His Christmas Sweetheart. Cathy McDavid

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, as well?”

      She lowered her gaze. “I will, I swear.”

      He tapped her records into a neat rectangle and placed them in a file folder. “When that happens, we can continue this discussion.”

      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.

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