Rescued by Christmas

  Rescued by Christmas

  Erika Marks

  Rescued by Christmas

  Copyright© 2018 Erika Marks

  EPUB Edition

  The Tule Publishing Group, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  First Publication by Tule Publishing Group 2018

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-949068-83-2

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Erika Marks’ new charming Christmas story

  The Loveless and Dunn Series

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Denver, Colorado

  Thursday night—Three weeks to Christmas

  “Jacks, are you sure you won’t wait until morning to leave?”

  Jackson Wilder tossed his agent a warning glance over his shoulder as Ted Carlisle followed him into his dressing room and closed the door behind them.

  Not a chance. After a long day of filming holiday commercial spots, all Jackson wanted was to get out of this big red oven mitt and on the road to his mountain hideaway. Two glorious weeks off the grid, where he could pretend to be the unknown California beach bum he was before his break-out single, “Under Your Skin,” made him one of the country’s hottest pop stars five years ago. And no stalled snowstorm was going to mess it up for him.

  “I don’t know how these department store Santas do it.” Jackson yanked off his fur-lined hat and gave his sprayed-white hair a hard ruffling. “It’s like walking around in a giant sauna.”

  “I still say you should keep the beard,” said Ted. “Facial hair is hot right now.”

  “It’s hot, all right,” Jackson muttered. “As in boiling.” He scratched at his whiskered jaw—the one part of this Santa Claus costume he wouldn’t be able to remove until he got to the cabin. Jackson only hoped the white would wash out as easily as the makeup people promised. They’d even managed to coat his eyebrows with the awful stuff.

  “I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Ted said. “You told me you wanted to make a difference this Christmas. A beard is different.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” said Jackson, tugging at the collar of his Santa suit for relief. “I wanted to do something to give back this year. Something meaningful.”

  Ted’s mouth curled into a smirk. “If it makes you feel any better, fifteen percent of this singing Santa deal is pretty meaningful to me.”

  Jackson chuckled. “You’re all heart.”

  “Speaking of hearts…” Ted folded his arms. “Mine is still dangerously close to stopping at the thought of you driving yourself up that mountain.”

  “Relax, will you?” said Jackson. “I don’t know why you’re so worried. You said you rented me a good snow truck, right?”

  “Having a good snow truck is only good if you’ve got a good snow driver,” Ted pointed out irritably. “And let’s review again how many times you’ve driven in snow?”

  “Including today? Let’s see…” Jackson glanced upward, pretending to deliberate then grinned. “Once.”

  His agent’s lips wrinkled with displeasure, clearly not appreciating the attempt at humor. “At least let one of the crew drive you.”

  Jackson frowned. “And have someone else know where I plan to hide out for the next few weeks? Forget it.” He reached down to tug off his black boots. “Besides, you’re looking at someone who spent their teenage years doing doughnuts in a Jeep on the beach. How different can snow be from sand?”

  “The fact that you are even asking me that question is a problem,” Ted muttered, moving to the dressing room window while Jackson struggled to free his other foot. “Oh crap.”

  Jackson straightened. “What’s wrong?”

  His agent squinted through the parted blinds. “Better get comfortable. There’s quite a crowd out there waiting for you.”

  “You told me no one knew we were filming here.”

  “Thank the wonders of social media.”

  Jackson fell back with a defeated groan. So much for a quick getaway.

  “My advice?” Ted pointed to the red Santa hat Jackson had just tossed on the chair. “Keep the suit on and go out the side door. Your fans will be looking for Jackson Wilder—not Santa Claus.”

  It wasn’t the worst idea. As much as Jackson couldn’t wait to get out of this steam bath of a suit, it might be the only way to sneak past. Usually he loved connecting with his fans, but right now all he wanted was to hit the road.

  He shoved his feet back into his black boots and yanked the red hat back over his head.

  Ted offered a weak smile. “Look on the bright side: at least you’ll be warm.”

  There was that, Jackson supposed as he grabbed his packed duffel and walked with Ted back out into the hallway.

  At the side exit, his agent handed him a set of keys. “It’s the black Range Rover with the Arizona plates. Call me when you get there, okay? Let me know you didn’t drive off the side of the mountain?”

  Jackson chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said, giving his agent a hard pat on the shoulder. “I’ll just let the reindeer steer.”

  Chapter Two

  Friday

  Miranda O’Keefe pulled open the oven door and blew out a relieved breath. For someone who’d worked three jobs to put herself through vet school, it was shocking how much pride she took in not burning a batch of gingerbread men.

  The kitchen, which usually reeked of take-out Chinese or microwave burritos, now smelled sweetly of cinnamon and cloves, the unmistakable and glorious fragrance of Christmas. She’d even clicked on one of Pandora’s holiday playlists and had Nat King Cole chiming out “O Holy Night.”

