Bring Me a Maverick for Christmas!

Autore

Brenda Harlen

Letto da

16,2K

Capitoli

Autore

Brenda Harlen

Letto da

16,2K

Capitoli

🏙️ Contemporary

Chapter One

“No way in ho-ho-hell,” Bailey Stockton said, his response to his brother’s request firm and definitive.

“Hear me out,” Dan urged.

“No,” he said again. He’d been conscripted to help with far too much Christmas stuff already. Such as helping Luke decorate Sunshine Farm for the holidays and sampling a new Christmas cookie recipe that Eva was trying out (okay, that one hadn’t been much of a hardship—the cookies, like everything she made, were delicious). His youngest brother, Jamie, had even asked him to babysit—yes, babysit!—so that he could take his wife into Kalispell to do some shopping for their triplets and enjoy a holiday show.

In fact, Bailey had been enlisted for so many tasks, he’d begun to suspect that his siblings had collectively made it their personal mission to revive his holiday spirit. Because he couldn’t seem to make them understand that his holiday spirit was too far gone to be resurrected. They’d have better luck planning the burial and just letting him pretend the holidays didn’t exist.

“But it’s for Janie’s scout troop,” Dan implored.

Janie was Dan and Annie’s daughter—the child his brother had only found out about when he returned to Rust Creek Falls not quite eighteen months earlier. Since then, his brother had been doing everything he could to make up for lost time. Which Bailey absolutely understood and respected; he just didn’t want to be conscripted toward the effort.

“Then you do it,” he said.

“I was planning to do it,” Dan told him. “And I was looking forward to it, but I’m in bed now with some kind of bug.”

“Is that a pet name for Annie?”

“Ha ha,” his brother said, not sounding amused.

“Well, you don’t sound very sick to me,” Bailey noted.

“That’s because you haven’t heard me puking.”

“And I don’t mind missing out on that,” he assured his brother.

“I need your help,” Dan said again.

“I’m sorry you’re not up to putting on the red suit, but there’s got to be someone else who can do it.”

“You don’t think I tried to find someone else?” Dan asked. “I mean, no offense, big brother, but when I think of Christmas spirit, yours is not the first name that springs to mind.”

Bailey took no offense to his brother speaking the truth. But he was curious: “Who else did you ask?”

“Luke, Jamie, Dallas Traub, Russ Campbell, Anderson Dalton, even Old Gene. No one else is available. You’re my last resort, Bailey, and if you don’t come through—”

“Don’t worry,” Annie interrupted, obviously having taken the phone from her husband. “He’ll come through. Won’t you, Bailey?”

He hated to let them down, but what they were asking was beyond his abilities. And way outside his comfort zone. “I wish I could, but—”

That was as far as he got in formulating a response before his sister-in-law interjected again.

“You can,” she said. “You just need to stop being such a Grooge.”

“A what?”

“A Grooge,” she said again. “Since you have even less Christmas spirit than either the Grinch or Scrooge, I’ve decided you’re a Grooge.”

“Definitely not Santa Claus material,” he felt compelled to point out.

“Under normal circumstances, I’d agree,” Annie said. “But these aren’t normal circumstances and your brother needs you to step up and help out, because that’s what families do. And that’s why I know you’re going to do this.”

Chastened by his sister-in-law’s brief but pointed lecture, how could he do anything else?

But he had no intention of giving in graciously. “Bah, humbug.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Annie said.

Bailey could only sigh. “What time and where?”

“I’ll meet you at the Grace Traub Community Center in an hour.”

And so, an hour later, Bailey found himself at the community center, in one of the small activity rooms that had been repurposed as a dressing room for the event. Annie bustled around, helping him dress.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked, as she secured the padded belly.

“Of course, it’s necessary. Santa’s not a lean mean rancher—he’s a toy maker with a milk-and-cookies belly.”

He slid his arms into the big red coat and fastened the wide belt around his expanded middle.

“Now sit so that I can put on your beard and wig and fix your face,” Annie said.

