Christmas Romance (Best Christmas Romances of 2013) (13 page)

With a click, she turned off the engine and rolled down the window. “Hi!”

She tried to sound chipper, as if rolling into a stranger’s driveway with a protesting vehicle was something she did every day.

He didn’t answer, but the dog kept barking.

“Hush, Maggie May,” he told the animal, his face softening a little. Then he returned his glare to Clara. “Who are you?”

“Clara Misowski.” She smiled her perkiest smile.

“The same Clara who called the other day wanting to bring a herd of women to my farm?” He peered behind her to the rest of the SUV.

“That’s me.” She pushed her smile, hoping he liked dimples.

“Figures.” His voice was gruff, but his expression relaxed a tiny bit.

Maybe the dimples worked.

****

The grinding noise of the maroon SUV as it had pulled down the driveway had curdled his day. He’d intended to send her on her way as soon as possible.

Then she rolled down the window and smiled.

Her heart-shaped face and high cheekbones were set off by a nose that wasn’t quite perfect, and two smoky eyes. Her thick chestnut hair waved beneath a colorful knit cap, and her plump upturned lips gave a cautious smile that threatened to pierce the burnished armor cage he’d fastened around his emotions.

He forced himself to scowl more fiercely. “I told you I wasn’t interested in entertaining.”

“So you did.” Her smile sweetened. She opened the car door and hopped out.

Damn.

Dressed in a mid-calf gray woolen skirt and pressed white shirt with a belted sweater, Clara looked like she could step from a fashion magazine, except Clara was all woman, not one of those skinny stick models.

Their eyes caught. The whisper of the wind rustling the barren limbs of the maples behind his house intensified the spell she wove around him.

His gaze dropped to her soft pink lips, and he fought the unexpected urge to kiss her.

No attachments, Richards, remember?

A
baa
came from the barn.

Her eyes widened, and she glanced around the yard.

He chuckled. “It’s only a sheep.”

“I know. Where are they?” Her voice sounded strained.

“In the barn.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m sorry you wasted your time to come up here. Like I told you on the phone, I’m not interested in doing tours. I’m sure there are plenty of other cheesemakers out there who’d love to have your group visit.” He glanced at his watch. “The Chamber of Commerce downtown should still be open. They’ll be able to help you.” He plastered a fake smile on his face, then was surprised to find he meant it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.” Forcing himself to turn his back on Clara, he headed toward the outbuildings.

“Wait!”

He did an about face.

She strode toward him. “There’s something wrong with my car. Do you know a mechanic, or do I have to check the Chamber for that, too?” She glared at him.

Maybe if he fixed the problem, she’d be quicker to leave and he’d feel better about sending her on her way. “Ah, yes, the noise. Let me have a look.” Machinery was a comfort, predictable to a point. No emotions were required to change spark plugs or replace a cracked piston.

She hovered as he lifted the hood of the SUV. “Better get back. Engines are messy work; a lot like raising sheep and making cheese. Not good for the fancy clothes you’re wearing.”

She backed off.

As he lifted the hood, he felt a chill in the air, and glanced toward the far ridge. A dark smudge of clouds told him snow was on its way.

He turned his attention to the engine, but couldn’t see any obvious source of the grinding noise that had accompanied the car down the driveway. He needed to start the car to figure out the problem.

Swinging around to get the keys, he found himself a hand’s breadth away from Clara.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked.

He laughed. “Most farmers and ranchers know mechanics. Comes with the territory.”

She frowned. “You said you had things to do. I don’t want to be a bother. I’ll find my own mechanic. Town can’t be that far away.”

He was tempted to do as she asked, but glanced at the sky. The storm had crested the ridge. Who knew what kind of snow driving experience she had. Like as not, she’d drive into a ditch, or the car would stall, and he’d lose more of the day rescuing her than if he fixed the damn problem in the first place.

Besides, it would be a shame for her to ruin her clothes, although if her clothes were wet, she’d have to remove them to dry them off.

Richards, get a grip.

He took a deep breath. “The nearest mechanic is a long way off. Depending on what’s wrong, you might not make it that far. Besides, there’s a storm brewing.” He pointed to the dark clouds steamrolling in their direction. “Why don’t you start the car? I’ll see if we can get this handled.”

She stepped into the car.

Chapter Three

Clara perched on the driver’s seat and started the engine.

The buzz started immediately so she turned it off.

“Leave it on!” Sam shouted.

She turned the car on again and cringed at the sound it made.

She took a look at the thickening clouds on the ridge and shuddered. Good thing Heathcliff had mechanical abilities.

“Off! Off! Didn’t you hear me?” Sam banged on the car door. His scowl had returned, deeper than ever.

She silenced the engine. Blessed stillness.

