His Christmas Sweetheart. Cathy McDavid
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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.
Chapter Three
The ice-cream parlor, across the street and up half a block, had recently reopened