He sat. Then scowled. “What do you mean—fix my face?”

“Relax and let me do my thing.”

“‘Do my thing’ are not words that inspire me to relax,” he told her.

But he clenched his jaw and didn’t say anything else as she unzipped a pouch and pulled out a tube that looked suspiciously like makeup. She brushed whatever it was onto his eyebrows, then took out a pot and another brush that she used on his cheeks.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he grumbled.

“I know this isn’t your idea of fun, but it means a lot to Dan that you stepped up.”

“I didn’t step,” he reminded her. “I was pushed.”

Her lips curved as she recapped the pot and put it back in the bag. “Now the beard,” she said, and hooked the elastic over his ears.

“No one’s going to thank me for this when I screw it up,” he warned her.

“You’re not going to screw it up.”

“Beyond ho ho ho, I don’t have a clue what to say.”

“This might be a first for you, but it’s not for the kids,” she told him. “And if you really get stuck, I have no doubt that your wife will be able to help you out.”

Wife? “Who? What?”

“Mrs. Claus,” she clarified.

“You didn’t say anything about a Mrs. Claus.”

And he didn’t know if the revelation now made things better or worse. On the one hand, he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to face a group of kids on his own. On the other, he was skeptical enough about his ability to play a jolly elf, but a jolly elf with a wife?

“I didn’t think any kind of warning was necessary,” Annie said now. “It was supposed to be me—I was going to be the missus to Dan’s Santa, but when he got sick, well, I couldn’t leave him to suffer at home alone, so I asked a friend to fill in. But you don’t have to worry. Mrs. Claus will be here to hand out candy canes and keep the line moving—no romantic overtures are required.”

“Thanks, I feel so much better now,” he said dryly.

“Good,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. “And speaking of spouses—I should get home to my husband, who isn’t feeling better but is feeling grateful.”

“Do you want me to drop off this costume later?”

“No, I’ll come back and get it,” she said.

When she’d gone, Bailey chanced a hesitant glance in the mirror. He was afraid he’d look as stupid as he felt—like a kid playing dress-up—and was surprised to realize that he looked like Santa.

There was a brisk knock at the door. “Are you just about ready, Santa?” The scout leader poked his head in the doorway. “Wow, you look great.”

“Ho ho ho,” Bailey said, testing it out.

The scout leader grinned and gave him two thumbs-up. “The kids are getting restless.”

“Mrs. Claus isn’t here yet,” he said. Although he hadn’t originally known there was supposed to be a Mrs. Claus, he now felt at a loss on his own.

“Maybe she got caught up baking cookies at the North Pole,” the other man joked.

Whatever she was doing, wherever she was, his missus was nowhere to be found, reminding Bailey of the foolishness of depending on a spouse—even a fictional one.

“Okay, then.” He exited the makeshift dressing room and followed the scout leader backstage. Though the curtains were closed, he could hear the excited chatter of what sounded like hundreds, maybe thousands, of children. All of them there to see Santa—and getting stuck with a poor imitation instead.

He felt perspiration bead on his brow and his hands were clammy inside his white cotton gloves. The leader handed him a big sack filled with candy canes and nodded encouragingly.

It was now or never, and although Bailey would have preferred to go with the never option, he suspected his brother would never forgive him if he chickened out.

Just as he was reaching for the curtain, he heard footsteps rushing up the stage stairs behind him.

Mrs. Claus had arrived.

He didn’t have time to give her much more than a cursory glance, noting the floor-length red dress with faux fur trim at the collar and cuffs, and a white apron tied around her waist. Despite the white wig and granny glasses, he could tell that she was young. Her skin was smooth and unwrinkled, her lips plump and exquisitely shaped, and her eyes were as bright and blue as the Montana sky.

“Good, I’m not late.” She was breathless, obviously having run some distance, and paused now with her hand on her heart as she drew air into her lungs.

Of course, the action succeeded in drawing his attention to her chest—and the rise and fall of nicely rounded breasts.

“Are you ready to do this?” she asked.

