His Christmas Sweetheart. Cathy McDavid
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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,