clear he thought she didn’t have anything to offer a
real
man. You’re too flighty,” he’d told her. “You can’t keep house, can’t run a business, and definitely can’t keep a man satisfied in bed.”

Clara glanced back at the man on the television. He looked like he’d never known a happy day in his life. He’d probably make her miserable.

Then why did she have a burning desire to meet him?

She must be certifiable. That was the only possible answer.

On the screen, the impeccably dressed reporter smiled at the camera. Her black leather coat and matching high heeled boots mocked Clara’s sweats. The reporter’s carefully painted lips enunciated her words. “Sam Richards is a fourth generation farmer from Duchess County in upstate New York.”

While she spoke the unsmiling man stepped farther away from the reporter as if distancing himself from anything resembling fame.

“When he left for college, along with many of the young people from this small farming town of Roxbury,” the reporter continued, “few expected him to come back home. But Sam Richards did return, a small sign that the brain drain from this charming, but rural, agricultural community may be reversing. Since his return, he’s converted the family dairy farm to an artisan cheese-making operation.”

A charming small town.
Sounded like Clara’s kind of place.

She grabbed a piece of paper, wrote down “Sam Richards,” “cheese,” and “Roxbury, NY,” and went back to staring at the screen.

The camera followed the reporter as a black and white dog herded her toward Sam. When the dog successfully achieved its goal, it sat and waited for praise from its master.

Sam glanced at the dog, a hint of a smile softening the hard planes of his face, and patted its head.

“What made you decide to return?” the reporter asked before she thrust the microphone into Sam’s face.

The man’s features closed back down.

He hates this.

The reporter wiggled the microphone.

Sam shrugged. “I never bought the line of bull that a city’s a better place to live, and an office job is the only career.” He gestured to the sheep scattered across the meadow and the tree-covered mountains in the distance. “This is how people are supposed to live.”

Sheep. He owns sheep. Why can’t he make cheese from cows? Or even goats?

While the reporter closed the segment, Clara turned on her computer tablet and searched for “artisan cheese Roxbury NY.” Halfway down the page, she saw what she was looking for: “Richards Handmade Cheese.” His website was a bare-bones effort that explained how he made the cheese, and where she could buy it. The “About” section pictured Richards with his dog, but gave minimal information about the owner.

The company’s phone number hid in tiny numerals at the bottom of the page.

No wife or partner was mentioned.

Heathcliff might be available.

She sighed.
I’m lusting after a man I don’t know who obviously wants to be left alone.

But it’s late November—almost Christmas,
her more optimistic self whispered.
Isn’t that what the season is about? Hope that things will change? Maybe with the right tactics, I could convince him to rediscover the joy of the season.

Clara searched the Internet for more information about the town. As her fingers slid, flicked, and tapped over the screen, she realized Roxbury would be a great place for her first long-distance tasting and shopping trip. Besides the handsome cheesemaker destined to break her heart, there was a winery, a farm with exotic animals, and a bed and breakfast with organic foodstuffs and local handcrafted items. Google Earth showed a farm-studded area hugging the rough contours of the Catskill Mountains. Once snow fell, the area would be Christmas card picturesque.

The owners of the winery and animal farm should be easily convinced to set up demonstrations for the clients of The Perfect Plate. Sam Richards might be a little more difficult.

Maybe if she showed up in person, she could persuade him. She could make the trip to Duchess County on Friday, right after her visit to her mom.

The impulse to visit Sam Richards galloped through her brain, while logic pulled at the reins. She ignored the tug of common sense.

Sam must need publicity because he’d done the interview with the New York television station. Clara would have to convince him that catering to her group would help him sell more cheese.

After tapping back to the cheesemaker’s site, she pulled up the “Locations” page.

Good. King’s carries his cheese.

Clara glanced at the time on the computer, flicked off the television, and walked to her bedroom to throw on a sweater and jeans, and run a brush through her hair. King’s Grocers wasn’t the corner store. Even at this late hour she might run into one of her wealthy clients. After sliding her favorite gloss over her lips, she dashed out the door.

