Cathy Mcdavid - His Christmas Sweetheart

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 him close, her thin frame no larger than that of a young girl. “How long is your leave?”

Will answered as he always did. “Three days.”

“That’s all? We’ll spend every minute of it together. Are you hungry? I can make some sandwiches.” She scanned the room, confusion clouding her features. The next instant she brightened and tugged on his Western-cut shirt. “They’re not feeding you enough. Look how this uniform hangs on you. No worries. I’ll fatten you up while you’re home.”

Nell slipped quietly into the room and set a tray on the bedside table. It held a pot of tea, two mugs and a plate of sugar cookies. After giving Will a wink, she disappeared.

“I ate earlier, Mom,” Will said. “But I wouldn’t mind some tea.”

Another moment of confusion, then Mrs. Litey spotted the tray with the tea and cookies. “I have a fresh pot.”

Will insisted on helping to pour. They sat in a pair of chairs by the window. Mrs. Litey chatted amiably, asking Will questions about his current tour. He answered as best he could. How her son, Joseph, might have answered had he not died thirty years ago in a training accident when the armored personnel carrier he was commanding flipped on a patch of black ice.

Will didn’t know why Mrs. Litey took one look at him and decided he was her son. Perhaps through her haze, she’d sensed his military background. He really didn’t care.

Sitting in the too-small chair, listening to her ramble, he let the present slide away.

It was then he saw the ghost. His late grandmother.

Closing his eyes, he was transported back in time to his grandmother’s kitchen on her farm outside of Fort Scott, Kansas. The sugar cookies were fresh from the oven, not store-bought from a box. Mrs. Litey’s voice became deeper, warmer, resembling his grandmother’s. She was inquiring about school and baseball practice and what colleges he’d applied to.

In a world that had been chaos for far too long, Will was finally at peace, his demons temporarily silenced. Mrs. Litey’s, too, he imagined. It was the reason he visited her and why he let her believe he was her son.

They were a pair, each of them escaping the memories of an unhappy past by taking solace in one another.

A noise from another part of the house traveled down the hall to Will. Then Arthur called hello to Miranda.

She was here!

Will cast about for an escape route, knowing there was none. He’d have to leave the same way he came in. Let her bubbly personality wash over him. Fend off her attempts to know him better. Remind him of the love he’d once had and lost because of his PTSD.