Stranded For The Holidays. Lisa Carter

home, Jonas?”

      AnnaBeth pushed the obnoxious bow higher on her forehead. “Mr. Stone rescued me on the mountain road after my car broke down.”

      Tucking the phone into the pocket of her cardigan, Mrs. Fielding ushered them inside the house.

      “She was walking on the woad, Gwam-ma. Dad awe-most killed her.”

      Mrs. Fielding shut the door against the driving snow. “What?”

      “A misunderstanding.” Keeping one arm draped around his neck for balance, she held out her hand. “I’m AnnaBeth Cummings. So sorry to drop in on you like this.”

      “Please call me Deirdre.” Eyes narrowing, his mother clasped her fingers. “AnnaBeth Cummings... Why does your name sound so familiar?” An amused expression lightened her features. “Speaking of dropped, feel free to put her down anytime, Jonas.”

      The color of his neck immediately went brick-red. He set AnnaBeth on her feet so fast, she had to catch hold of the wall.

      “Sorry to be so heavy,” she whispered.

      “You’re not heavy. I’m used to hauling sacks of feed.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Not that you’re like a sack of feed... Or any other kind of sack... I just meant...” He closed his eyes. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

      His mother planted her hands on her hips. “Silence might be for the best, Jonas.”

      “I’ll go get your luggage.” A flush darkening his sharp cheekbones, he slipped out the door and back into the storm.

      “Please forgive my inarticulate son.” Deirdre led AnnaBeth into a large, open-space living room. “He’s rusty when it comes to a woman’s tender sensibilities.”

      Rough-hewn wooden beams bolstered the soaring ceiling. A wall of windows provided what in fair weather she guessed were magnificent views of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

      Deirdre eased AnnaBeth into one of the leather armchairs flanking the massive stone fireplace. Orange-red flames danced from the fire in the hearth.

      “Thank you, Deirdre.”

      At the sudden whoosh of cold air, Jonas returned. Using his shoulder, he heaved the stout oak door shut, cutting off the roaring wind.

      Hunter plastered himself to AnnaBeth’s elbow. “I told her awe about de wanch, Gwam-ma.”

      Deirdre smiled, tiny lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes. “Welcome to the FieldStone Ranch, AnnaBeth.” She nudged the brim of Hunter’s Stetson upward. “Hats off in the house, remember, Hunter?”

      AnnaBeth liked the motherly Deirdre Fielding. Probably not her fault that her son was a surly, ill-tempered cowboy.

      Shuffling his boots, Jonas handed Hunter his hat, too. Hunter hung both hats on pegs on the far wall.

      Deirdre’s gaze fell to AnnaBeth. “Oh, honey. You must be frozen. We need to get you out of those wet clothes. And those shoes... Your feet must feel like a block of ice.” She turned to her son. “How long was she walking in the snow? We should check for frostbite.”

      “F-frostbite?” she whispered.

      All of a sudden, everything became too much. The wedding. Scott. MaryDru. Getting lost. Almost getting hit by a truck.

      Now this? Her eyelids stung with unshed tears. Hunter, Jonas and Mrs. Fielding swam in her vision.

      By running away, had she made the worst mistake of her life?

       Chapter Three

      Jonas could stand a lot of things, but not a woman’s tears.

      Ducking out from under the strap of AnnaBeth’s camera bag, he set both cases at the base of the staircase. “Let me check for signs of frostbite.” He dropped onto the leather ottoman in front of her chair. Hunter hovered at his side.

      “It won’t be long before dinner.” His mother moved toward the kitchen at the back of the lodge. “But we need to get something warm inside her now. Do you like coffee, AnnaBeth, honey?”

      AnnaBeth started to rise. “Yes, but you mustn’t wait on—”

      “Lots of sugar, Mom, for shock.” A hand on her arm, he eased her onto the cushions. “We don’t want her fainting again.”

      A line puckered AnnaBeth’s otherwise perfect brow. “But—”

      His mother had already gone.

      Jonas felt sick thinking of what could’ve happened to AnnaBeth if he and Hunter hadn’t come along when they did. In the Blue Ridge, winter should never be taken for granted.

      “Son, can you find some socks to keep her feet warm?”

      “Yes, sir.” Boots clattering, Hunter dashed upstairs.

      She lowered her gaze to her hands, clasped in her lap. “I don’t usually take my coffee with sugar. As a general rule, I don’t eat sugar. I mean, I try to avoid it.”

      AnnaBeth twisted a button on her coat. “I’ve always had to watch my weight. I really don’t need any sugar.”

      He sensed a lifetime of hurt in her words. And none of it true. She was taller than average, about five foot six to his six foot three. But she fit perfectly well in his arms. Far too well for his peace of mind.

      Jonas frowned. “Who told you that you should watch your weight?”

      She tucked her chin into the collar of her coat. “Daddy says I take after my mother. But Victoria said I was just big-boned, and I needed to watch my carbs.” Two spots of red burned in her cheeks.

      His gut knotted. He didn’t know her father or Victoria—nor was he likely to—but on general principle he decided he didn’t like them. Not if they’d hurt AnnaBeth.

      Although, hadn’t he done the same insensitive thing? Remorse flooded him. He recalled her earlier apology for being too heavy. And his response.

      He scrubbed his hand over his face. He should be horsewhipped. His mother was right. He’d turned into a curmudgeon. An idiot who didn’t know how to treat a lady.

      Open mouth, insert horseshoe. Actually, the entire horse—saddle and blanket, too. Which reminded him... He stood.

      Startled, her gaze lifted to his and locked. For a second, his world went sideways. Blood pounded in his ears.

      Only by sheer force of will did he direct his feet toward the sofa. He must’ve risen too fast. Made himself dizzy.

      Snatching the afghan off the sofa, he resumed his seat on the ottoman. “Prop your feet on my knees.”

      Eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a frightened bird, she pursed her lips. “What? Why?”

      What’s wrong with you? Manners, Jonas. Even four-year-old Hunter knew the magic words.

      “Please.” He opened his hands. “I need to make sure your toes don’t have frostbite.”

      “A-all right.”

      She lifted first one foot and then the other. He was appalled—and scared—at how blue her feet appeared. Why on earth had she ventured out in such inappropriate footwear?

      Gently, he eased off her left shoe, and set it on the floor beside them. Next, he removed the right one.

      His thumb accidentally brushed against the skin on top of her foot. She quivered. His throat clogged. Her feet were cold, so cold, but thank You, God, no signs of frostbite.

      Jonas wrapped her lower limbs in the folds of the afghan. Through the fabric, he rubbed the circulation back into her feet.

      Her