What She Wants for Christmas. Janice Kay Johnson
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He moved his shoulders, as though uncomfortably aware of what had been going through her mind. “Dr. Burkett?”
“Yes?” A client?
“My sister suggested I stop by. Jess Kerrigan. She said you wanted some trees taken down.”
Trees? Jess Kerrigan? Teresa snapped out of it. Jess was the nice owner of those show-quality Arabians. She had actually agreed cheerfully to let the new vet treat one of them. And the conversation with her had even been useful. During a discussion of Teresa’s old farmhouse—Jess knew the previous owners—Teresa had asked about tree-toppers. Her client had remarked that her brother was a logging contractor.
“He’ll give you a good price,” she’d announced. “I’ll tell him to.”
“Oh, you don’t need—”
“We like to welcome newcomers to White Horse.”
If only the dairy farmers felt the same.
The man was still standing there on her doorstep waiting. Teresa pulled herself together. “Bless you. I’d forgotten to get your name or phone number from her. Why don’t you come in?”
He glanced down at his boots. “I’d better not. If you could just show me the trees…”
“Sure.” She stepped out and let the dogs slip through. Closing the door in her astonished daughter’s face, she smiled. “Around the house.”
She was conscious of him behind her in a way she couldn’t ever remember being. She couldn’t remember, either, the last time she’d hoped so fervently that a man had noticed her, as well. Unless… Oh, no—had Jess Kerrigan said anything about a sister-in-law? But of course he’d be married. Any man this beautiful had to be. In fact, any man over thirty with a half-decent character was married, never mind what he looked like.
The front lawn was springy under her feet. Too springy; it was half moss, shaded by the stand of mixed cedar and hemlocks to the south of the house.
“These,” she said simply, standing aside. “The realtor said one of them came down last year on the roof, which is why the house has a new one. I don’t want to take a chance on a repeat. Besides, I’d like a little more sun. The closets are mildewing.”
He nodded and rubbed his chin reflectively as he stood contemplating the fifteen or so trees, tilting his head back to gaze up, then glancing around as though her yard told him something.
“I thought I might leave the big cedar,” Teresa said, feeling the need to fill the silence. “It’s pretty.”
Without a word, he went to the tree. From a pocket in his overalls, he pulled a screwdriver and poked it into the trunk. “Rotten. Better take it out, too.”
“Rotten? Oh, what a shame.”
“Are you thinking you might get much for these trees?”
“Get much?” She blinked, then realized she didn’t even know the man’s name. When she asked, he looked surprised.
“Sorry. I guess I figured Jess would have mentioned it. Joe Hughes.” He held out one large hand.
It completely engulfed hers. She liked the feeling, which took her aback. She’d spent most of her life trying to overcome the handicap of her size. Now she wanted to be overwhelmed by some primitive hunk of masculinity?
There was no denying it. That was exactly what she wanted. Their clasped hands brought other visions to her mind: his head bent over hers, his body pressing hers down, his— She firmly put the brakes on her imagination. He was married, she reminded herself. He must be. Besides, he hadn’t demonstrated any great interest in her. Maybe his tastes ran to six-foot Nordic goddesses.
But, no. He hadn’t let her hand go, and when she lifted her gaze to his, it was to catch a flicker of something in those eyes that sped up her pulse more than her first chance at surgery had. Were his cheeks tinged with red as he finally released her hand?
“Jess always says I have no manners,” he said ruefully. “I guess she’s right.”
“What do sisters know?” Teresa said, grinning at him.
He lifted one dark brow. Didn’t it figure he could. “You have some, too?”
“Two. I’m the middle child. I’m sure that’s why my psyche is so fragile.”
For a moment he studied her as gravely as he had the stand of trees. Then he smiled, slow and heart-stoppingly sexy. “You look fragile all right, but my mama always taught me appearances are deceiving.”
“Smart woman.”
His eyes lingered on her face as the smile faded. She felt flushed and dizzy.
“Five hundred dollars,” he said.
“What?” She stared at him.
“For your stumpage. The trees aren’t big enough to be worth much, but I can get them out easy enough—the truck can back right down your driveway. Pulp mill’ll take ’em. You’ll be rid of the trees and have a little cash.”
Thank heavens for his speech, the longest out of his mouth yet. It had given her time to realize he wasn’t offering five hundred dollars for her body.
“Does that include your taking the stumps out, not just grinding them down?”
“Yup. And burning the stumps and slash.”
“You’re on,” she said.
That eyebrow rose again. “Don’t you want to get other bids?”
“I already have. Two. One of the guys wanted to charge me two thousand dollars. Said the trees weren’t worth anything. He was going to buck them into firewood length and leave them for me. I’d have been stacking them for the rest of my life. The other fellow didn’t do stumps. He gave me the names of a couple of places that grind them down. I’m thinking of putting the vegetable garden there. How can I if the ground is full of roots?”
Joe Hughes nodded. “I don’t think anybody would beat my price, anyway.”
“Your sister guaranteed you.”
“Sisters are good for something,” he said, straight-faced.
“Yours seemed like a nice woman. She let me touch her horses.”
He heard the flash of bitterness, because those disconcerting eyes fixed themselves on her face again. “You’re a vet.”
“I’m a woman.”
His gaze flicked downward, then back to her face. “I noticed,” he said in a voice that had roughened just enough to be a compliment.
“Women are apparently competent to treat a five-pound cat. A thousand-pound Jersey cow is another story.”
He frowned. “Guess we’re a little backward in White Horse.”
“Eric—Eric Bergstrom, that is—warned me, but he thought the farmers would get over it. Judging from my first few weeks, they’re not in any hurry to.”
“We’ll have to see what we can do about that,” Joe said.
She made a face. “Don’t tell me you’re a dairy farmer on the side.”
“Nope. Hardly know one end of a cow from another. But I have friends who are.”
“Ah. You’re going to tell them what a sweet girl I am.”
He apparently didn’t mind her sarcasm, because one corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m going to tell them which end of their cow not to be.”
A cow’s ass. She liked it.
“Might come better from you than me,” she conceded. Her basically cheerful nature triumphed and she laughed. “When can you take out my trees?”