His Christmas Sweetheart. Cathy McDavid

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      Chapter Two

      Will didn’t make it to the end of Miranda’s street before his hands started to shake. By the time he reached the main street running through town, the shaking had traveled up his arms to his 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 СКАЧАТЬ