Carrie Nichols - The Scrooge Of Loon Lake

Note to Readers

Dedication This is dedicated to the two Jills. My agent, Jill Marsal, who believed in my writing voice before I knew how to plot or write conflict, and my walking partner, Jill Ralph, who not only pulls me away from my desk twice a day but is the perfect sounding board for story problems.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Desmond “Des” Gallagher heaved a frustrated sigh as he stared at the scattered pieces of colorful glass laid out on his workbench. This was the third day in a row he’d come to the former business office in the spacious barn he now used as his workshop and done nothing but sit and stare. The scarred and chipped wood that made up the table’s surface attested to the fact that work did indeed get done here. Just not today. Or yesterday. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. And not even the day before that. Normally, seeing the glass laid out before him was enough to spark an idea, even if he had no concrete design in mind.

Today’s project was an unfinished stained glass window that could be installed in place of an existing window frame or framed and hung like a painting. While those remained popular, his new love was shattered glass sculptures. Shattering the glass himself, he enjoyed taking those broken pieces and creating something new and better from them. Although he’d experimented with small, blown glass items, he’d shunned the much larger ones because crafting those required more than one person.

Having to think about a project stifled his creativity. His best work came when his brain sent signals directly to his fingers and he assembled pieces without conscious thought. Crazy, but who was he to argue with something that had served him well enough to earn a living? He wasn’t getting rich from it but his art supplemented his military disability.

Stretching his neck, he scowled. Christmas. That was the problem. He couldn’t escape the dreaded holiday nor the painful memories the season triggered. He did his best to avoid going into town from Thanksgiving until well into January because Loon Lake loved its Christmas celebrations. Main Street, with its quaint, brick-front shops huddled around the town green, would soon be decked out in lights, garlands and, God help him, holiday cheer. If he couldn’t get an item at the gas station mini-mart on the edge of town or by ordering online, he went without until after the holidays.

And what was his excuse for avoiding the town the other ten months? He reached for his stainless-steel insulated mug and took a sip of his favorite Sumatran coffee from beans he’d ground that morning. Yeah, he took his coffee seriously. Maybe if he pretended he had an idea one would come. Pfft, talk about clutching at straws. Shaking his head, he set the mug down and reached for the grozier pliers.

“Yoo-hoo? Lieutenant Gallagher?”

His head snapped up at the interruption. A petite blonde woman, dressed in a bright red parka, stood in the doorway. One hand held a red and green tin; the other clutched the hand of a towheaded boy who looked to be about four or five. What the…? He discouraged visitors and studiously shunned community activities to avoid becoming embroiled in the residents’ lives—and thereby ensuring they, in turn, stayed out of his.

How did she even find her way out here? He lived in the back of beyond; his fifty-acre former horse farm could be considered isolated, even in a sparsely populated state like Vermont. His nearest neighbor, Brody Wilson, was five miles away and that was as the crow flew. And unlike Brody, Des had no interest in keeping horses, so the numerous paddocks surrounding the barn remained as empty as the day he’d bought the place. Summers working on a dude ranch had cured him of the romance of horse ownership.

The woman, who appeared to be in her mid-to late-twenties, stepped closer. Close enough for a subtle lavender scent to reach him.

“Hi. I was hoping I could have a minute of your time.” Her broad smile revealed a crooked bottom tooth.

He had no business noticing that tooth, even less thinking it was…what? Not sexy, but appealing in some wholesome, girl-next-door way. He scowled at his thoughts. “Why? Are my minutes better than yours?”

“Sir?” She shook her head, her long, corn-silk hair brushing against, and contrasting with, the cherry-red of her jacket. “No. I—I meant—”

“Unless you know something I don’t, you taking one of my minutes won’t increase yours.” He was acting like a first-class jerk, but she’d set off warning bells. And what was the deal with that sir ? It grated on his nerves. Here he was checking her out and she was addressing him as sir . At thirty-four, he couldn’t be more than eight or ten years her senior. He sighed. It wasn’t her language that had him spooked. No, it was his reaction to her that had him acting like a complete ass.

A small furrow appeared in the middle of her forehead. Damn, but she even frowned cute. That clinched it because he wasn’t into cute . And certainly not ones who addressed him as sir . Let it go, Gallagher. His type might be blondes but they were also tall and blatantly sexy with a mouthful of perfect teeth. That disqualified the five-foot-nothing woman with the crooked tooth. Considering how many women he’d been with in the past three years, though, his type would appear to be fictional women.

Her full bottom lip now hid the tooth and he looked away. He rose from the stool he’d been perched on, careful not to put too much weight on his left leg after sitting for so long. Staggering or collapsing in front of her was not the look he was going for. Ha! She’d probably rush to help and his ego had taken enough beating with the sir . That’s letting it go?

Bottom line, he needed to get rid of her before she regrouped, started using that killer smile on him again. He hitched his chin at the tin she carried. “If you’re here from the town’s welcoming committee, you’re three years too late.”

She shook her head, causing her hair to sway. “That’s not why I’m here. I—I saw your work at the General Store and—”

“Then you should’ve bought it there. I don’t sell pieces out of my workshop. Didn’t Tavie explain that?” His location wasn’t a secret, but the tourists and residents of Loon Lake bought his stuff in town and left him alone, and that was the way he liked it. “How did you even find me?”

“It wasn’t easy, believe me.” She gave him a tentative smile.

He grunted. “And yet, here you are.”

“I can be quite resourceful and frankly—” she glanced around the cavernous barn, empty and scrupulously clean except for his cluttered work area “—it’s not exactly some Bond villain’s supersecret lair.”

Her smile seemed to be an invitation to join in, but he deepened his scowl. It was either that or start grinning foolishly. She was charming, and he remembered he didn’t do charming. And, by God, he wouldn’t allow himself to be charmed.

She licked her lips and swallowed. “Tavie gave me directions.”

“That figures,” he muttered.

Octavia “Tavie” Whatley might be proprietress of Loon Lake General Store, but general busybody was her true occupation. Not much went on in town without her knowing about it, but she’d sold more of his pieces than anyone, so he grit his teeth and put up with her. Even with his frugal lifestyle, the military disability only went so far.