His Christmas Sweetheart. Cathy Mcdavid

she stepped back to allow him entry. Short, ebony-skinned and possessing an endless supply of patience, Nell helped run the elder-care group home. “Guess I’m not the only one. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

      Nothing could be truer. Will saw a ghost every time he visited.

      “I’m not bothering you?” he asked, removing his cowboy hat.

      “Nonsense. You’re always welcome here. Mrs. Litey loves seeing you, and she’s such a lamb after you leave. For a few hours. Or a day. Then...” The unfinished sentence was followed by a shrug. “She’s a pistol, that one.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Will had witnessed the octogenarian’s normally cantankerous nature more than once when she hadn’t realized he was in the room. Describing her as a pistol was being kind. Acute Alzheimer’s did that to a person, he supposed.

      Nell ushered him into the main room, where a couple sat together watching a loudly blaring TV, the frail-looking woman wheelchair bound. Babs and her gentleman friend, Arthur. He called on her almost daily—and stayed all day from what Will could gather.

      Sounding the alarm several beats late, a white terrier mix jumped down from his favorite roost atop Mr. Lexington’s lap. Obviously hard of hearing, Mr. Lexington dozed in one of three recliners. The dog trotted over for a sniff, his scraggly tail wagging.

      Will bent and scratched him behind the ears. “Hey, buddy.”

      “Let me check on Mrs. Litey before I take you back,” Nell said. “Just in case she’s indisposed.”

      Will straightened and nodded at Babs and Arthur. He was always more comfortable with animals than people. Horses especially, but dogs and cats, too. His own shepherd mix waited patiently in his pickup parked out front.

      “Afternoon to you, young fellow.” Arthur released Babs’s hand to operate the remote control. Lowering the TV’s volume, he rose with telltale arthritic stiffness and greeted Will. “How’s the world treating you?”

      “Good.”

      “Keeping busy? I hear business is picking up at the Gold Nugget.”

      “Some.”

      Will didn’t elaborate. He seldom talked much, preferring to listen—which he did as Arthur reminisced about the guest ranch where Will was employed as livestock foreman, trail guide, farrier and all-around hand. Whatever his boss required of him.

      The ranch, one of the more famous landmarks of Sweetheart, Nevada, was originally built in the 1960s and was used as a film location for the wildly popular TV Western The Forty-Niners. After the show ceased production, the ranch was opened to the public. Mrs. Litey had served as curator, tour guide and resident authority on local history all that time, until her Alzheimer’s had advanced and the ranch had closed.

      “Miranda’s not here,” Arthur said, “if you’re hoping to find her.”

      “I’m not.”

      He waggled his bushy gray brows and elbowed Will in the ribs. “I would be, if I were you. She’s pretty easy on the eyes, even for eyes as old as mine.”

      Will generally avoided Miranda Staley, the owner and operator of Sweetheart’s only senior-care facility. She made him nervous. People in general made Will nervous, but her especially. And it wasn’t just all those curves packed into her petite body.

      She lit up any room she entered, drawing the attention of everyone present. Will, on the other hand, preferred to go unnoticed, and usually did. Except at Harmony House, where the close quarters made escaping attention impossible.

      He usually dropped by to visit Mrs. Litey in the early afternoon. Miranda ran her errands then, and he was less likely to cross paths with her, as had happened before. Often. As pretty as she was bubbly, she had an uncanny ability to tie his tongue in knots, which didn’t fare well for someone who spoke only when necessary.

      Thinking of her caused his heart to race and his lungs to work overtime.

      Easy does it. Just breathe. In and out. That’s right.

      The mantra had no effect. Angling his body away from the room’s other occupants, he removed his jacket and reached underneath the cuff on his left sleeve, snapping the rubber band around his wrist. Once. Twice. Three times. The sharp stinging helped him to focus. Focusing enabled him to relax.

      There would be no panic attack today. At least not here.

      “I said, Mrs. Litey’s been having fits all morning. Did you hear me?”

      Will blinked himself back to the present and turned to face Arthur and Babs. It was hard not to think of them as cute, even for someone as unsentimental as Will. When asked, he blamed his preference for keeping his distance on a six-year stint in the army. Easier that way. No one liked talking about death and guilt and emotional disabilities. Will sure didn’t.

      “You go in there and work whatever magic it is you do.” Arthur chuckled. “Maybe then we can watch the rest of Babs’s show without Mrs. Litey hollering and carrying on.”

      “I’ll do my best, sir.”

      Nell returned, all smiles. “She’s waiting for you. I’ll bring some tea.”

      Will made his way down the familiar hallway to the residents’ bedrooms. Mrs. Litey’s was the second on the right.

      She and Babs had private rooms, while Mr. Lexington and Himey shared what had once been the master suite. There had been a fifth resident, but his family had recently relocated him to a facility near Lake Tahoe, citing that Sweetheart was no longer a safe place.

      They had their reasons. A lot of people had left when, this past summer, a forest fire had leaped a ravine, ran amok and nearly destroyed the town.

      Will paused briefly at a closed door. Behind it were stairs leading to a converted attic suite: bedroom, bath and a sitting area. Miranda’s quarters.

      He’d never been up there, had only heard about it from Arthur and Babs.

      The day of the fire and evacuation, Miranda had come running down those stairs, carting a suitcase. Face flushed with fear and exertion, she’d looked at him as if she didn’t recognize him, which was probably the case. Will flew miles beneath her radar.

      The same couldn’t be said about her. He’d bumped into Miranda on his first day in town, in an aisle at the general store, and had kept her in his radar ever since.

      Thoughts of Miranda started his heart racing again, and he repeated the mantra.

      At the doorway to Mrs. Litey’s room, he stopped and waited. Someone, Nell probably, had opened the drapes. Late November sunshine filled every corner. Though clean and tidy and now well lit, the room clearly belonged to an ill person. Rails on the bed, a walker beside the dresser, call button within easy reach and a lingering antiseptic smell were a few of the signs.

      Mrs. Litey stood facing the window. Will thought she might be oblivious to the world, as sometimes happened. Suddenly she pivoted. At the sight of him, her wrinkled face erupted in a delighted grin.

      “You’re here.” Feeble arms extended, her gait unsteady, she started toward him, ignoring the walker.

      Will hurried to meet her halfway, afraid she might fall. She collapsed into his arms and cried with joy. He held her, stroking her bony back and murmuring soothing words.

      It was the same every time he visited her.

      “Joseph.” She stared up at him, tears in her eyes, and cradled his cheek in her gnarled hand. “You’re home. I’ve missed you so much.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Ma’am! So polite. The army has certainly taught you manners.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated. “Mom.”

      “Oh, honey.” She hugged