My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #1)(2)

*

Maggie Delaney, the newly re-elected mayor of Branding Iron, had driven out to check on Abner Jenkins, whose farm was a few miles out of town. Earlier that morning, she’d called the old man to make sure he was prepared to play Santa in this year’s Christmas parade. His landline phone had rung six times without an answer. Worried about the old man, she’d climbed into the big Lincoln that had been her late father’s and gone to check on him. She’d found Abner’s truck missing from the yard. His house, when she checked inside, had been empty.

After leaving a note on his door, she’d been about to turn around and drive back to town when an impulse had changed her mind. The recently paved road, which cut off the highway and ran past Abner’s place, had been an icy mess. Two passing farm trucks had almost slid into her. Maybe it would be better to go forward, following the less-traveled part of the road where it looped through the back country and rejoined the highway a couple of miles to the south.

It had been a bad idea. The rest of the road was even icier. She was already late for her 10:00 meeting with the library board, and now her dad’s beloved old Lincoln had slid, spun, and crashed into a metal gatepost, causing a startled man to fall off his windmill.

From the car, she could see him lying on the frozen ground. He didn’t appear to be moving. Good Lord, what if she’d killed him?

She flung herself out of the car, her kitten-heeled boots barely finding purchase on the ice-encrusted ground. The car had pushed the gatepost to one side, freeing the gate to swing open in the wind. She hurried across the bare yard to where the man lay at the foot of the windmill, sprawled on his back.

Approaching, she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the old woolen peacoat he wore. His long legs, clad in faded jeans and worn-out work boots, were moving slightly. At least he appeared to be alive. But he’d taken a nasty fall. He could be badly injured.

Her gaze took him in. He was a stranger—tall and lean as a whip in his worn-out work clothes. Below the knit cap that covered his head and ears, the planes of his face were sharply chiseled, the closed eyes narrow and deeply set.

It was a striking face, handsome in a stubble-jawed, Clint Eastwood sort of way. But how could she be ogling the man at a time like this? She needed to be checking him for injuries and calling 911.

As she bent over him, his eyes opened—slate-colored eyes, their look so cold and piercing that she drew back with a little gasp. His lips tightened. He cleared his throat. “What the blazes did you think you were doing?” he muttered.

With effort, she found her voice. “I was trying to decide whether you need an ambulance. Are you hurt?”

He stirred, wincing as he sat up. “I’m fine. That’s not what I meant. You were driving like a bat out of hell down that icy road. You’re lucky you didn’t break your fool neck—and mine.”

“You sound like a cop.”

His mouth tightened. “I hope that’s a joke,” he said.

She stood as he hauled himself to his feet. Maggie was a statuesque woman, almost five foot nine. He loomed over her by half a head.

“I was late for a meeting in town,” she said. “I’m sorry for distracting you. And I’m sorry about your gatepost. My purse is in the car. I’d be happy to write you a check for the damage.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll fix the damn thing myself.” He turned away from her and walked over to the metal gatepost, which stood askew against the front bumper of the car. Maggie could tell he was in some pain.

What was he doing out here? As she recalled, this run-down ranch had been abandoned for several years, since the people who’d been leasing it moved away in the middle of the night. What was this ragged-looking stranger doing on the property? Was he some homeless derelict needing shelter from the cold? Or worse, a fugitive criminal, hiding out from the law?

Either way, it was clear that he didn’t want her around. Maybe she should ask the sheriff to check him out. There was something raw and a little wild about the man. Something that whispered danger.

Her key was still in the ignition. If she was smart, she’d get back in the car, lock the doors, and pray that the engine would start.

*

Travis gripped the gatepost with his gloved hands and tried to pull it straight. It didn’t budge. What the hell, everything else around here was broken, why not the gate? It wasn’t like anybody was going to come in and rob him.

The car didn’t look too badly damaged. Just a slight dent in the bumper. These old Lincolns were built like Sherman tanks. Come to think of it, the woman wasn’t built too badly either. Tall and curvy, she was well dressed in a thigh-length tan trench coat over tailored slacks, cashmere gloves, and pricey-looking boots. A green silk scarf flowed around her neck. Its color matched her eyes and contrasted with her shoulder-length mahogany hair. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties. Probably married to some rich dentist or banker. All in all, she was the kind of woman he had no use for—spoiled, pushy, and wearing her upper-class status like a suit of armor.

She was shivering, her hair blowing around her face. He was cold, too. The sooner he got her out of here and on her way, the sooner he could go inside and make a fire in the old iron stove.

The driver’s side door, which she’d left open, had blown shut. He opened it and held it against the wind. “Unless you’re stuck, you shouldn’t have any trouble driving,” he said. “There’s nothing for you to do here. Climb in, and get back onto the road.”