A Snow Country Christmas (The Carsons of Mustang Creek #4)(40)

“There lies the crux of the problem, so do I.”

At that moment Jangles prowled stealthily out from beneath the tree—which really meant he lumbered out, because he definitely could not pull off a quiet approach—and launched himself onto the couch between them, but couldn’t quite fit. Mick reached for his wineglass and scooted away enough to give the cat room to settle down. “I think he’s decided to help us out with the self-control issue.”

“He’s a very wise feline.” He was. He definitely liked Mick. She did, too. “So what’s Slater’s next project? I haven’t asked him yet.”

“Becoming a father for the third time comes first, I think, but I’ve heard some musings about the Snake River. After this last film, he’ll be able to choose just about anything, I’d guess. Backers will be lining up.”

“I like the idea.” Raine was sincere. “It’s beautiful country there. He’ll absolutely remind people we moved west gradually.”

“And the setting will win the day.”

“I think so. His films work that way.”

“He does have an eye for beautiful things. I’m looking at one of them right now.” He held her gaze.

It was a nicely done compliment. “Thank you, but I’m hardly beautiful.”

“Maybe not in a traditional blonde bombshell sense, but you’re striking, and your eyes are unforgettable. I know I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Slater is a smart man, so I was surprised he ever gave you up, but I didn’t really know the whole story.”

“I’m glad I got to share it with you.” She hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind, either. “Now, if you can chop some onions and green peppers, we’ll really be on the same page. Follow me.”

He could and he did, and she liked the sight of him in her kitchen, the Hollywood executive with a knife in his hand, frowning over the cutting board in concentration.

It might be a different kind of board than he was used to, but she was starting to think he’d adjust to the change.





14

She bent over to dip water out of the river, her hair in a makeshift knot that had come half-loose, her skirt hiked up over a pair of the prettiest ankles he’d ever seen as she waded in.

He’d die for her.

It was a possibility. There was a small local war going on as the ranchers squabbled over their land and she was vulnerable, a woman alone with a child, a lovely widow doing her best to hold on to what she’d fought to build. He wasn’t about to let her lose it all.

Maybe he wasn’t a fast draw yet, even though he’d been practicing, but he was a fair rifle shot, he’d discovered, and he could put food on the table. She’d made venison stew the night before that was so tender it melted in his mouth, and despite her guarded stance, he could tell she was starting to trust him. He now had his bedroll on that old front porch.

He felt like he’d gained something special right there.

The war wasn’t over, but a skirmish had been won.

MICK EYED HIS computer screen thoughtfully, read it over again, and decided it fit the voice well enough, but wondered if it was too sentimental.

Maybe not. Men were every bit as sensitive as women were, they just didn’t express it in the same way. His father had refused to get rid of the old rocker in the corner of the living room because his grandmother had given it to him, despite his mother’s objections to the impact on her otherwise perfectly furnished space. It did stick out like a sore thumb, but he’d stood firm.

Though she came off as highbrow most of the time, Mick had certainly noted his mother had left it there even after her husband had died. That antique rocker stayed put. Maybe she was more sentimental than he thought.

So maybe he’d leave the writing as it was for now. He liked it. If a man would sleep on a woman’s front porch, he was really into her, and willing to protect her. Hopefully Matthew Brighton would agree.

Especially on a day like today. The wind had picked up, he could hear it whistling by the windows, and even the ski slopes were empty. It was getting later, or maybe just felt like it because the skies were so gray.

He was trying not to crowd Raine too much, but he slipped out his phone and thought about it and then touched the screen. She answered almost at once. “Hi. What do you need? I’m swamped.”

He grinned at her tone. Even clearly distracted, she was appealing. “This might sound crazy, but what if I asked Stephano to make a few sandwiches and throw in whatever other genius side dishes he has and we took dinner to the cabin? Daisy could come, too, of course, but I need... I don’t know, a sense of place. You said the woodstove still worked, right?”

“There’s probably a zillion nests in the chimney, even though I had it cleaned, so the whole place could go up in a plume of smoke, but as far as I know, yes. Slater just picked Daisy up so she can’t come along, but I’m up for it. I need a break. Tell Stephano I’d love some of that garlic artichoke dip he’s so famous for. I’ll come get you. What time?”

He glanced at his phone. “Is two hours too soon?”

“No, perfect.”

“Great. I’ll call when I’m on my way.”

He then phoned down to the room service number and asked for Stephano himself if possible. Probably thanks to his association with the Carson family, it was. “Can you make me whatever you think is your best sandwich, the artichoke dip Raine apparently loves, and anything else you’d add to an alfresco dinner for two in an old cabin? I’m putting myself in your hands.”