At the market, she took her time and walked through all the aisles. Tangy vinegar odors from open bins of olives and pickles, yeasty smells of artisan breads, and a whiff of citrus from Clementine oranges, grapefruit, and lemons teased her nose. With only a few dollars in her pocket, rich smells would have to do.

Clara ended her tour of culinary delights at the cheese section. A short gray-haired woman with a thick European accent helped her find Richards Handmade Cheese. Clara selected three of the smallest pieces and made her way to the bargain bins where she snagged a cheap bottle of pinot noir and crusty day-old bread.

After she returned home with her purchases, she opened the wine to air, lay out her feast, put on classical music, and sat at her kitchen table to sample Sam’s cheddar, Gouda, and something called a
burrata
, which turned out to be an outer layer of mozzarella with a soft center of mascarpone.

The food was as ambrosial as its culinary artist.

****

As raw weather settled into the narrow valleys of northern New York, Sam Richards wanted to hide from the bone-numbing chill and the mind-numbing season. He hated Christmas.

His scowl softened as he watched Maggie May, his border collie, herd the sheep into the barn for the night in a well-choreographed dance. The dog raced back and forth, oblivious to the bleating animals or the layer of snow on the ground, focused on her task. A sixth sense guided her to any sheep who drifted from the barn opening.

After the last straggling sheep entered the pen, Sam shut the barn door behind them and headed back to the house. Maggie May raced around him, wagging her tail, looking happy to be alive.

That makes one of us.

Snap out of it, Richards.
His dad’s voice echoed in his head.
You’ve got the family farm, the best piece of land in the whole county. Though why you had to get rid of the cows and get those mangy sheep, I’ll never understand. Cows were good enough for your grandfather.

Sam let the voice drift from his consciousness. He missed his dad, but encountered memories of him every day on land that had been in the family for generations.

The farm was part of Sam, too, entwined with his soul. When the guidance counselor in high school had asked his career plans, there was only one choice: run the family farm. The counselor had spent the next four years trying to talk Sam out of his decision.

Idiot.

The door to the farmhouse creaked in the cold. He stripped off his winter clothes in the mud room and thumped into the aging kitchen, successfully ignoring the fading linoleum, chipped porcelain sink, and cabinets needing paint.

Sweet aromas from the venison stew he’d started in the Crock-Pot that morning wafted around him, and he retrieved a bowl from the cupboard. His deer-hunting buddy, Charlie, had called the night before, letting him know he had more meat to barter for cheese.

The rhythms of country life, undisturbed by anything....or anyone. Sam had his books, his dog, and his livelihood, hard as it was. God painted a picture outside his door every morning.

He’d even been able to put most of the pain of the past behind him.

Other than getting better at making the best sheep’s milk cheese in the country, his life could remain just the way it was.

The phone rang.

“Richards Handmade Cheese.” He forced his voice to be calm and pleasant.
Calls at this hour might mean new orders.

“Is this Sam Richards?” The woman’s voice was sweet, but one he didn’t recognize.

“Speaking.”

“Oh, good! I was hoping it would be you. I have a proposition for you.”

Probably not a new order
. He’d had a few of these calls since that damn reporter interviewed him—women who thought he needed rescuing from a gloomy life, and who were prepared to do it.

He hadn’t been
that
miserable looking during the television interview, had he?

Trying not to let his wariness carry into his voice, he asked, “How can I help you?”

“My name is Clara Misowski, and I have a tasting party business called The Perfect Plate, located in New Jersey. I make arrangements for groups of women to sample food directly from the source, like your cheese farm. The producer gives a demonstration of what he or she does, my clients sample your products, and buy something.” Clara paused. “Well, most of the time they buy something. But never mind. You get publicity and I get paid to arrange the trip.” She paused for a brief moment. “It’s a win-win!”

He almost groaned aloud. A pack of women on his farm would be worse than being stuck in the barn with the sheep during a three-day winter storm. “Sorry, I’m...”

“No, don’t hang up! Please...I mean...”

“Lady, I raise sheep. I make cheese. Occasionally, I force myself to market it.” He gripped the phone tighter. “You saw the television interview, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He tried to expel the gruffness from his tone. “You sound nice enough, but I’m not running an entertainment center for a gaggle of women from...where did you say you were from?”

“New Jersey. Morristown.”

