Colorado Christmas. C.C. Coburn

I’ll shoot him. Okay?”

      “Yeah, sure,” Will agreed, knowing full well his brother couldn’t shoot straight and, within days, Luke’s daughters would have Edward sleeping on their beds. He’d been joking about Luke buying the sheep. He was sure if Edward ever saw a real sheep he’d run away in fright.

      Back at Miss P.’s, he outlined his plans for the fundraiser and told her about his meeting with the mayor.

      “Oh, he’s such a nasty man!” she said. “This town has done nothing but go downhill since he took office.” Her face wrinkled even more as she frowned, then her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands. “Oh, I’ve just had a wonderful idea!”

      Will grinned. Miss P. might be pushing ninety, but she had more enthusiasm than most teenagers. “I’m all ears.”

      She bustled out of the room and came back with a large art pad. She opened the pad and started to sketch.

      BECKY’S FRUSTRATION OVER not finding a suitable caregiver for Nicolas during the upcoming holidays was evident when she dropped and broke three dishes as she cleaned up the kitchen after dinner.

      All she wanted was someone to care for Nicolas in the afternoons, supervise his homework and make his dinner. Was that really asking too much? He might be in fifth grade but he was only eight, so too young to be left to his own devices. She was prepared to pay double the going rate, but so far none of the applicants were remotely suitable. Should she set her standards a little lower in order to get someone? Anyone?

      “No!” she muttered as she opened the fridge and poured a small glass of wine to calm her nerves. Taking it to the living room, she curled up on the sofa. Nicolas deserved to have someone who cared about him—or at least knew how to care for a child. She’d devoted several lunch hours to interviewing candidates, and now she was getting desperate. The Christmas holiday was looming and Nicolas had told her tearfully that he didn’t want to go to the program organized by the town, saying the bullies from school went there, too.

      She rubbed her forehead. The fact that Nicolas was being bullied at school preyed on her mind. Coming to a small town, she’d thought all of that would be behind them, but it had reared its ugly head on several occasions. She’d spoken to Nicolas’s teacher and the woman had reiterated that the school had a zero tolerance policy toward bullying and assured Becky she’d dealt with the perpetrator.

      But Becky wasn’t so sure. Nicolas seemed withdrawn and his tearful outburst tonight over attending the town’s holiday program only worsened her fears that the bullying had continued. She’d tried to get him to talk about it, but he’d clammed up and gone to bed early. She’d have to make time to discuss it some more, but not when he was tired and overwrought.

      She scanned the list of applicants she’d interviewed for the job. But reviewing the list caused her even more stress.

      There were a number of questions she asked potential caregivers, to confirm that they were of the moral fiber and intellectual capacities she desired in her employees.

      Frank Farquar’s great-niece, Ellie, was one of the applicants. But when questioned about the types of movies she enjoyed, the teen had recounted a list of the most frightening and diabolically violent movie titles Becky had ever heard of. Ellie was a definite nonstarter. So was the woman addicted to soap operas and another addicted to both caffeine and tranquilizers. Grandmotherly Virginia Smith had seemed promising, until Becky discovered she was illiterate. The kindly woman had difficulty reading the simple list of duties Becky handed her. What hope did she have of helping Nicolas with his homework?

      Many more interviews had taken up Becky’s precious spare time and she groaned at the memory of the ways each and every applicant had proved unsuitable.

      She took a deep breath to try to relax, but the scent of roses filled her lungs.

      Will O’Malley! She couldn’t seem to escape the man, even in her own home. And his name was on the register for tomorrow’s hearings….

      She tucked her feet beneath her and sipped her wine. What would he be up to tomorrow? And would he have the audacity to ask her out again?

      WILL AND MISS PATTERSON worked into the night designing a poster for SOB. Miss P. created a watercolor painting of the mountains, with the town and its Victorian buildings in the foreground. While the painting dried, she and Will shared a pizza at her kitchen table.

      “You’re a very talented artist,” he said, indicating the beautiful paintings of town scenes hanging around her house. “I hope I’m going to score a Miss P. original when I marry the judge.”

      Miss P. never sold her paintings, only gave them as gifts. They were a much-prized wedding present and many homes in the county had at least one Florence Patterson watercolor adorning their walls.

      She patted his hand. “You can be sure of getting more than one, dear.” Tonight she was as animated as a kid with an exciting project. “I’m so happy you like the poster idea. I was wondering how I could contribute to the cause,” she said and bit into a slice of pizza. Her eyes widened. “My, this stuff is wonderful! I should eat it more often.”

      He laughed. Miss P. was another of Spruce Lake’s living treasures. “You don’t think being part of a human chain was enough of a contribution?”

      She waved her hands dismissively. “Anyone can be part of a human chain, but not everyone can paint. I don’t know why I didn’t suggest this before.” She frowned. “Do you think people would mind hanging the posters in their stores?”

      Will covered her wrinkled hand. “I can’t imagine anyone would object. The poster is lovely and so reminiscent of the town.”

      When the paint had dried, she’d written Save Our Buildings at the bottom of the poster.

      It was nearly midnight when the task was finished.

      “Now, I know you’ve got a court hearing in the morning, dear,” she said. “So you run along and get some sleep and I’ll go to the print shop first thing and have them copy this. By the time court opens, the town will be plastered with them!”

      Will chuckled at her enthusiasm. “Don’t forget, Mrs. C. has plenty of funds to pay for printing costs. Do you want me to come by and help put them up?”

      “No, dear, you have enough on your plate with the hearing tomor—Oh! I mean, today,” she corrected herself after checking her clock. “My neighbors have been wanting to help, so I’ll send them all out with posters to the businesses on Main Street and beyond.”

      Will whistled as he strolled home and mused that it was people like Miss P. who made living in Spruce Lake special.

      Exhausted, he tumbled into bed and dreamed of the house he’d build on his land. In his dream, Judge Becky was standing in the doorway, welcoming him home….