Stranded For The Holidays. Lisa Carter

Hunter drew her attention to points of interest. The truck wound its way over the rolling terrain, past the split-rail fence that lined the snow-covered pastures.

      She waved her hand. “I love the names of the cabins.” She savored the words. “The Laurel. The Azalea. The Hummingbird.”

      Hunter hugged her arm. “I’m so happy you’re fine-a-wee here.”

      “Finally here?” Touched by the sweet sincerity in the little boy’s face, she hugged him back. “So am I, sweetie pie.”

      “Uh...” Jonas shifted. “Miss Cummings... My son...” An interesting look she wasn’t sure how to interpret fell across his features.

      She smiled at him. “Yes, Mr. Stone?”

      But his face resumed its usual aloof expression. “Nothing...”

      She bit her lip. Reminding herself that not everyone enjoyed conversation, she concentrated on his son. “Why is the ranch called the FieldStone, Hunter?”

      “My name is Stone.” Hunter broadened his chest. “And Gwam-ma’s name is Fielding.”

      Jonas drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I’m the fourth-generation Stone to work the ranch.”

      Hunter held up his small hand. “I’ll be... One, two, three, four.” He ticked off each finger. “Five.”

      She tapped her finger on the tip of his button nose. “Yes, you will be.”

      Jonas cleared his throat. “When my father died—”

      “Oh.” She straightened. “I’m so sorry.”

      Jonas shrugged. “I was too young to remember him.”

      “I was young when my mother died, too.”

      His stoic expression flickered for a second before the impenetrable barrier fell into place once more. “My mother married the ranch foreman, Wilton Fielding.”

      “Field... Stone.” She smiled. “Got it.”

      “He was great,” Jonas grunted. “Best stepfather I could’ve wished for.”

      She settled her back against the seat. Unlike when her father married pushy Victoria, who, in her opinion, left a lot to be desired in the mothering department.

      “Dat’s the Whip-po-wheel.” Hunter motioned toward the duplex cabin. “And over dere’s de Dogwood.”

      Jonas never took his eyes from the road. “Whip-poor-will.”

      Hunter gestured to the red, gambrel-roofed barn. “We have dances dere.”

      At the curve in the bend of trees, his father palmed the wheel. “In summer.”

      The hunky cowboy might not be much of a talker, but he had nice hands. Lived-in hands. Strong, work-calloused hands. When he caught her looking, she felt a blush creep up her neck.

       Get it through your head, AnnaBeth. He’s married.

      Although—she cut her eyes to his hands again—he wasn’t wearing a ring. But what did she know? Maybe some married men didn’t.

      “Sweet potatoes,” she muttered, earning her another unreadable glance from Jonas.

      “Haywides and twail wides and hoss-shoes.” Hunter motioned toward two tall poles, standing like steel sentinels on the snow-packed concrete. “And va-wee-bawl.”

      Twilight was descending fast. But on a knoll above the cluster of cabins and outbuildings, lights from a two-story wood-and-stone structure beckoned.

      Hunter grinned. “We’re home.”

      AnnaBeth gulped. Home. She’d done more than just run away from her own wedding.

      She’d spent her entire life trying to please her father. He’d been so ecstatic about her engagement. It made her sick to think of how she’d disappointed him today.

      And after embarrassing Victoria in front of Charlotte society, she doubted she had a home anymore. She’d learned early not to make waves. Now she’d pay a heavy price for asserting her independence.

      Pulling the truck into the circular driveway in front of the house, Jonas parked at the end of the snow-covered sidewalk. When he got out, the wind whistled through the open door, and she shuddered.

      “Wait here.” He grimaced. “I’ll come around.”

      She tried not to take his unfriendliness to heart. “Do you need help unbuckling the lap belt, Hunter?”

      “I can do it.” He pressed the lever, and the belt whizzed free, retracting. “I’m a big boy.”

      She smiled. “Yes, you are.”

      Keeping his thumb down, he held up his hand. “I’m four.”

      “So, so big,” she agreed.

      His father threw open the door and stepped aside as Hunter jumped to the ground. “Miss Cummings?”

      Ignoring his outstretched hand, she slid across the seat and inched around the booster seat. At the edge of the cab, she hesitated. He took hold of her hand.

      The moment his fingers touched her skin, sparks flew up her arm. His brown eyes widened. Mirroring, she figured, her own shock.

      “Static electricity,” he muttered.

      Of course. What else could it be? Discombobulated, she allowed him to assist her to the ground. Her heels sank into the snow.

      Dropping his hand, she took a step forward. Snow sloshed inside her open-toed, ivory silk pumps. At the sudden cold, she gasped.

      She slogged forward, but it was slow going. Gauging the distance from the truck to the house, she bit back a sigh. She was beginning to lose feeling in her feet. Her knees wobbled.

      He flicked a look in her direction. “Miss Cummings?”

      “M-m-maybe you sh-sh-should go first and warn your w-w-wife to expect c-c-company.”

      Giving her a dour look, he folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t have a wife.”

      Maybe that’s just what his face did whenever he looked at her. Then his words registered.

      The hunky cowboy didn’t have a wife.

      “Don’t want a wife,” he growled.

      The small, irrepressible bubble of joy burst. Another dream dying an ignominious death. But that meant Jonas Stone was a widower? Or divorced?

      Hunter tugged her hand. “My mudder died, too, Snow Pwincess.”

      “I’m not a princess—Whoa!”

      Jonas scooped her into his arms.

      Sucking in a breath, she found herself pressed against the softness of his calfskin coat. “What’re you doing?”

      “Getting you out of the cold before you get pneumonia.” He plowed forward.

      Jostled, she threw her arms around his neck. He’d lifted her so effortlessly, thinking nothing of it. As if she was MaryDru or Victoria.

      “I’ll get your bags later.”

      She found herself at eye level with his square, stubble-covered jaw. A vein pulsed in his throat, visible in the exposed V of skin where he’d neglected to fasten the top button of his coat. But he fixed his gaze on navigating the slippery path.

      Hunter didn’t wait for them. Racing along the sidewalk, he headed for the porch. The heavy oak door swung open. A cell phone in her hand, an attractive, auburn-haired woman in her late fifties ventured out.

      “Look what Santa bwought me, Gwam-ma!” Hunter bobbed in his boots. “Me and Dad bwung her home.”

      Jonas