The Scrooge of Loon Lake
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Carrie Nichols
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HarlequinChapter 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.
“Dear me, where are my manners. I’m Natalie Pierce.” She let go of the boy’s hand and placed her palm over the top of his head in a tender gesture. “And this is my son, Sam.”
The kid grinned up at him, his eyes the same clear August-sky blue as hers. Des nodded to the boy. He had nothing against children. Just women with bright sunny smiles? And let’s not forget that oddly appealing crooked tooth. Damn. He didn’t want or need these distractions. Yeah, because you’re so busy being creative. He told his nothing-but-trouble inner voice to shut up.
“I hate to interrupt—” she began.
“But you’re doing it, anyway.” And the jerk behavior continued. Her presence was flustering him so he was repaying the favor. See if he could fluster her a bit. His reaction wasn’t her fault, but he was in survival mode because that weaponized smile of hers had scrambled his thought process. He’d gone too long without female company. That was it; blame this on self-imposed celibacy.
“Lieutenant Gallagher, I—”
“Call me Des. My navy days are behind me.” His days of being catapulted at one hundred and sixty-five miles an hour from the deck of a carrier in a metal casket worth seventy million dollars were over. He grit his teeth and rubbed his knotted thigh muscles. Why did he want her to call him Des? Saying his given name shouldn’t matter because he was trying to get her and that way too appealing smile out of his barn. Wasn’t he?
“Des,” she said, drawing it out.
“Yeah, but it’s generally one short syllable.” But her version worked. Worked a bit too well, as a matter of fact.
“Sorry.” She inhaled as if she was about to launch into a prepared speech.
He opened his mouth to—
“I’m here to talk to you about handcrafting some items for an auction we’re having. Christmas ornaments would be a real hit this time of year. And it’s for a great cause. There’s this fantastic hippotherapy program that needs—”
“Stop right there.” He held up his hand like a cop halting traffic. “Doesn’t matter the cause. I don’t do Christmas. Period.”
“What? No Christmas? But...but... Why?” She blinked owlishly. “What’s not to love about Christmas?”
How about being a child and spending it with a suicidal mother? Always worried she would disappear. He would’ve been left alone because his biological father wanted nothing to do with Des. In his dad’s mind, Des was proof of an indiscretion while attending an out-of-town conference. “I have my reasons.”
She opened her mouth, but Sam tugged on her sleeve. She looked down, and the boy up, his eyes large and his stare intense, both standing still like they were having a telepathic conversation. One that excluded everyone else, even him. She glanced at her watch, sighed and nodded her head.
“To be honest, it took me much longer than I expected to find this place,” she said, gnawing on her bottom lip, calling his attention to it again.
“Maybe that’s the way I like it,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure if she’d been talking to him, her son or herself. He’d been too distracted by that bottom lip.
She set the tin on the workbench next to his tools. “I have to leave, but I warn you, I don’t give up easily, even if you do cloak yourself in that grumpiness like it’s a virtue.”
The boy tugged on her sleeve in another silent plea and she nodded. There was that nonverbal communication again, reminding Des he wasn’t a part of their world. Not that he wanted to be. Nope. Not one little bit.
She took the boy’s hand in hers. “I’ll be in touch,” she said as if it was a threat and headed for the door.
“Wait,” he called and she turned her head to look over her shoulder. He pointed at the tin. “What’s this?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not a bomb,” she said and smiled briefly. “It’s homemade Christmas bark. Even a grinch like you can’t say no to that.”
“What the heck is...?” He glanced up, but she was gone.
Shaking his head, he opened the tin to reveal irregularly shaped bars of white chocolate covered with red and green M&Ms and crushed candy canes. Grabbing one and taking a large bite, he sank back on the stool and thought about the mystery that was Natalie Pierce. What the heck had just happened? Her soft, lilting voice, coupled with that appealing smile, had taunted him and he wanted to know more about her. Her speech was devoid of the flatter, more nasal vowel tones he’d grown accustomed to since moving here. But neither could he peg her as having a Southern drawl. And the kid hadn’t spoken at all, but he’d smiled and made eye contact. Maybe the boy—Sam—was shy. Des shook his head. None of this was his problem, so why was he wasting time on it?
