He’d been engaged. He knew women could be temperamental, and from what he had heard, artists were the worst of the lot. A trip thirty yards out back to the bunkhouse wasn’t too big a price to pay for a nice, quiet peaceful afternoon. Besides, when she got over the shock of the whole idea, Sage might be a right good neighbor. She was already coming around. It might take a while before she was ready to roll over on her back like the dog, but hey, a few more pancakes and a miracle or two and who knew what would happen. It was the Christmas season, snow and all. A miracle could happen.
He trudged through wet snow up to his ankles and broke a layer of ice from around the bunkhouse door to get it open. Once inside he located the easel and the black toolbox. He tucked the easel under his arm, picked up the box, and started back toward the house. The temperature kept falling steadily, and the snow stung when it hit his face. He should’ve put the face mask back on, but he’d figured it would be a fast trip.
Sage was standing in the kitchen when he shoved the door open. She wore a chocolate brown sweatshirt with paint smudges all over it. Her hair was still wet and pulled up into a ponytail, and all her makeup had been washed away.
The sweet smell of soap blended with the aroma of burning logs and coffee, and he had the sudden urge to bury his face in her dark hair, just to get a better whiff of her shampoo. Tall women had never attracted him and he’d never been particularly drawn to brunettes with brown eyes, but Sage Presley was a beautiful woman. One that probably had no time at all for a rough-edged cowboy who was gun-shy when it came to commitments.
He set the paint box on the kitchen table and rested the easel against the wall. “That was a quick shower.”
“You don’t linger when it takes a generator to keep the hot water coming,” she told him. “Thanks for bringing that stuff in for me. I paint outside as often as I can so I can get the light just right.”
“And in the winter?”
“In the house mostly, but I store my stuff in the bunkhouse. Like you said, the house is small and it’s not that far to go get what I want. At least it isn’t when there’s not a blizzard blowing outside. I appreciate you going after my stuff so I can work,” she said.
“Does that mean you’ll put in a good word with Miz Ada for me?”
“Hell, no! I’m going to do my damnedest to talk her out of selling the ranch. Does that mean you won’t go get my canvases?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t mean that at all. I said I’d get your things so you can work and I’ll do it. A Riley does not go back on his word. You just watch over Miz Chris.”
“Miz Chris?” Sage asked.
“You know, our new pet. Chris for Christmas since she came to us during the season and all,” he said.
“That’s a girl’s name, not a dog’s name.”
“She is a girl. I ain’t never seen a boy dog yet with puppies wiggling around in his belly,” Creed said. “And both of my dogs have girl names—Reba and Wynonna.”
“Noel,” she said.
He ran a hand down his cheeks to cover up the victory smile.
He’d forced her to name the animal and now it would belong to her. She could take it and all the puppies to her trailer when Miz Ada had one hauled into the canyon in a few weeks. And his two hunting dogs wouldn’t be mad at him for letting another mutt live in the house when they had to stay outside.
Merry Christmas to Sage!
“Noel it is. I like that better than Chris anyway,” he said. “I’m getting too warm with all these clothes on inside the house. Easel and paints are here. Now one more trip for canvases. How many, and anything else?”
“I’ll take as many as you can carry, and bring that gallon of turpentine, please. It’s sitting against the far wall beside where the easel was.”
Snow blew in as he left, so she grabbed the broom and swept it into the dustpan along with the piece of mistletoe that had fallen off his shoulder earlier. She dumped the icy water into the kitchen sink and turned on the water to flush both dirt and snow down the drain. And there were two sprigs of mistletoe left in the wake.
Grand would find some kind of omen or magic in the fact that Creed had had mistletoe on his shoulder and that he’d tracked even more inside. But it just meant that the wind had blown a bunch from the top of a scrub oak tree and it had stuck to him. There was no reading a happily-ever-after into a couple of sprigs of mistletoe.
She peeled a paper towel from the wooden roller beside the toaster and dabbed at the green leaves and berries before placing the sprigs on the windowsill. If he kept hauling it in with every trip outside, she wouldn’t have to climb a scrub oak for a bunch to hang up with the holiday decorations.
That turned her thoughts toward putting up the tree, the lights around the barn, and all the other decorations. She’d have the whole house decorated when Grand came home on Christmas Eve. There was no way in hell Grand could sign the ranch over to a stranger when she saw the tree and the sparkling lights. They’d remind her of all the good times that had gone on during Christmas on the ranch, and any notion of selling would be gone.
And then there were the three weeks with Aunt Essie. That woman was an old sweetheart, but