Wherever that is.
He made his voice polite, but firm. “I’m going to hang up now and feed my dog.”

“What’s the dog’s name? She was so fun to watch on the TV.”

He glanced at his dog who looked at him with alert brown eyes and thumped her tail.

“Maggie May. Now I...”

“I’d love to meet Maggie May. Can I at least come up and discuss this with you in person?”

“The answer will still be ‘No.’”

“Please? I promise I won’t take up too much time.”

The scent of warm venison stew wafted toward him, and a pang of hunger hit his stomach. “Do whatever you want, lady. I gave you my answer.”

Chapter Two

A few days later in the dim winter morning light, Clara drove north on Route 87 in her ten-year-old SUV. She was on a fool’s errand, but she was determined to do whatever it took to get a cheese demonstration for her clients. At least, that’s what she was telling herself.

The low rumble of his voice on the phone had been the kind of man-sound that made her insides all gooey; a growly bass that made her leap into situations without first examining possible consequences.

She needed to change her ways.

Right there, rumbling along the cracked cement highway, Clara made a vow. For the rest of her life, she would be the picture of a sober, practical, conservative businesswoman—as soon as she got Sam Richards out of her system.

She shoved Sam’s image from her mind and forced it on her business. Six months into the venture, she was just breaking even. Women paid a fee to attend monthly outings. Clara made arrangements for the group to meet the people and experience the processes behind the food, beverages, and home products they enjoyed. Vendors paid her a percentage of everything they sold to her clients.

Visits to unique craft shops and art galleries inspired her clients to create their own fine dining experiences at home.

The trip to Roxbury would be her first long-distance culinary road trip with a group. Her mind whirled with the myriad of details required for the adventure. Should she rent a van for everyone for the long drive? Sharing a ride would keep them all together, although too much togetherness was a recipe for estrogen-fueled angst.

The wheels hummed over the pavement, and the snow along the sides of the highway increased. In Kingston, New York she turned onto Route 28, a two-lane highway that twisted and turned through the Catskill Mountains. A half hour later she pulled off the road at Woodstock, a town still living off the fame of a half-century-old music festival.

The arty town was still attractive. She noted a few places to research before satisfying her hunger with a turkey, Swiss cheese, and cranberry sandwich on thick brown bread. Then she headed deeper into the mountains and colder temperatures.

Patches of melting snow on the road forced her to slow down.
Maybe this trip should wait until summer.

Dark evergreens iced with snow hung over the road. A buck at the edge of the road looked up, but didn’t move, an idyllic reminder of Santa’s reindeer. Her favorite season was only four weeks away.

Holidays get everyone in a spending mood.
The group, and Clara’s bank account, needed to make the trip in December. She’d make it work, snow or no snow.

A buzzing noise from her engine crashed into her anticipation of her first long-distance event.

Great.
What’s wrong now?

Clara’s temples throbbed with the oncoming rush of a migraine. She gripped the steering wheel, and her knuckles whitened to the color of the snow around her. Was a wheel going to fall off, sending her plunging into a ravine? How long would it be before someone stumbled upon her lifeless body?

Or would a bear get her first?

A break in the trees gave her hope.

As she emerged from the pine-darkened mountains, she hunted the stark, white landscape for rescue. Plenty of scenic red barns and wide open spaces, but not a mechanic in sight. Nothing to do, but follow the directions Google Maps had provided for Richards Handmade Cheese and pray that she made it that far.

But what then?  Would he be able to help her? Would he even want to help her? Or would they be snowed in until she could be rescued by a tow truck?

Her libido leapt at the thought of being trapped in an isolated farm with Sam Richards.

Sleet was falling by the time she reached the turn-off to the farm. The dirt road had been graded, so at least she didn’t have to deal with ruts or potholes. As she drove down the lane toward the trim outbuildings, the buzz in her engine grew louder.

A barking dog—the one she’d seen on TV—bounded out to greet her.

A few seconds later, Sam came out of one of the buildings.

Her heart stopped. The real life version of her modern-day Heathcliff was much better than any fantasy.

Except the scowl across his face was larger.

Uh-oh.

He yelled something she couldn’t make out. The motor clamor and the window glass muffled the words.