He nodded. Yes. Please.

She sent him a conspiratorial wink, and suddenly he felt warm all over. Or maybe it was the bulky costume and the overhead lights that were responsible for the sudden increase in his body temperature.

Then she stepped through the break in the curtains and began to speak to the children.

“Well, we ran into a little bit of rough weather on our way from the North Pole, but we finally made it,” she said.

The crowd of children cheered.

Bailey listened to her talk, enjoying the melodic tone of her voice as she set the scene for their audience. He didn’t know who she was—he hadn’t thought to ask his sister-in-law—but it was immediately apparent to Bailey that Annie had cast a better Mrs. Claus than her husband had a Santa.

“I know you’ve all been incredibly patient waiting for Santa to arrive and everyone wants to be first in line to whisper Christmas wishes in his ear, but I promise you, it doesn’t matter if you’re first or last or somewhere in the middle, everyone will have a turn.”

They had a wide armchair set up on the stage, beside a decorated Christmas tree surrounded by a pile of fake presents. All he had to do was walk through the curtain and settle into the chair. But his feet were suddenly glued to the floor.

“While Santa finishes settling the reindeer,” she said, offering another explanation for the delay of his appearance, “why don’t we sing his favorite Christmas song?” She looked out at the audience. “Who knows what Santa’s favorite Christmas song is?”

Through the narrow gap between the curtains, he could see hands immediately thrust into the air.

Mrs. Claus listened to several random guesses as the children called for “Jingle Bells,” “Let It Snow” and “All I Want for Christmas,” shaking her head after each response.

“Okay, I’m going to give you a clue,” she said. Then, in a singing voice, she asked, “Who’s got a beard that’s long and white?”

The children responded as a chorus: “Santa’s got a beard that’s long and white.”

It was an upbeat and catchy tune with call-and-response lyrics that made it easy for the kids who didn’t know the words to sing along anyway, and Bailey found his booted foot tapping against the floor along with the music.

The young audience was completely caught up in the song, and he was reluctant to interrupt. But when Mrs. Claus asked, “Who very soon will come our way?” it seemed like an appropriate time to step out from behind the curtain.

“Santa very soon will...”

The response of the chorus faded away as the singers noticed that Santa was, in fact, here now. Several clapped, others pointed and many whispered excitedly to their neighbors.

“And here he is,” Mrs. Claus said, then smiled warmly at him and gestured for him to take a seat.

Bailey nodded as he made his way to the chair. He was too nervous to smile back, although she probably couldn’t tell if he was or wasn’t smiling behind the bushy mustache that hung over his mouth anyway.

He settled into his seat as the leader announced that the young Tiger Scouts would get to visit with Santa first. There were craft tables at the far end of the room for groups waiting to be called and refreshments available.

Bailey felt his palms grow clammy again as the kids lined up, but it didn’t take him long to realize that his sister-in-law had been right: the kids knew what they were doing. In fact, most of them didn’t expect much from him beyond listening to their wishes and offering them a “Merry Christmas.”

There were a lot of requests for specific toys and new video games. A couple of requests for puppies and kittens, building blocks and board games, hockey skates or ballerina slippers. Some of the kids asked questions, wanting to know such random facts as “who’s your favorite reindeer?” or “how old is Rudolph?”

He gave vague responses, so as not to contradict anything else they might have been told by their parents, and he was careful not to make any promises, assuring each child only that he would do his best to make their wishes come true.

And if he was a little stiff and unnatural, his supposed wife was the complete opposite—warm and kind and totally believable. She did more than move the line along and hand out candy canes. She seemed to instinctively know what to say and do to put the little ones at ease.

He was about halfway through the Bear Scouts and finally starting to relax into his role when a scowling boy climbed into his lap.

Bailey, anticipating one of the usual requests, was taken aback when the boy said, “Christmas sucks.”

“Yeah,” Bailey agreed. “Sometimes it does.”

Mrs. Claus gasped and the boy’s eyes immediately filled with tears.