He glanced at the pieces of colorful glass sitting idle on the bench and his fingers itched to create something. He popped the half-eaten piece of candy into his mouth, brushed his palms together and picked up the pliers.
The next morning Des stood and thrust his shoulders back to work out the kinks from sitting hunched over the workbench. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d pulled an all-nighter, but he wasn’t about to leave and have his muse desert him again. He scratched the scruff on his jaw with his fingertips and glanced at the now-empty tin. Huh. As he’d worked last night, he’d munched on her delicious candy. This stained glass window was of the lake during winter when many of the trees were bare. Up close, the lake and trees were individual pieces, but when standing back, those pieces became shades and ripples of the lake water.
A car door slammed and he scowled as his heart kicked up at the thought that the visitor might be Natalie. Uh-oh. Was she back? Who else could it be? Natalie Pierce had been his only visitor in recent memory. He didn’t know whether to be glad or annoyed. He started to rise but his leg and his inner voice protested. Down, Gallagher. You’re not an addict waiting for your dealer.
It was indeed Natalie Pierce and she was holding her son’s hand again. In the other, she carried a plate wrapped in aluminum foil. What did she bring today?
“I told you I’d be back.” She smiled, the crooked tooth peeking out.
He quirked an eyebrow. “So I should take your threats seriously?”
“Maybe you should.” She laughed.
Heat coursed through his veins at the sound. “Are you in the habit of threatening all the men in your life?”
“Is this your way of asking if I’m married?” she asked with a significant lift of her eyebrows.
Yeah, he was about as subtle as a sidewinder missile. He grunted instead of replying.
“I assure you that Sam is the only man in my life.” She showed him her crooked smile. “One thing you need to know about me, Lieutenant. I follow through on my promises.”
“Des.” He’d enjoyed hearing his name yesterday in that musical voice. Liked it a little too much but he’d worry about that later.
“Des,” she repeated and set the plate on a clean corner at the end of the workbench. “I hope you like gingerbread men. They’re quintessential Christmas, don’t you think?”
He grunted, trying not to give her any encouragement, but his stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t had any breakfast yet.
“I used my grandmother’s recipe and her forged tin cookie cutter.” She let go of the boy’s hand and began removing the foil. “They’re fresh, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. Even after a few days, you can warm them in the microwave and they will have that fresh-from-the-oven taste. Sam likes them best that way. Don’t you, Sam?”
She glanced down at the empty space next to her. “Sam?” Her voice rose. “Sam?”
She uttered something under her breath and raced out of the barn. He’d been so fascinated by her mouth as she spoke, he hadn’t noticed the boy’s disappearing act. But then the kid couldn’t have gotten far, and there wasn’t anything nearby that could hurt him. Des grabbed a cookie and followed her as quickly as his bum leg allowed.
Natalie’s heart hammered as she rushed from the barn. She’d never forgive herself if—She choked back a sob. She was overreacting but couldn’t prevent it.
She had no idea Sam was capable of disappearing so fast or so stealthily. He’d overcome many of his balance issues since starting equine-assisted therapy. Another reason she needed to save the program. And as soon as she found him, she’d celebrate his acting like an adventurous five-year-old boy.
She was gasping for air by the time she located him standing next to a sleek, top-of-the-line, black-and-red snowmobile parked on the side of the barn. He must’ve spotted it on their way in. She’d been so consumed with the prospect of seeing Des again and what she was going to say that she hadn’t paid attention to her surroundings. Shame on her.
She didn’t know a lot about snowmobiles, but she guessed this one was expensive. “Sam, honey, don’t touch.”
