His Christmas Sweetheart. Cathy Mcdavid
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shoulders, making driving impossible. Luckily no one was behind him, and he waited at the stop sign.
A whine and a nudge to his arm distracted him. Cruze pressed close, instinctively sensing his master’s need for comfort. Will draped an arm around the big dog’s neck. Only when he could safely steer the truck without causing a wreck did he proceed onto the main road.
Up ahead, the Paydirt Saloon came into view. He turned into the lot and parked his pickup in the space farthest from the entrance. There he quit fighting and yielded to the panic, his first full-blown attack in over four years.
No matter how he tried to relax, he couldn’t breathe. His lungs refused to draw in sufficient air. His heart labored to beat, hindered by the giant invisible vise squeezing it. Sweat soaked his shirt even as chills racked his body. His stomach pitched, threatening to expel the tea and cookies he’d recently consumed.
Will was going to die. Even Cruze’s head resting on his leg didn’t calm him.
The small part of Will’s brain hanging on to reason assured him the fear was temporary and would pass. It always did. But for the next five minutes, he believed in his imminent demise.
All because Miranda Staley, with her long blond hair and laughing blue eyes, had flirted with him and had sat close enough that their legs had brushed.
Little by little, the panic subsided. Eventually Will felt nothing but stupid. He was thirty-two years old. A grown man. Not some high school junior, when he’d suffered his first attack. Back then he’d had good reason, when a tragic automobile accident had changed his life.
A pretty woman throwing herself at him, however, was nothing compared to that trauma, or the one he’d suffered when his grandmother had died. Miranda was no reason for him to lose it. Not when he’d come so far, done so well since moving to Sweetheart.
Will flipped down the sun visor and studied himself in the small mirror. The face of a stranger stared back at him. Pale, drawn, with deer-in-headlights eyes.
“I think I’m in big trouble, boy.”
In reply, Cruze licked his face.
When Will had told Miranda he needed to return to the ranch, he hadn’t been lying, and he had every intention of doing exactly that. But not now. The Gold Nugget was the last place he wanted to be. Too many people and too many questions. Especially with him looking the way he did.
The Paydirt Saloon was familiar ground. He stopped by two or three times a week after work for a beer. Oddly enough, a bar was a good place to seek out when a person craved solitude. The patrons understood Will wasn’t the social type and respected his wish to be left alone. Routines also helped soothe him.
Pulling out his phone, he texted his boss, Sam, and let him know he’d be late, confident there wouldn’t be a problem. Then he grabbed his jacket and gave Cruze a last pat before he cracked open the window and shut the door. This time of year the temperature could drop significantly the moment the sun dipped beneath the mountain peaks. The shepherd mix would rather wait for Will in the truck cab, curled up on a blanket, than be left at home alone.
Inside the bar, Will received a round of enthusiastic hellos from the twenty or so customers. After that, nothing. As luck would have it, his favorite stool at the end of the bar was unoccupied.
The middle-aged woman bartender, who also happened to be the owner of the Paydirt and the mayor of Sweetheart, was already filling a mug with his favorite brew by the time Will had settled himself on the stool, his jacket laid across his lap.
“Thanks,” he muttered when the beer was slid in front of him.
“Same here.” The mayor accepted the bills Will left on the bar, which covered his drink and a tip.
That was the extent of their conversation. As the minutes passed, more patrons came in, Friday-night regulars getting a head start on the weekend.
Before the fire, Sweetheart had boasted three drinking establishments. Two had burned down. While one of the other saloons was currently undergoing repairs, it wasn’t yet operational, leaving the Paydirt to service the needs of the entire town and the few tourists who had recently returned.
Sitting there sipping his beer, Will remembered Sweetheart as it was before the fire. He’d worked for High Country Outfitters, taking tourists on trail rides, fishing trips and hikes in the summer, and cross-country ski excursions in the winter.
Honeymooners had made the town into what it was. Named after a pair of sweethearts who had met on a wagon train passing through the Sierra Nevada Mountains during the gold rush, the town had gained popularity around the turn of the twentieth century. Couples had eloped here in droves, thanks to a judge who had turned a blind eye when it came to verifying ages. The mayor’s distant uncle, in fact.
He had retired after ten years, but the honeymooners continued to come. Hundreds of weddings were performed every year. The entire town’s economy had relied on the wedding trade and—until the Gold Nugget had closed a few years ago—fans of the show The Forty-Niners.
Last summer, careless hikers had abandoned a still-burning campfire, which had caught and destroyed over nine thousand acres of spectacular mountain wilderness—along with the town of Sweetheart.
The honeymooners and tourists had abandoned the town. Profound devastation didn’t exactly make a nice backdrop for a wedding. And tourists didn’t want to hike trails or ride horses through a blackened wasteland. As a result, the town had nearly died.
Then three months ago Sam Wyler, Will’s boss, had purchased the Gold Nugget and converted it into a working cattle ranch where guests could experience the cowboy way of life. Will, who’d lost his previous job in the wake of the fire, was hired on and began the newest phase in a life of many phases.
Even with the ranch, Sweetheart was slow to recover. Nearly one-third of the original thousand residents had moved away. Homeless and unemployed, they’d had no choice. Will was fortunate. His new job suited him fine, and the single-wide trailer he resided in, while not much, satisfied his needs.
“There you are.”
Will turned at the deep voice addressing him, surprised yet not surprised. “Howdy.”
Sam Wyler claimed the empty bar stool next to him. Will turned his attention to his half-empty beer mug. He wasn’t much in the mood for company, even good company like Sam’s.
“I was in town having the oil changed in the truck. Got your text and figured I’d join you.” Sam signaled Mayor Dempsey for a beer.
“Sorry about not heading straight back to the ranch.”
“No problem.” The beer arrived and Sam took a swig. “You’ve worked for me, what? Three months? Four?”
“Something like that.”
“If you want to take a long lunch once in a while, you won’t hear me complain.”
They drank in companionable silence for several minutes. Will liked Sam. More than that, he respected the man. He’d done a lot to help the town after the fire. Not only had he brought back the tourists and created jobs for a few fortunate locals, he’d helped home owners and business owners rebuild by bringing in an architect and a construction contractor.
As the hometown boy who’d returned after a nine-year absence, Sam was well liked, if not loved, by all. He’d further cemented his place in the community by marrying his former love, Annie Hennessy, last month. Theirs had been the first wedding in Sweetheart since the fire. It was also the only one so far.
The entire population was concerned about the lack of honeymooners. Especially the mayor. She and Sam had sponsored a contest for a free wedding and a week’s stay at the ranch, hoping to generate publicity. In addition to a ceremony in the chapel and a honeymoon cabin at the ranch, the couple would also receive free tuxedo rentals, photographs and a fully catered reception at the Paydirt Saloon.
The winning couple was scheduled to arrive next week with their families. Everyone