A Snow Country Christmas. Linda Miller Lael

have someplace to go.” She gently scooted away from the cat and stood. “I’ll get your coat, Mr. Boardroom. Time for a scenic Christmas Eve jaunt.”

      “Now?” He glanced at the clock, which had wands for hands and glass slippers in varying colors to represent the hours. Which made him think she’d designed it. It looked like, if he could read it correctly, it was nearly eleven o’clock.

      “As good a time as any, right? Snow falling, the mountains in the backdrop and winter magic in the air... I want to show you something. No, now I need to show you something.”

      He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but was willing to play along. “Okay, I’m game.”

      “You might be when you see what I’m going to show you. I’ll drive.”

      “Drive? Where—”

      “Let’s go.” She opened a hall closet and took out a coat, then disappeared to return with his, pulling on fluffy white mittens as he did up his buttons. “This is perfect.”

      Mystified, he said, “I’ll take your word for it. Care to give me a hint where we’re going?”

      “I’m a show-not-tell kind of girl. You’ll find out.”

      Two minutes later they were in the car, driving toward a destination unknown.

      * * *

      The place looked as she remembered it the day she put it up for sale, but was also lit by the moon now that the snow had subsided to flurries, and she spotted the twinkle of a star or two as the clouds moved overhead in the brisk December wind.

      Maybe fate had smiled on her twice this night.

      Raine took in the weathered structure before them and tried to stifle a pang over the prospect of it being torn down. She warned herself that a man like Mick Branson probably wouldn’t want the dilapidated wreck, and she could hardly blame him for that, but the setting was incredible.

      “If you want Wyoming, this is it,” she said as she parked the SUV. “There’s a small lake behind the house, fed by a spring. It’s so crystal clear, fishing should be a crime there because you can drop a hook right in front of a fish. I know it’s frozen over right now, but in the warmer weather it’s perfect for swimming in. And you have never seen anything so amazing in your life as the view from the back porch when you sit and watch the sun come up.”

      He was diplomatic, but she expected that. “The cabin looks really old.”

      “That’s the understatement of the century. The house is falling down.” She shut off the vehicle. “It was once just one room, but sections were added on here and there over the past century. Keep in mind the location. It isn’t a lot of land, just a hundred acres, but you don’t want to run cattle, correct? Just have a place to get away. Let me show you the inside.”

      “One hundred acres in L.A. isn’t even a possibility. Neither is me running cattle, since I’d have no idea what to do. I do just need a place to get away... Raine, why do you have a key?”

      “You can tear it all down as far as the buildings go, though I wish you wouldn’t, but this is really a nice piece of property.”

      “That doesn’t answer my question.”

      She sighed and turned to face him. “It belonged to my grandfather.”

      He paused. “Okay.”

      “And it belonged to his grandfather before him.”

      His jaw dropped. “You’re joking, right?”

      She wasn’t. “It was built a very long time ago obviously. Don’t those old pictures you’ve seen strike a chord? Slater featured a before and after of this place in his documentary. I have to say, he made his point about continuity across the generations. It hasn’t changed.”

      Snow was still drifting down as she stood there, reminded powerfully of Slater’s film. Mick said, “I remember. He didn’t tell me this belonged to your family.”

      Drily, she remarked, “When Slater is in work mode, the rest of the world just goes away. Plus I doubt he thought it’d matter to you one way or another. Wait until you see the inside.” She pulled out the flashlight she’d brought, the powerful beam catching the sagging facade. “No electricity. The water is piped in straight from the lake with no filtration system whatsoever, but since my grandfather grew up here, he just drank it anyway and swore it was better than any city water could ever be. I’d skip that top step—it was dicey the last time I was here and I doubt it has improved any.”

      Mick had a bemused expression on his face. “This has certainly been an interesting first date. Lead on.”

      She slanted him a sidelong look and hopped up over the tricky step. The entire porch creaked, but it had done so for as long as she could remember. “Date, huh? I thought it was a business meeting.”

      “I guess now’s the time for me to confess that that was a ploy to get you to have dinner with me. My reasons for talking business with you were genuine, but the minute that discussion was over, it became a date.” He was tall enough to step smoothly over the dicey step. “See how devious I am? You fell right into my wicked trap.”

      “Or you fell into mine.” She jiggled the key in the ancient lock. There was an art to cajoling it to cooperate. “Have I mentioned this place is haunted?”

      “No, but what would Christmas Eve be without a snowy haunted old cabin? If it wasn’t, I’d be disappointed.” His tone was dry, but he looked intrigued.

      She liked his understated sense of humor. To her that was more important than good looks or money. The door finally decided they could come inside and obediently creaked open. “Here’s your slice of history.”

       4

      THE INSIDE OF the cabin was like a time capsule.

      Mick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Old wooden armchairs around a table made from what looked like an old trough turned upside down, an ancient washtub in the corner, a very old rifle over the hearth of a fireplace he suspected had been the only source of heat for the place. There was even a tin cup sitting on the table like it had been left there by the last occupant.

      And everywhere there were books. In homemade shelves against the walls and stacked on the floor. An ancient dry sink was part of the kitchen area, as was a rusted metal work table and several shelves with some significantly old dishes. In the corner, a wooden bucket right next to it was probably the way to wash them.

      Raine stood next to him, her mittened hands in her pockets, and said neutrally, “No electricity, no heat, and if you look around for the bathroom, it’s out back. My grandfather was a minimalist. He read Walden and never glanced back. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Matthew Brighton.”

      Mick about fell over. “The author?” It would certainly account for all the books...but really?

      “That’s the one.”

      “He was your grandfather?”

      “Yes.” She’d put on this cute white knit hat before they left the house and it set off her dark hair. Her nose was tinged pink from the cold.

      He couldn’t believe it. “My father had some of his books. I read them as a kid. That’s how I got hooked on Westerns. Are you serious?”

      “Would I lie?”

      He didn’t think she ever would. In his estimation she was probably as honest as it was possible to hope for a person to be.

      He found himself grinning. “I loved those books. My favorite was Paintbrush Pass.”

      She smiled. “Mine, too. Do you realize that was set right here?”

      “Here...here? Like on this property here?”