Not that she could blame Sam for being curious. Weren’t all little boys fascinated by that sort of stuff? A lump in her throat threatened to cut off her oxygen. For all of his challenges, and Lord knew there were many, Sam was still like all boys his age. After suffering life-threatening injuries, he’d had to learn to walk again but still had occasional balance issues. She’d been warned that his ability to speak might never return. “Be careful. You could hurt yourself.”
“There’s not much chance of that.”
Natalie turned. The lieutenant bit the head off the gingerbread man in his hand. Was his cavalier attitude toward Sam’s safety bugging her, or was it the fact that looking at him had her insides clamoring for...for what? For something she hadn’t wanted in such a long time, she had no name for it. But the strange yearning she couldn’t name made her want to snarl at him in a primal reaction similar to fight or flight. Remember you want his help with the auction. Neither fight nor flight would get her what she wanted for Sam.
“Easy for you to say. He’s not your son,” she pointed out and grit her teeth, not understanding her reaction to Des Gallagher. Grumpiness aside, he wasn’t menacing, despite his disheveled appearance, and yet, he threatened her on some visceral level.
“Even if he was,” he said, brushing cookie crumbs off his shirt as if he didn’t have a care in the world, “it doesn’t change facts.”
She narrowed her eyes at Des as if he represented some sort of threat. He does, a voice screamed at her. But the danger wasn’t physical...well, unless you counted her body’s reaction to him. He wasn’t her type, she argued with herself. For one thing, he was too tall, at least two or three inches over six feet to her mere five foot two. Okay, okay, five feet and one and a half inches. He couldn’t be called charming or even pleasant.
His face was covered in stubble, his eyes a little bloodshot. He appeared to be wearing the same clothes as yesterday, a red-and-black buffalo-plaid flannel shirt over a cream-colored, waffle-knit shirt and faded jeans. Had he been up all night? Working or drinking?
She was going with working because she hadn’t smelled any alcohol or even breath mints on him. Besides, Tavie hadn’t said anything about a drinking problem, and she would know. Natalie was convinced the owner of Loon Lake General Store knew everything about everyone.
Des muttered something under his breath and limped toward Sam. How come she hadn’t noticed that limp before? Maybe because he’d been sitting down. As her neighbor’s little brother might say, “Duh, Natalie.” Being around this man had her on her toes. Too bad being around him also drained IQ points.
“Have you ever been on a snowmobile?” Des hunkered down next to Sam with an exhaled grunt.
What was the matter with his left leg? Was that why he was no longer in the navy? She took back every nasty or unkind thought she’d ever had about Des Gallagher. Except the thoughts you were thinking last night weren’t unkind. Some might call them nasty but with a totally different connotation of that particular word.
Tavie Whatley had talked about Des but hadn’t said anything about permanent or debilitating injuries. Was it simple politeness or was Tavie caught under his spell, too?
What’s this too business? I haven’t fallen under his spell.
“This will be our first winter here,” she said, hoping to steer her thoughts to more wholesome topics. “We didn’t get much snow where we lived before. We’re looking forward to real snow, aren’t we, Sam?”
His blue eyes wide, Sam nodded enthusiastically.
“Real snow? What other kind is there?” Des snorted and threw her a questioning glance. “Where the heck did you live before?”
“Nashville. We’d get some snow accumulation, but it didn’t last much past noon on sunny days. Sam and I are looking forward to building our first snowman, going sledding and having snowball fights.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” he said. “Along with all those snowmen come shoveling, scraping your car, crappy driving conditions, salt and sand all winter long. To name a few of the exciting perks.”
“And yet, here you are.” She parroted his words from yesterday and made sure the challenge was evident in her tone.
He made a noise, blowing air through his lips. “Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment.”
She laughed. He was enjoying this too much to be as fractious as he wanted her to believe. “I’ll bet you enjoy every minute of the snow. The more miserable, the better.”
He rolled his eyes. “Remind me not to play poker with you.”