“You’re not s’posed to agree,” the child protested. “You’re s’posed to tell me that it’s gonna be okay.”

Since Bailey didn’t know what it was, he didn’t feel he should make any such promises. But he belatedly acknowledged that he shouldn’t have responded the way he did, either. Being called out by the child was only further proof that taking his brother’s place as Santa had been a bad idea.

“Now, Santa,” Mrs. Claus chided. “I told you not to take your grumpy mood out on the children or I’ll have to put you on the naughty list.”

This threat served to both distract and intrigue the little boy, who eyed her with rapt fascination.

“I’m sorry, Owen,” she continued, speaking directly to the child now. “Santa’s a little out of sorts today because I warned him that he has to cut down on the cookies if he wants to fit down the chimneys on Christmas Eve.”

Then she sent Bailey a pointed look that had him nodding in acknowledgment of her claim as he rubbed his padded belly. “I really like gingerbread,” he said, in a conspiratorial whisper to the boy his “wife” had called Owen. “But I definitely don’t want to end up on the naughty list.”

“Can she do that?” Owen asked.

He nodded again, almost afraid to do otherwise. “So tell me, Owen, is there anything Santa can do to help make the holidays happier for you?”

“Can you make Riley not move to Bozeman?” he asked hopefully.

This time Bailey did shake his head. “I’m sorry.”

The child’s gaze shifted toward Mrs. Claus again. “Can she do it?” Because apparently the boy believed Mrs. Claus not only had authority over her husband but greater magical powers, too.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Owen sighed. “Then maybe you could leave a PKT-79 under my tree at Christmas and I can give it to Riley, so that he’ll have something to remember me by.”

It wasn’t the first request for a PKT-79, and though Bailey still had no idea what it was, he was touched by the child’s request for the gift to give to someone else.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Santa told him. “Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Owen said, his tone slightly less glum. “Merry Christmas.”

Mrs. Claus held out a candy cane to the boy.

Owen paused to ask her, “You’ll make sure Santa can get down my chimney, won’t you?”

“You bet I will,” she promised, with a wink and a smile for the boy.

Bailey paid more attention after that, to avoid another slipup. When all the children had expressed their wishes to Santa, he and his wife wished everyone a Merry Christmas and headed backstage again.

By the time he made it to the dressing room, Bailey was more than ready to shed the red coat and everything it represented, but Mrs. Claus walked into the room right behind him.

Closing the door firmly at her back, she faced him with her hands on her hips. “I don’t know why anyone would ask someone with such an obviously lousy disposition to play Santa, but you have no right to ruin Christmas for the kids who actually look forward to celebrating the holiday.”

Bailey already felt guilty enough for his unthinking response to Owen, but he didn’t appreciate being taken to task—again—by a stranger, and instinctively lashed out. “A lecture from my loving wife? Now I really do feel like we’re married.”

“I’d pity any woman who married you,” she shot back.

His ready retort stuck in his throat when she took off the granny glasses and removed the wig, causing her long blond hair to tumble over her shoulders, effecting an instant and stunning transformation.

Mrs. Claus was a definite hottie.

Too bad she was also bossy and annoying. And...vaguely familiar looking, he realized.

She twisted her arm up behind her back, trying to reach the top of the zipper, but her fingertips fell short of their target.

While she struggled, Bailey removed his own hat, wig and beard.

She brought her arm around to her front again and tried to reach the back of the dress from over her shoulder, still without success.

He should offer to help. That would be the polite and gentlemanly thing to do. But as his sister-in-law had noted, he was a Grooge and, still stinging from Mrs. Claus’s sharp rebuke, not in a very charitable or helpful mood. Instead, he unbuckled his wide belt, removed the heavy jacket and padded belly, eager to shed the external trappings of his own role.

Finally, she huffed out a breath. “You could offer to help, you know?”

“If you need help, you could ask,” he countered.

“Would you please help me unzip my dress?” she finally said.

“Usually I buy a woman dinner before I try to get her out of her clothes.” He couldn’t resist teasing. “But since you asked...”