Laughing, she slid off the driver’s seat.

“What’s so damn funny?” Sam asked.

Suddenly, she had enough of his moods. “This whole situation, that’s what’s funny. I came up here to spread some Christmas cheer, help you sell some of your cheese, and you act like Scrooge.” She waved her arm at the bucolic setting. “You live in God’s country and you’re a grump.”

A smile fought its way to the surface of his face. “Sorry. I’m always miserable this time of year. I can’t wait for Christmas to be over.”

“Why?” If Clara had her way, Christmas would last all year.

The frown returned. “Personal reasons.”

“Oh.”

The look on his face told her not to pry.

“Did you figure out what’s wrong with the car?” she asked.

He nodded. “Transmission fluid’s dirty.”

“Dirty fluid is making that noise?” She’d have to get a real mechanic to look at the car.

“Yep. Unfortunately, the parts store is closed. You’ll have to stay in Roxbury tonight.”

Great.
She got back into her car.

“Um, you probably shouldn’t drive that until I change the fluid. You could ruin the transmission.”

She blew out a puff of air. “What do you suggest I do then? It looks like a long walk to town.”

He smiled, an actual real-live smile.

Miracles did occur.

“If you wait until I milk the sheep, I can run you into town.” His grin broadened. “Want to watch? It’s where the cheese actually begins.”

Get into close confines with sheep? Not on her life. “I’ll stay out here, if you don’t mind.”

He cocked his head. “They’re sheep, one of the most harmless animals on earth—stupid as all get-out, but harmless. Why are you so afraid of them?”

Her cheeks warmed. “I fell into a pen on my uncle’s farm once. They were really big and ran all around making those baaing noises.”

“Big? Sheep?”

She grimaced. “I was four.”

He laughed. It was a hearty laugh, and even though it was at her expense, it was a nice laugh. She caught a glimpse of the person he could be.

After he stopped laughing, he reached out his hand. “Let’s get you over your fear of sheep.”

She took a deep breath, once again a little kid facing her biggest fear.

The moment he touched her, the world tilted.

He must have been in the same universe, because he hesitated for a moment, as if he was shocked by his gesture. “Well,” he said and looked into her eyes.

For a second, the shutters on his emotions dropped, and she saw the compassionate soul he truly was. His guard quickly fell back into place.

Tail wagging, Maggie May greeted them at the barn door. The dog sniffed Clara’s hand, barked, and her tail swung more violently.

“I think she likes me,” Clara said.

“Probably. She sees things most humans don’t.”

How was she supposed to take that?  To be safe, she pulled her hand from his.

He frowned. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Dogs are really smart. They get a good read on people—know who’s good and who’s bad.”

“Oh.”
Which does he think I am?

He stared at her. “Guess you’re one of the good ones.” He held out his hand.

This conversation was getting too intense. She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

He hesitated for a second, then led the way into the dim-lit barn.

Scents of hay, dust, and animal musk filled the air. As if sensing their arrival, the sheep started milling around and bleating.

Clara stopped in her tracks.

Sam turned to her. “You’re not four anymore. The most they’ll do is nuzzle you to death, or nudge you because they don’t know enough to go around you.” He out his hand again. “You’re safe. Ready?”

She stared at him, reluctantly took his hand, and stepped toward the sheep.

****

Sam led her to the sheep pen, aware of the warmth of her hand in his. He shouldn’t let her discomfort get to him, but he hated to see anyone afraid or hurt—even a woman who had disrupted his peaceful day.

“They’re really round,” Clara said with a tremor in her voice.

“Yeah. Especially this time of year. All that wool.” He touched her hat. “Amazing that someone thought they could create something pretty out of all that dirty fiber.”

He couldn’t help himself. Her shiny hair drew his fingers like a full cookie jar had when he was a kid. He caressed a strand before he pulled his hand away.

“They’re the ultimate herd animal.” He led her closer to the pen. “When one does something, they all do the same thing. They are probably as scared of you as you are of them. Would you like to touch them? Feel their wool?”

Her face paled, but she straightened her shoulders. “Okay.”

He guided her toward one of the ewes pressing against the pen slats. “This is Jenny, one of the older ewes. She won’t mind if you touch her.”

“How do you know which one’s which?’

He pointed to a number painted on Jenny’s back. “That makes them easy to identify. They also have ear tags, but they’re hard to read from afar.”

Clara slowly placed her hand on Jenny’s back. The woman laughed; a tinkle of a sound. “It’s stiff. I thought wool was soft.”

Sam chuckled. “Once the wool is sheared off, it needs to be washed—a lot. There’s a lot more than wool in what you’re touching. Every piece of grass, straw or twigs they rub against manages to work its way into the top layers, and of course there’s lanolin in there, too.”

