Cathy Mcdavid - His Christmas Sweetheart

“Miranda,” the nurse called out. “Your order’s ready.”

She was just turning to leave when the door leading to the examination rooms opened and Will stepped out. She noticed his surprised expression first, then the splint encasing his left wrist.

Grabbing the sack of meds off the counter, she rushed toward him. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

She pointed at the splint. “That’s not nothing.”

“I had a small run-in.”

“With what? A two-ton tank?”

“A calf.” He started toward the exit.

She followed him, refusing to be put off. “A calf broke your wrist?”

“Sprained it.”

Honestly his clipped answers were sometimes quite annoying. “How, for crying out loud?”

“It pinned me. Against the fence.”

She gave him a pointed stare. “What shape is the calf in?”

One corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “This round went to him.”

Miranda was transfixed, like the other day in her kitchen. Only then, a flash of heat in his eyes had been responsible.

“Mr. Dessaro?” the nurse called right before they reached the door. “You forgot your pain medication.”

“Don’t need it.”

“You say that now,” Miranda cautioned. “Wait till tonight.”

He shook his head.

“Trust me. I’m a nurse. Don’t try to be tough. A sprain is painful. You’re going to want some relief. About ten o’clock tonight you’ll be crying like a baby.”

After a moment’s hesitation he returned to the counter and paid for his medication. The small white bag containing his prescription promptly disappeared inside his jacket pocket.

She waited for him by the entrance. He insisted on opening the door for her with his good arm despite her protests.

Miranda suppressed an eye roll. Men.

A chilly breeze swept along the sidewalk, engulfing them and forcing them to take momentary shelter beneath the clinic awning. She snuggled deeper in her wool coat. “Won’t be long now till the first snow.”

“Yeah.” He touched the brim of his cowboy hat. “See you.”

“Hold on a sec!” She had absolutely no reason to keep him from his next destination. Yet she couldn’t stop herself. “You haven’t dropped by to see Mrs. Litey since Friday.”

“Been busy.”

“She misses you.”

“How is she doing?”

“Obliging part of the day. Cantankerous the rest. If you could spare a few minutes, I know she’d love to see you.”

Oh, sweet Lord, Miranda should be ashamed of herself. Using poor old Mrs. Litey to manipulate Will for purely selfish reasons.

“Can’t.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“We’ll see.”

His we’ll see had the ring of not likely. “Did something happen? I mean, other than your sprained wrist?”

“No.”

Hmm. She didn’t quite believe him. “I know this is a ridiculous suggestion, considering the weather, but would you want to have an ice-cream sundae with me?”

She’d clearly rendered him speechless, not that it was hard. After several false starts, he uttered, “Thanks, but no—”

“Please,” she said, cutting him off. “I’ve had a really crummy afternoon, and I could use some high-calorie, high-fat comfort food. Along with an ear to bend. I promise you won’t have to contribute much to the conversation. I’ll carry it all. I’d invite you for a beer,” she blurted out when she sensed a refusal forthcoming, “but you can’t have alcohol with your pain meds.”

Just when she had decided her efforts were in vain, he muttered, “Sure,” under his breath.

Miranda smiled for the first time that afternoon.

Chapter Three

The ice-cream parlor, across the street and up half a block, had recently reopened after sustaining significant damage in the fire. Miranda liked the remodeling job, though the place lacked the ambiance of the old one.

A few of the original furnishings had been salvaged, including a pair of wrought-iron chairs with heart-shaped backs from the fifties, glass root-beer mugs from the sixties and a Coca-Cola poster the owner swore was his great-great-aunt’s from the roaring twenties.

All the spared items were currently stored and on display in the brand-new Sweetheart Memorial Museum. Annie Wyler, Will’s boss’s new wife, had donated the land—on which her family’s inn had once stood—to the memorial and paid for its construction out of the insurance settlement money. It was a grand gesture and much appreciated by the folks of Sweetheart.

Miranda had been by the memorial three times so far. She particularly enjoyed seeing what new items had been donated, most of them stirring happy memories of her childhood from age seven on, when she’d come to live with her foster parents.

Before age seven had been less happy. Miserable, actually. She didn’t forget those days, either. Miranda accepted the cards life dealt her, learned from them and moved on. What else was a person to do?

Sneaking a glimpse at Will sitting across from her in the booth, she supposed there were other options. One could hang on to the past. Retreat into it. Let it disempower them. In her opinion Will had done all those things.

She took another spoonful of her brownie delight hot-fudge sundae and almost groaned in ecstasy. “How’s your...” What was it he’d ordered? “Scoop of plain vanilla ice cream?” She failed to mask her disdain.

“It’s okay.”

“You should have ordered a little hot fudge with that.” She relished an even larger spoonful of her sundae.

“Maybe.”

“Seriously, Will, what does it take to wring more than one or two words out of you?”

He observed her from over his spoon. The small glint of heat she’d seen the other day in her kitchen reappeared, lighting eyes as dark as the hot fudge that had been generously poured over her ice cream.

Proximity. To her. That was what it took to wring more words from him. Well, she could certainly arrange for proximity. Lots of it.

“What went wrong?”

“I beg your pardon?” She dabbed at her mouth before melted ice cream dribbled down her chin.

“You said you had a crummy morning.”

“Oh, yes. That.” For a brief second she lost her appetite. Fortunately it returned, and she dug into her remaining sundae. “My appointment at the bank didn’t go well.”

“Your appointment?”

“I’m trying, hoping, to refinance my house. Problem is I’ve had a little trouble making the monthly payments on time since losing a resident.” Miranda didn’t wave her dirty laundry in public. But she was also a plainspoken person, and Will had asked.

“The bank won’t cut you any slack?”

“No. Rules are rules and policies are policies. I can possibly refinance if I bring my account current.”

“How far behind are you?”

It was a rather bold question for someone who rarely spoke. “Two months as of next week. Then, when I make November’s payment, which I will on Tuesday, I’ll only be behind one month.”

“What are you going to do?”

She sighed and set down her spoon. “Whatever I have to. I’m not losing my house or my business. I have worked too long and hard to get it off the ground. My residents need me. I’m the only certified elder-care facility in Sweetheart run by a registered nurse. If I go under, they’ll have nowhere to live.”

All right, she was being melodramatic. Other than Mrs. Litey, all her residents had family to go to.

“Any prospects?”

“No. Not at the moment.” She didn’t fib to Will as she had to the banker.

“You can’t go under.”

No, she couldn’t. Will stating as much piqued her interest. Did he care? For her or Mrs. Litey?

“Thanks for the support. If you by chance have a relative needing supervised care hiding in your back pocket, I have a room available.”