She frowned at his comment. Wait, was he groaning? “Why? I don’t understand your meaning.”
“You see too much.” He shook his head. “I predict if we have a bad winter, you’ll be crying uncle long before mud season.”
“Mud season?”
“It’s Vermont’s fifth season and comes between winter and spring.” He glanced at her sneakers. “You might want to invest in a decent pair of rubber boots before then, not to mention snow boots for the snow you’re wanting.”
“We’re here to stay. It would take more than snow or mud to chase us away.” She squared her shoulders and forced strength into her voice. “And that’s a promise, not a threat. In case you were wondering.”
“Thanks for clearing that up.” The side of his mouth lifted a fraction, the only indication he might be amused.
She moved closer and rested her hand on the padded seat of the snowmobile. “I must say, you have an impressive piece of equipment.”
“Gee, thanks, it’s been a while since anyone has complimented me on my...equipment,” he said in a deadpan tone.
She turned toward him. What did she—Oh! So much for wholesome. She closed her eyes, wishing the ground would swallow her up because now her imagination was going there. The last time she’d flirted could be measured in years, definitely before her marriage to Ryan. Her face burning up, she opened her eyes and met his gaze. His face was impassive except for an ever-so-slight lift of his eyebrows.
Her mouth opened and closed. Great, she couldn’t manage anything except an imitation of a goldfish. His expression didn’t change, but she had the distinct feeling he was relishing her discomfort. When she narrowed her eyes at him, he rubbed a hand over his mouth, his fingers making a scratching sound on the stubble. How would those dark whiskers feel against her skin? Stay away from there, Natalie. You’re way out of your depth.
Okay, so the man had a sense of humor hidden under that ill-mannered exterior. What would he be like if—No, she wanted him to make some ornaments for her auction. That was all. Nothing more. But there was no harm in noticing how his chest filled out that flannel shirt, was there?
“...on a snowmobile before?” Des had been talking to Sam while she’d been daydreaming about things she shouldn’t.
Sam, who seemed to be hanging on every word Des said, shook his head. Natalie’s chest tightened. Last year her dad had suffered one of those widow-maker heart attacks, and Sam had lost the closest male role model he’d had since his dad and her late husband, Ryan, passed away. Sure, he had plenty of doting women in his life, but she knew they couldn’t fill the void the same way a man could. Her father had been a crusty career army drill sergeant but had had a soft spot for Sam she could have hit blindfolded.
She listened as Des explained how the snowmobile worked and she made a mental note to look for a toy one Sam could add to his beloved collection of die-cast miniature cars. It would make a nice stocking stuffer. There wasn’t an abundance of extra money for Christmas presents, so she was making sure each gift from Santa was well thought out.
Des rose and stepped back until he stood shoulder to shoulder with her. “He doesn’t say much.”
She knew she could agree with him and that would be the end of the matter. That was what she’d learned to do with people who passed anonymously through their lives. She’d even perfected her smile when people said things like “I wish mine was that quiet.”
“That’s because he can’t. Three years ago, when Sam was two, a car jumped the curb into a crowd of people leaving a minor league baseball game in Nashville, where we were living. That crowd included my husband and my son. Ryan was killed and Sam suffered a TBI.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry, a TBI is—”
“Traumatic brain injury,” Des interrupted. “I’m familiar with the term.”
She glanced at Sam, who was still enamored with the snowmobile. “I’ll spare you all the fancy medical jargon and say he understands words, but his brain can’t plan and sequence the movements to say them. Apraxia of speech is the official term.”
Des nodded. “And this hippotherapy you mentioned helps?”
“Not with speech but it helps with muscle memory and balance,” she said. “Plus, he enjoys it. Being with the horses is more of a reward than just another therapy session like with the speech-language pathologists or physical therapy.”
“Is that why you left in such a hurry yesterday?”