“Oh.” Clara worked her hand up toward the sheep’s head and brushed between the animal’s ears.

Jenny turned her head and nuzzled Clara’s hand.

“Soft!” Her laugh rang again. She turned and looked at him with bright eyes.

Her joy seared through a weak spot in his defenses. She seemed so like Hailey, so full of life and love. Before…

He pushed the thought away.

“Why don’t you sit here while I get this job done and then I’ll run you into town?” He led her to a hay bale.

He turned away from her while he went through the routine of cleaning the udders, attaching the milking machines, milking, and releasing the milking tubes from the ewes. About half-way through the hour-long chore, he heard a rustling. When he looked over, he saw she’d laid down on the hay and closed her eyes.

His barriers softened again. When she wasn’t acting like a pushy businesswoman, she could be sweet. No matter how nice she was, though, he wouldn’t do a demonstration for a colony of women.

After he finished his milking chores, he watched Clara sleep for a few minutes. What would it be like to have a woman like her to share his life? Over the past decade he’d constructed a precise way to get through his day. He’d convinced himself he was happy, but right now he wasn’t sure.

Maybe he’d been fooling himself. Then remembered Hailey. He’d loved his kid sister and he’d lost her.

Her death was enough pain for a lifetime. Once he got Clara’s car fixed, he’d send her out of his life.

Chapter Four

A touch startled Clara awake. “What?”

Where am I?
She brushed bits of hay from her coat, hair, and hat as her memories returned.

She looked up. Sam Richards looked as delectable as in her dream, and, for once, he wasn’t wearing a scowl.

She smiled. “I guess I fell asleep.”

He nodded, his face softening even more.

A bleat startled her, and Clara focused on the pen. A black head protruded between two of the slats. “Poor thing. Looks like you’re stuck.” She walked to the enclosure, helped the animal twist its head, and released it from the fence.

“Guess you’re not afraid of them anymore,” Sam said.

She grinned. “Nope.” She looked back at the sheep milling in the pen. “How come she couldn’t get back out?”

“Told you. They’re dumber than all get out.” Sam took Clara’s arm and steered her toward the barn door.

“Let’s get you into town and settled for the night.”

After they put Maggie May inside the house, Sam led Clara to a driveway on the far side of the house. The pickup truck was clean on the inside, but the outside looked as though had taken a beating over the years. Unlike her SUV, though, it started without sounding like a buzz saw.

He must have known what she was thinking.

“I always buy American-made. Lasts longer.”

The truck rumbled down the drive.

“How did you get into making cheese?” she asked.

“When I went to college, I studied business along with Ag.” He turned right onto the two-lane highway. “Those classes opened my eyes to reality. In order to make a living as a dairy farmer, especially on a small farm like the one I bought from my dad before he died, you have to be aware of the trends.” He shrugged. “I knew I couldn’t make money selling milk—all the big operations have taken over. Cheese was a different story. Artisan cheesemakers were doing well. Using sheep’s milk instead of cow’s milk gave my product an added distinction.” He chuckled. “Of course, my dad was pissed. He’d owned cows all his life and couldn’t understand why I wanted anything to do with ‘dumb bleaters’ as he called them.”

“How are you doing?”

“It’s a lot of work, but it gives me what I want.”

“What’s that?”

He gave her a sharp look. “To make a living and be left alone.”

That’s what she got for pushing her luck.

The thrum of studded snow tires took over the conversation for the next few miles.

“I’m sorry,” she said in an attempt to regain his good graces. “I didn’t mean to pry into your personal life. You seem to have created a successful business—something that’s escaped me up to now.”

His hands were wrapped tightly on the steering wheel. “I have to admit your business sounds strange to me. I don’t see how you could make a profit.”

“Right now, it breaks even. It’s like a tourist trip centered on food. The women pay me to make the arrangements, and I get a commission on the things that are sold. Remember, I told you that on the phone.”

His lips flattened. “I wasn’t paying much attention.”

She stared at the Catskills. The threatening storm had crested the mountain ridge.

After a few seconds he said, “So let me get this straight. Not only would I have to put up with a group of women, which I already don’t want, but I’d have to pay you for the privilege?”

Things weren’t going well.

“Do you sell your cheese directly?” she asked.

“Rarely. The wheels are too big for most people, and I don’t break them down.”

She splayed her hands. “See? You wouldn’t have to pay me anything because you wouldn’t sell anything.” Clara tried to add a light note to her voice.

“Well, that’s a relief.” His voice sounded sarcastic.

She glanced back at the storm which appeared to be steadily heading their way.

He chuckled. “I can see why you don’t make any money.”

She stared out the window at the moonlit snow-covered landscape, trying to recapture the enthusiasm she’d had moments before.