A Snow Country Christmas. Linda Lael Miller

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      IT WASN’T LIKE she didn’t consider what she wore, but on a scale of one to ten she would rate herself maybe a five when it came to how much thought and time she usually put into her attire.

      Tonight for some reason, Raine was on the higher end of the scale.

      The long red skirt and clingy black blouse looked nice, but were not exactly hamburger-worthy, she decided with a critical eye before she changed into jeans and a teal blue silk sweater. Except it occurred to her that if she dribbled ketchup or spilled even a drop of wine the sweater would be toast and she’d have to toss it—she’d known at the time it was an impractical purchase but had loved it too much not to buy it—so she changed for a third time. Black leggings and a patterned gray sweater dress won the day, comfortable but certainly dressier than she’d usually choose for a night home alone.

      Well, she wasn’t going to be alone. She even set the table—which would never have happened on her traditional Christmas Eve—with what she called her December plates, white with tiny candy canes on them. Daisy had seen them when they’d been out shopping when she was six years old and begged, so Raine caved and bought them. Every year when the plates came out, it signaled the holiday season for her daughter and the sentimental value was priceless. Even though she’d been a classic example of a starving artist and had been trying to launch her business at the time, she’d also bought a set of silverware whose handles were etched with reindeer and a sleigh.

      It was ironic in a good way to think someone as successful as Mick Branson wanted to meet with her on a professional level and would eat off the dishes that she’d bought when she really couldn’t afford them. Now she was so busy she doubted she could accept whatever it was he wanted to discuss even if she was interested.

      Mr. Bojangles wandered past with a feline yawn, headed for his food bowl, but stopping to be petted. It was like a royal decree when a cat of his size demanded to be scratched behind the ears. Raine stroked his head. “What do you think of the table? Fancy enough for a hotshot executive?”

      He yawned again, his gold-green eyes reflecting doubt. She said defensively, “Hey, I paid twenty bucks for those dishes.”

      His furry face expressed his skepticism that the plates were worth even that. She argued his point. “Daisy loves them.”

      He didn’t disagree, just headed off to the kitchen to chomp loudly out of his bowl. His ample backside was normal for his breed, but his love of food didn’t help matters. His vet, Jax Locke, had been diplomatic in suggesting she could maybe curtail the cat treats.

      Raine agreed, but Jangles—as she called him face-to-face—was a contender when it came to getting his way. There was not much in the way of compromise on his part.

      The snow was beginning to blow a little and she had started a fire in her fireplace with the push of a button. She liked ambiance and watching the flames, but as a single female didn’t want to haul in logs, so she’d had a gas insert put in a few years ago. Bypassing Christmas music, she put on some soft classical in the background, and without the World’s Largest Puppy—Samson—tearing around, the house felt downright serene. Daisy always took him with her to the ranch and he loved running free with the other dogs. The backyard at Raine’s just wasn’t as exciting as herding cattle with Drake and the other hands. Maybe when he got a little older Samson would be content to just bask in the sun. As it stood, he wanted to run amok.

      Red, the head ranch hand, called the dog a log-legged galoot. That seemed about right.

      When Raine saw the arc of headlights in the big front window and glanced at the fairy tale clock on the mantel, Cinderella’s glass slipper was pointed right at six sharp. Mick Branson was right on time.

      She, on the other hand, was perpetually late to everything. Maybe being awake at two in the morning was the only thing they had in common. She opened the door before he knocked and in return got a capricious swirl of snow blowing into the tiny foyer.

      “Thanks,” he said as he came in. “The wind is really picking up. A Merry Christmas with all the appropriate special effects.” He studied her as he wiped his boots on the mat inside the door. “It’s nice to see you again.”

      “And you as well.” She shut the door, peering through the side panel of glass. “It is coming down out there, isn’t it? So pretty.”

      “From safe in here, it’s very pretty,” he said with his all too fleeting smile. “The wine is in this bag, and where do you want my coat?”

      She recognized the bag because she’d designed the print on it. The M for Mountain Vineyards was flanked by pine trees and a hawk sat on a branch on one side. “I’ll take your coat, and the kitchen is through that doorway right there. It’s impossible to get lost in this house.”

      “It’s charming.” He glanced around as he slipped off his wool coat.

      She wasn’t used to men who used the word “charming” in regular conversation, but he did have nice wide shoulders, so she’d cut him some slack. Actually, everything about him was attractive: dark hair, striking dark eyes, and what she’d define as an aristocratic face that spoke of a lineage that was Old World, probably Spain or Portugal. She had an admitted fascination for history, so she’d love to know his story. “I’ll be right back. There’s a corkscrew and glasses on the counter. Go for it.”

      He took her at her word, she discovered after she’d deposited his coat on the bed in the spare bedroom—one drawback to her quaint little house was no coat closet—and poured them both a glass of wine.

      “Merlot,” he told her as he set the bottle on the counter. “I took Kelly’s advice and bought the wines I like best and didn’t try to match hamburgers.”

      “She’s pretty good at that sort of thing.” Raine accepted a glass, looking at him as she did. “I’ve never had a business meeting on Christmas Eve, but you probably have. What’s the protocol? I don’t have a table in a conference room, but we could sit by the fire.”

      “I’m not all business, just so you know. Conference tables are overrated, and the fire sounds nice.”

      “I thought business was why you were here.”

      “Come on, Raine, I think you know that’s not entirely it. I do have something I want to talk to you about, but I just wanted to see you.”

      Well, at least he was direct. She liked that, even as the admission surprised her. “The fire it is then.”

      She led the way and he followed, and as luck would have it when they passed the tree, Jangles decided on a drive-by attack to defend his territory. Maybe she should have issued a warning, but she was so used to the giant cat’s antics she didn’t think of it, and though obviously startled, Mick managed to not spill his wine even with claws in the hem of his no-doubt expensive slacks. She apologized as the cat unhooked and retreated back into his lair. “By the way, meet my cat, Mr. Bojangles. He has a perimeter staked out around the tree and he guards it. Sorry, I should have warned you.”

      “That’s СКАЧАТЬ