“Yeah, that’s one appointment he doesn’t like to miss. Sam, don’t climb up there. It’s—”
“It’s fine. He won’t hurt anything,” Des interrupted and motioned to Sam. “You can sit on the seat if you want, bud.”
Natalie tamped down the automatic protest that sprang up and pressed her lips together. It wasn’t easy, but she needed to allow Sam room to explore. Smothering him only helped her, not him.
Des shifted his stance, bringing her attention back to him. She longed to ask what had happened to him, but politeness made her hold her tongue. Telling him she’d noticed his limp seemed a bit too forward, despite his mentioning Sam’s lack of verbal skills. Her Southern mother had drilled proper manners into her with the zeal of Natalie’s drill sergeant father. Plus, she was enjoying the sunshine on this final day in November. Not to mention being in the company of a male over the age of five. She didn’t want to spoil either with awkward questions.
“Is he in school?”
She shook her head. “I held him back an extra year. You can do that with kindergarten. He still had a lot of weekly therapy sessions and he’s made great strides in almost everything this year, which was why I felt comfortable enough to pick up and move here.”
“So will he ever be able to...” Des trailed off and winced.
“Every individual’s recovery is different.” Even to herself, her answer sounded rote and unconvincing. “We’re working with an AAC device. Sorry, that’s his augmentative and alternative communication device. Ha, my dad was career army so I grew up with all those military acronyms, but I must say medical experts love them just as much.”
“Ah, an army brat. That explains it.” He weighed her with a critical squint.
She shifted under his scrutiny. “Explains what?”
“You have a slight accent, but I haven’t been able to place it.”
“Yeah, I guess my speech patterns are a mixture of everywhere. My mom is from Georgia, so I have a bit of her accent but did my best to fit in wherever we were living at the time.” Her stomach did a little fluttery thing. He’d tried to pick out her accent? That meant he’d thought about her. A little thing like that shouldn’t please her as much as it did. Why not? her inner voice demanded, because she’d given him enough thought since yesterday. Des Gallagher had occupied a lot of headspace for such a brief meeting.
His face was impassive, but his gaze roamed over her. “Georgia? Huh, maybe that explains it.”
“My accent?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“Sorry? You’ve lost me.” Her knees wobbled under his examination. What the heck was he on about?
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six. Why?” She stood straighter. Despite a few silver strands threaded in his thick, lustrously black hair, he seemed no older than his midthirties. They were contemporaries.
He grunted. “There’s eight years separating us. Hardly calls for you to sir me.”
“When did I call you sir?” She couldn’t recall a faux pas like that.
He rubbed the back of his scalp. “Yesterday. When you first walked in.”
“You must have flustered me.” Should I be admitting that? “Between my drill sergeant father and Southern mother, sir and ma’am comes naturally. I—I sometimes fall back on that if I feel like I’ve been put on the spot.”
He swiped a hand across his mouth, his dark eyes amused. “In that case, I apologize for flustering you.”
“Bless your heart, you can’t help it,” she said in a perfect imitation of her mother, not that he would know that.
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Am I detecting an insult in there somewhere?”
“If you are, then that’s on you.” Natalie shook her head, doing her best to look innocent. “Are you from Loon Lake?”
“Colorado. I settled here after leaving the navy three years ago.”
Her gaze went to his white American foursquare home with its hip roof, black shutters and wide brick steps leading to the front entrance. The house seemed large for one person and she wondered if he’d planned to share it with someone when he’d invested in the property. Tavie had mentioned he lived alone. Again, not her business if he had a dozen girlfriends. “So have I changed your mind about those ornaments?”
“Not a chance, Ms. Pierce.” He took a step back as if needing to put distance between them. “Don’t waste your time on a lost cause.”
Great. She’d managed to kill the camaraderie they’d shared moments ago. She plastered a smile on her face. “I gotta warn you. I’m a champion of lost causes. A regular St. Jude.” Holding out her hand, she said, “Come along, Sam, I think we’ve taken up enough of Lieutenant Gallagher’s time for one day.”
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