The Sharpest Edge. Stephanie Rowe

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СКАЧАТЬ Santa—aka Truelove’s mayor—patted Hunter’s jean-clad knee. “Have you been a good boy this year?”

      “I think so, Santa.” Hunter’s dark brown eyes swung to Jonas. “And a weally good cowboy, too. Wight, Dad?”

      His son’s breath fogged in the crisp, mountain air. The cold front and plummeting temperature had necessitated pulling out their winter coats before they’d left the ranch this morning.

      Jonas smiled at his little cowboy. “A very good cowboy.”

      “Mrs. Santa will be so pleased.” Mayor Watson’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “And what is it you’d like Santa to bring you this Christmas, my boy?”

      Hunter’s eyebrows drew together like twin caterpillars. “It’s some-ding I weally, weally want, Santa.” Cupping his mitten, he whispered in Santa’s ear.

      Jonas scanned the Blue Ridge vista surrounding the small Appalachian community. Low, thin clouds enveloped the mountains. The chill in the air hinted of coming snow.

      And if it wasn’t already snowing on the mountain at FieldStone Ranch, it soon would be. They’d need to get on the road soon.

      “You’re sure that’s what you want for Christmas, Hunter?”

      At the note of concern in Mayor Watson’s voice, Jonas turned from his contemplation of the dreary skyline. Hunter’s head bobbed. “I’m sure.”

      With the freezing temperature, Mayor Watson’s rather bulbous nose had turned an appropriate cherry-red. “Not a new rope? Or a saddle? Or—”

      “Dat’s the only ding I want for Chwismas, Santa.” Hunter’s face turned unusually solemn.

      Watson tugged at his snow-white beard. “That sort of gift is kinda hard to come by.” His eyes darted to Jonas. “And best given by your father.”

      “But Dad’s gonna need your help, Santa.” Hunter crossed his arms over his skinny chest. “Gwam-ma says, God’s help, too.”

      Jonas raised an eyebrow. “Wow, that must be some gift.”

      Watson chuckled nervously. “Thank you for coming to see me today, Hunter.” He eased the little boy off his lap. “I hope you have a merry Christmas. Make sure you get a candy cane from my helper.”

      He steered Hunter toward the steps, where the grandmotherly ErmaJean Hicks waited. With her silvery hair tucked inside a green felt hat, she resembled a jolly, if somewhat plump, elderly elf.

      Watson caught Jonas’s coat sleeve. “Uh, Stone. I feel I ought to warn you.”

      He frowned. “Warn me? About what?”

      “I’d hate for Hunter to be disappointed.” The mayor cut his eyes to where Hunter waited at the bottom of the steps, happily licking the red stripe off the peppermint cane. “Telling a Christmas wish isn’t the same as blabbing a birthday wish...”

      “Hunter’s a great kid,” Jonas agreed. “If he only wants one thing for Christmas, I’ll do my best to make sure he gets it.”

      The mayor cleared his throat. “Fact is, Jonas, the only thing Hunter wants for Christmas this year is a mommy.”

      Jonas stared at him. “A what?”

      “You heard me.” Watson winced. “I wish you well with that. Next?”

      He moved aside as Hunter’s best friend, little Maisie McAbee, scrambled onto Santa’s lap, clutching a list in her small hand.

      What had just happened?

      “Here.” Smirking, ErmaJean thrust a candy cane at Jonas. “Out of the mouths of babes.”

      Stifling a groan, he scanned the crowd milling around the square for the rest of the Double Name Club—GeorgeAnne Allen and his great-aunt, IdaLee Moore. The trio were notoriously known as the Truelove Matchmakers, and where there was one, the others weren’t usually too far behind.

      The three old ladies were infamous for poking their noses where they didn’t belong. They took the town motto—Truelove, Where True Love Awaits—a little too seriously.

      Ethan Green—ErmaJean’s grandson—and his wife, Amber, had been the matchmakers’ most recent matrimonial success story.

      But after Jonas’s wife, Kasey, walked out on them, he had decided women were trouble he didn’t need. He’d take his life on the ranch with Hunter any day over some high-maintenance, commitment-phobic woman. He didn’t need that kind of heartache. Once burned, twice shy.

      Clamping his Stetson onto his head, he shouldered past the older lady. “Excuse me, Miss ErmaJean.”

      Married, divorced or spinster, the “Miss” was an honorary title of respect bestowed on any Southern lady who was your elder. No matter if the woman was elderly or not.

      Lines fanned from the corners of ErmaJean’s glacier-blue eyes. “You’re on my radar now, Jonas Stone.” She wagged a bony finger. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint a child at Christmas, would we?”

      Grunting, he took hold of his son. “On the way home, we need to have a talk, Hunter.”

      Shaken by the heartbreaking scene she’d stumbled upon, AnnaBeth Cummings ran toward the bridal dressing room. Gut clenching, she left her engagement ring beside her bouquet and quickly scribbled a note.

      Please don’t try to find me, Scott. Be happy, MaryDru. I’ll be in touch. I need a little breathing room. All my love, AnnaBeth

      Strains of organ music filtered from the sanctuary where family and friends awaited a Saturday-morning wedding that was never going to happen. The wedding her stepmother, Victoria, liked to call The Social Event of the Season.

      AnnaBeth’s heart raced. She had to hurry before it was too late. Before her father and Scott stopped her.

      Or worse, Victoria, who was a force of nature. As in a hurricane. Tornado. Tidal wave. Firestorm.

      She must make her getaway before Victoria could strong-arm her and Scott into doing something they’d regret.

      AnnaBeth had no idea where she should go or what she should do with The Rest of Her Life. Yet a strange certainty that she was doing the right thing began to build inside her. And a budding excitement.

      Grabbing her coat and her suitcase—she was glad it hadn’t already been transferred to the limo—she ran for the parking lot. She ran for her life. She ran to find her life.

      Leaf-barren trees lifted forlorn branches to the desolate, late November sky. Behind the wheel of her car, she turned off her cell phone and glanced in the rearview mirror. With a pained expression, she adjusted the ridiculously large, ivory satin bow affixed to the Juliet cap on her head a smidgeon. It didn’t help.

      “Sweet potatoes,” she muttered.

      But after such a dire beginning, the day could only СКАЧАТЬ