  Slipping her hands into a pair of padded oven mitts, Miranda pulled out the two sheets and set them on the top of the stove to cool, taking a moment to savor her uncharacteristically festive behavior. Most Christmases found her madly cutting out store-bought cookie dough Christmas Eve, but here she was, three weeks before the big night, with two dozen gingerbread cookies. So what if it was only because this crazy pop-up blizzard had kept her home from work, and Oliver home from kindergarten? She’d still allow herself a little pat on the back. Especially since this fit of homemaking skills might be her peak for this year’s holiday. Between working
full-time, keeping up her horse rescue program Free Spirits, and trying to bring her most recent rescued horse back to health, she’d given up on having a Christmas tree this year—and felt crippling guilt for it.

  Cut yourself some slack, will you, girl? her vet tech Temple’s kind command echoed.

  Miranda had promised to try but it wasn’t easy. She wasn’t a big fan of self-pity. Lots of women—lots of mothers—had it much worse.

  Miranda should know. She met plenty in her line of work—frazzled single mothers who took heat from their bosses because they had to leave early to bring in their sick cats, or dogs, gerbils, geckos—you name it. Mothers who looked as if they hadn’t slept in days, let alone had five minutes to themselves.

  Thud! Thwack!

  Miranda glanced down the counter to see the source of the banging: her tow-headed, six-year-old son, Oliver, rummaging through their kitchen’s junk drawers, lips tight, face screwed up in deep concentration.

  Affection swelled behind her ribs. Who needed Santa Claus when she had all she could ever want for Christmas, this holiday or any holiday, in this remarkable little man?

  “Hey, bud. What’cha looking for?”

  “Band-Aids,” Oliver said without slowing his frantic search. “The really, really big ones.”

  An instinctive flash of motherly panic slowed her steps. “Did you cut yourself?”

  He shook his head, so roughly that his shaggy blond bangs fell over his eyes as he continued to hunt. “They’re not for me.”

  Relief bloomed. “Let me guess…” She squinted at him. “Mr. Moo got a boo-boo?”

  Oliver swiped his hair out of his eyes and shot her one of his I’m-too-big-for-baby-talk-Mom looks. “It’s not for Mr. Moo,” Oliver said impatiently, his digging growing more urgent now. “It’s for Santa.”

  Miranda smiled. “Sweetie, I’m pretty sure kids leave cookies for Santa—not Band-Aids,” she said gently, gathering the dirty measuring cups and collecting them in the empty mixing bowl.

  “I’m not talking about Christmas Eve, Mom. Santa needs them now.” Oliver stared at her, his blue eyes practically shaking with desperation. “He’s hurt real bad!”

  Miranda bit her lip as she walked the dishes to the sink, not daring to hurt his feelings. She nodded calmly instead, forcing her lips to flatten into a somber line. “And how would you know that, bud?”

  “Because I saw him. Just now. In the barn.”

  The metal bowl fell from her hands and clattered in the sink.

  Miranda lunged across the counter for the window curtain and yanked it back, the view of her backyard and the horse barn across the driveway barely visible through the relentless screen of falling snow, and her blood froze.

  The barn’s side door swung open.

  Hurricane gales couldn’t open that door when she latched it. And in preparation for the storm, at ten thirty last night, she’d latched it.

  She came to Oliver and dropped down in front of him, her pulse pounding.

  “Ollie…sweetheart…I need you to tell me the truth. No games, no pretend. Is there someone in our barn right now?”

  “I told you, Mom. Santa.”

  She swallowed hard. “Santa, right.” She managed a cheerful smile and brushed her son’s bangs back from his eyes, even as her heart hammered behind her ribs. “And you say you just saw him?”

  Oliver nodded. “I went out to check on Twisty, just like you said I could. And Santa was right there, sleeping against the hay. But he’s got this real bad cut on his hand so he needs a Band-Aid…”

  Panic drowned out her son’s words, Miranda’s brain could hear only one: intruder. Her mind raced with possible actions. She kept a canister of pepper spray in her purse—but that wouldn’t do much if the man was mobile.

  She could call Joey, Granite Falls’s sole deputy, but with the snow still piling up, who knew how long it would be before the roads were safe to travel?

  Reality shuddered up her spine like a chill: for the next few hours—maybe even days—she was on her own.

  And if there was someone hiding out in their barn, Miranda needed to know. Now.

  She closed her eyes and pushed out a shaky breath.

  Oliver’s light touch brought her back. “You don’t have to be scared, Mom. Santa wouldn’t hurt anyone. He can’t even move!”

  She’d be the judge of that.

  Miranda walked to the coatrack by the door and tugged down her thickest parka. More fears ricocheted across her brain as she stuffed her hands into a pair of gloves and pulled on her hood.

  Had this intruder hurt Twisty? And what if Oliver was right that this man really was hurt—badly enough that he couldn’t move? Miranda had the tools here to heal, but only animals of the four-legged kind. And with Twisty’s health still so precarious, the last thing she needed was a second patient.

