A Snow Country Christmas (The Carsons of Mustang Creek #4)(11)

He paused. “Okay.”

“And it belonged to his grandfather before him.”

His jaw dropped. “You’re joking, right?”

She wasn’t. “It was built a very long time ago obviously. Don’t those old pictures you’ve seen strike a chord? Slater featured a before and after of this place in his documentary. I have to say, he made his point about continuity across the generations. It hasn’t changed.”

Snow was still drifting down as she stood there, reminded powerfully of Slater’s film. Mick said, “I remember. He didn’t tell me this belonged to your family.”

Drily, she remarked, “When Slater is in work mode, the rest of the world just goes away. Plus I doubt he thought it’d matter to you one way or another. Wait until you see the inside.” She pulled out the flashlight she’d brought, the powerful beam catching the sagging facade. “No electricity. The water is piped in straight from the lake with no filtration system whatsoever, but since my grandfather grew up here, he just drank it anyway and swore it was better than any city water could ever be. I’d skip that top step—it was dicey the last time I was here and I doubt it has improved any.”

Mick had a bemused expression on his face. “This has certainly been an interesting first date. Lead on.”

She slanted him a sidelong look and hopped up over the tricky step. The entire porch creaked, but it had done so for as long as she could remember. “Date, huh? I thought it was a business meeting.”

“I guess now’s the time for me to confess that that was a ploy to get you to have dinner with me. My reasons for talking business with you were genuine, but the minute that discussion was over, it became a date.” He was tall enough to step smoothly over the dicey step. “See how devious I am? You fell right into my wicked trap.”

“Or you fell into mine.” She jiggled the key in the ancient lock. There was an art to cajoling it to cooperate. “Have I mentioned this place is haunted?”

“No, but what would Christmas Eve be without a snowy haunted old cabin? If it wasn’t, I’d be disappointed.” His tone was dry, but he looked intrigued.

She liked his understated sense of humor. To her that was more important than good looks or money. The door finally decided they could come inside and obediently creaked open. “Here’s your slice of history.”





4

THE INSIDE OF the cabin was like a time capsule.

Mick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Old wooden armchairs around a table made from what looked like an old trough turned upside down, an ancient washtub in the corner, a very old rifle over the hearth of a fireplace he suspected had been the only source of heat for the place. There was even a tin cup sitting on the table like it had been left there by the last occupant.

And everywhere there were books. In homemade shelves against the walls and stacked on the floor. An ancient dry sink was part of the kitchen area, as was a rusted metal work table and several shelves with some significantly old dishes. In the corner, a wooden bucket right next to it was probably the way to wash them.

Raine stood next to him, her mittened hands in her pockets, and said neutrally, “No electricity, no heat, and if you look around for the bathroom, it’s out back. My grandfather was a minimalist. He read Walden and never glanced back. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Matthew Brighton.”

Mick about fell over. “The author?” It would certainly account for all the books...but really?

“That’s the one.”

“He was your grandfather?”

“Yes.” She’d put on this cute white knit hat before they left the house and it set off her dark hair. Her nose was tinged pink from the cold.

He couldn’t believe it. “My father had some of his books. I read them as a kid. That’s how I got hooked on Westerns. Are you serious?”

“Would I lie?”

He didn’t think she ever would. In his estimation she was probably as honest as it was possible to hope for a person to be.

He found himself grinning. “I loved those books. My favorite was Paintbrush Pass.”

She smiled. “Mine, too. Do you realize that was set right here?”

“Here...here? Like on this property here?”

“Exactly.”

Oh hell, that intrigued him. “I knew Slater’s film emphasized the legacy of a famous Western author and it was Brighton. I liked seeing the town through that lens.”

Her eyes suddenly glossed over. “This is where my grandfather wrote. He sat right at that desk.” She pointed to the corner. “Impressive, right?”

It wasn’t, certainly not by modern standards. But it was perfect—an old wagon wheel on a post covered with pieced together lengths of hand-shaved wood no one had ever bothered to finish other than to roughly plane it with a tool that gave it a moderately flat surface. Brighton’s typewriter was still there and should probably be in a museum.

“He told me once that was all he’d asked for in his life. Solitude and a place to write suited his needs perfectly. Central air was an option he didn’t worry about, he’d just open the windows. He didn’t need a dishwasher since he had two perfectly good hands and that old bucket.”

Mick walked over and ran his hand reverently over the surface on the typewriter, coating his fingers with dust. “I can’t believe this.”