Scrooge and the Single Girl. Christine Rimmer

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      She did know there was tragedy in Will’s past. A few years ago, he’d lost a woman he truly loved. Her name had been Nora. But Jilly had only heard about her in passing.

      “Poor Will,” Jane had said a month or so ago. “He was so in love. Did you know? Her name was Nora. Cade told me he’s still not really over her, even after five years….”

      And about a week later, Celia had mentioned that Will and Nora had planned to be married. And that Nora had died before the wedding.

      But Jilly never got the details. She didn’t let herself ask for them. It had never been anything solid, anyway, those stirrings of attraction she’d felt for Will. And in the end, he’d squashed her feelings flat, leaving her exceedingly glad that she hadn’t said a word.

      Jilly dug her phone out of her purse and pushed the Talk button—and got the same crackling static she’d gotten earlier, when she’d tried to call Caitlin.

      “Wonderful.” She tossed the phone down on the bed and let out a groan of frustrated boredom.

      She thought of the Cheez Doodles she’d left out in the car. A bag or two could really help to get her through the night. And while she was at it, she could also grab her boom box and CDs. Since Caitlin had warned her that the cabin had no television or stereo, Jilly had brought along the boom box and a thick black zippered folder full of tunes. And not only that. Now that she thought about it, she remembered she’d stuck a few intriguing novels in her overnighter. The evening didn’t have to be a total bust, after all.

      On the negative side, getting the snacks and the music would mean another freezing excursion out to her car. But not to worry. There was good news here. This time she could handle it herself in a single trip. No need to get the scrooge downstairs involved.

      Her coat and hat were waiting where she’d left them, on the pegs by the door. She was pulling on the coat when Will said, “What’s going on?”

      She flipped her hair out from under her collar and reached for her hat. Only then did she bother to face him.

      He was sitting in the easy chair in the living area, reading his big, fat Russian novel. He’d dug up an old radio from somewhere and had it tuned in to what sounded like it might be an NPR talk show, though he had it down so low, who could say for sure? Missy lay curled in a ball on the rag rug at his feet, looking as if she belonged there. The cat seemed to like him—a lot. While Jilly understood that cats were contrary by nature, the idea of her own sweet Missy developing a kitty crush on Will Bravo didn’t please her at all. To Jilly’s mind, it was carrying contrariness altogether too far, not to mention that it bordered on disloyalty, considering the way Jilly felt about the man.

      “I’m going out to my car. I forgot a few things.”

      He frowned. “It’s pretty wild out there. Are you sure you can’t get along without whatever it is?”

      “Oh, yes. Absolutely. We’re talking utter necessities.” She smiled brightly and gave him an emphatic nod.

      He was slanting her a doubtful look. “You need some help?” He didn’t sound terribly anxious to get up from that comfortable chair and trudge out into the freezing, windy darkness.

      But at least he had offered. She said, more pleasantly than before, “No, thanks. I can manage.”

      He shrugged and went back to his big, boring book.

      She pulled open the door and went out into the icy night. A huge gust of wind came roaring down the porch just as she stepped over the threshold, so she had to struggle with the door in order to get it shut. Then she wrapped her coat close around her, hunched her shoulders against the cold and headed for her car.

      The snow was thicker on the ground than it had been the last trip out. And the storm itself seemed worse, the wind crueler, the snow borne hard on it, not falling at all, but swooping in sideways, stinging when it hit her cheeks. The branches of the pines that rimmed the clearing whipped wildly, making those strange, ghostly crying noises as the wind rushed between them. Jilly forged on to her car, passing beneath that lone maple tree, hearing those creepy crackling sounds, like bones rubbing together, as the branches scraped against each other.

      At the Toyota, she hauled up the hatch and crawled inside. She got the boom box from the back seat, then climbed over that set of seats and got the CD folder from where she’d left it on the front passenger side. Then she backed out, grabbing a bag of Cheez Doodles on her way. She almost reached for her laptop, too. But it would just be something else to drag back outside tomorrow morning when she loaded up to leave, so she vetoed that idea.

      Easing her boots down to the snowy ground, she got the hatch shut. She had the CD folder tucked under an arm and the boom box and the bag of cheese snacks in either hand as she started for the house.

      She got as far as the big maple tree when a particularly hard gust of wind struck. She heard a sharp, explosive sound and glanced up just in time to see the heavy bare branch come crashing down on top of her.

      Chapter Three

      That cat of Jillian’s got up and stretched. It had started purring again. Loudly. It sat and licked its right front paw for a minute or two, then swiped the paw twice over its tattered ear. And then it just sat there, >looking up at him. Adoringly.

      Will found the situation nothing short of unnerving. “Get lost,” he growled.

      The cat didn’t move. The purring, if anything, seemed to grow louder. Mentally, Will drew the line. If that animal started rubbing itself against his leg, he was going to kick it. Firmly.

      He didn’t like cats. Or dogs. Pets in general left him cold. Strangely, most animals seemed to like him. He didn’t get it. He just wished they would leave him alone.

      The cat rose up on all fours and took a step toward him.

      “Don’t,” he said loudly.

      The cat dropped to its haunches again and went back to staring and purring with low, dreamy eyes. Will stared back for another two or three seconds, a hard stare, a stare meant to impart how unwelcome he found the attention of animals in general and raggedy-eared calico cats in particular. The cat stayed where it was. He began to feel it would be safe to get back to his book.

      He had just lowered his gaze to the open volume in his lap when a particularly hard gust of wind wailed outside. Faintly, he heard that popping crack—like a distant pistol shot. He recognized the sound. A nearby tree had lost a good-sized branch.

      He glanced up in time to see the cat blink and perk up its one good ear. Reluctantly, he thought of Jillian. Was it possible that she—?

      Ridiculous. No way she could have managed to walk under the wrong tree at exactly the wrong moment. He was just edgy because it was Christmastime, and in his experience, at Christmastime, if something bad could happen, it would.

      He shook his head and looked down at his book again. These interruptions were damned irritating. As if he didn’t have enough trouble keeping all those Russian names straight even under the most ideal of circumstances.

      He read on. One page. Two.

      How long had she been out there, anyway? Five minutes? More?

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