  She just needed to see for herself.

  She dug through her purse for her container of Mace, snatched her phone off the counter and slid both items into her pocket. At the front door, she slowed and turned back, dropping down to face her son, his sweet, round face still devoid of even a hint of fear. While she didn’t subscribe to lying to her son, she would make an exception this time. Because as long as Oliver believed the man in the barn was Santa, he wouldn’t be afraid.

  “Okay, bud,” Miranda said evenly. “I’ll look in on Santa, but you are not—I repeat not—to follow me, do you understand? I want you to stay right here in the kitchen with the door locked behind me. Is that clear?”

  Oliver chewed fiercely at his bottom lip and nodded.

  Taking in a deep breath, Miranda exited into the swirling snow and locked the door safely behind her.

  For a brief moment, the sting of cold slowed her frantic pulse. Her legs felt like rubber as she sank into the soft powder, the bitter wind needling her forehead and nose. She squinted against the pelting flakes as she marched toward the barn, her narrowed eyes trained on the sliver of darkness where the door yawned open; terrified that at any moment the stranger would appear in the gap, and she’d be standing there like a stupid sitting duck.

  When she finally reached the door, she slowed, the idiotic thought of all those cartoons her son loved flashing at her. Was she really about to sneak up on an intruder just like Scooby Doo? If only she could trust the same happy ending the Scooby Doo gang always delivered their viewers.

  She stepped into the barn, her pulse banging in her ears. Blinded by so much snow, her eyes needed a moment to adjust to the darkness, but soon she could make out the familiar interior, the soothing, malty smell of hay and feed. She tiptoed down the corridor, past dear, sweet Twisty where he stood, gaunt and dazed, then paused before she peered around the short wall to where a row of hay bales sat stacked against the wall.

  She sucked in a startled breath as she saw their intruder.

  Oliver wasn’t kidding. If Miranda didn’t know any better, she’d swear the man slumped against the stacked bales of hay in a bright red suit was Father Christmas himself.

  She inched closer.

  No, more like his grandson.

  This Santa must be in his mid-thirties. The beard looked real enough but its white color was no more real than the tufts of gray that poked out from the fur-lined edge of the man’s red Santa hat.

  It also struck Miranda—in an absolutely useless way—that he was better-looking than most seasonal Santas too. A lot better-looking. Not that the fact made a bit of difference to her. Whoever this guy was, she just wanted him gone from—

  Crack!

  Miranda spun on her heels at the sound and saw her son standing behind her.

  She clapped a hand over her heart. “Ollie!” she whispered hoarsely, rushing to his side. “Baby, I told you to stay inside.”

  “I know, Mom, but, look—” He held up a box in his mittened hand and his smile nearly broke her wide open. “I found the Band-Aids!”

  Chapter Three

  Jackson was aware of light. A single beam of it, cutting a
cross his line of vision as he blinked. Dust particles floating in the glow.

  The dry, sweet smell of hay, and—

  Pain.

  He grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut. Was it coming from his ankle? It was hard to know—everything ached. Even breathing hurt.

  He just needed to stay still.

  But where was he?

  A roughness at his neck, sharp and scratching when he moved his head.

  He scoured his memory, trying to grab on a thought, any thought, but all he could focus on were the tentacles of fire tearing up his leg. Then—

  A woman. Crouched down. Darting in and out of the stream of sun like some kind of red-headed ghost.

  She was pretty—so pretty Jackson actually forgot for one perfect second how much his ankle hurt. She was concentrating hard on something by his boot, the tip of her tongue plastered against her upper lip. Did he know her? Should he recognize her?

  A bolt of panic pierced through his thundering pain. Had he hit his head so hard he had amnesia?

  I’m Jackson Wilder. I’m a singer and a songwriter. I was born in San Diego, and my birthday is June fifteenth, nineteen eighty-two…

  Relief—a tiny pang of it—cheered briefly.

  Okay. Good. If he had suffered memory loss, maybe it was just for short-term stuff. That was still lousy, but he could live with that. He still knew the big stuff. That was a good sign, right?

  He rolled his head the other way, landing his gaze on a waving blond boy.

  Instinctively Jackson tried to wave back but the second he raised his hand, he stopped, frozen by more pain.

  Then that pretty face, that red-headed angel’s face, was coming toward him, those full lips drawing near, whispering: “If you try anything, I swear to God I’ve got enough horse tranquilizers beside me to put you out for a week.”

  Wait—what? Jackson blinked feebly. Had he heard her right? Did she think he was some kind of creep?

  He swallowed hard to wet his throat enough to speak and assure her he was the furthest thing from dangerous, but he could only croak out a scratchy “Hey, look, I’m…” before he sank back against the hay bale, the room sinking with him. Bright light rippling like a school of silver fish. The boy’s shrill voice drifting away, like a song fading out…