Before, he’d been complacent, comfortable in his own skin. He’d known who he was—or thought he did: Eli Garrett, sheriff of Wild Horse Country, best friend of Cord Hollister and J.P. McCall, brother of Sara Worth, uncle of Eric and Hayley Worth. And so on.
Finding out he might also be the father of a young woman, well, that had thrown him. And the discovery that he wasn’t Carly’s bio-dad, oddly enough, had rattled him even more.
He’d been deeply disappointed, in fact. Examining that disappointment as dispassionately as he could—not very—he’d come to the realization that he wanted a wife and family of his own, among other things.
That had highlighted his loneliness; he was still plumbing the depths of that, and that snowy night, alone in his house, except for the dog, it seemed bottomless.
He ached with it.
Felt as if he might actually drown in the simple sorrow, just go under and never resurface.
Festus made a whimpering sound and rested his furry head against Eli’s right leg. His eyes, one blue and one green, were raised to his master’s face, full of sympathy.
“You’re a good friend, old buddy,” Eli said, his voice thick, the backs of his eyes smarting suspiciously. He patted the dog’s head and chuckled, a husky sound, partly choked. “I think we’d better do something constructive right about now,” he went on, scanning the room.
His gaze landed on the bedraggled Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. Sara and the kids had put it up, right after Thanksgiving, and decorated it, too.
There were still unwrapped gifts beneath it—a good woolen shirt, fur-lined leather gloves, a plaid bathrobe Eli wouldn’t have been caught dead in.
By now, the tree was leaning markedly to the left and shedding needles onto the hardwood floor.
Out with the old, Eli thought.
He took the gifts from beneath the tree and tossed them onto the couch.
He found the storage boxes in the basement and began removing colorful glass balls, the dime-store angel topper, the strands of lights. He rewrapped the ornaments in their paper towels and tissue paper, not out of any inclination of his own, but because he knew Sara would lecture him when Christmas rolled around again and it was time to decorate another tree.
Closely observed by Festus, Eli dragged this year’s tree through the house and out the back door, through the ever-deepening snow to rest, dry limbs bouncing and still faintly fragrant, beside the burn barrel.
Back inside, shivering, he carried the boxes of decorations back to the basement, placed them on the appropriate shelf.
Upstairs again, he swept up the dry pine needles, dumped them into the bin, and put away the broom and dustpan.
Job completed, he was at a loss, like before.
So he opened another beer, switched on the TV and sat on the couch, Festus beside him.
Yeah, he’d planned to think about Brynne, work out how—and if—he wanted to pursue some kind of relationship with her. He was 99 percent sure he did.
And equally sure she wasn’t interested.
* * *
BRYNNE AWAKENED TO a clear, crisply cold winter morning that was blanketed in snow. Roofs, roads, sidewalks, all covered.
Even after the plows came through to clear the way, most folks would stay at home today, nibbling at Christmas leftovers, taking down their trees, shoveling sidewalks, removing strings of outdoor lights from eaves and shrubs.
She would open for business at the usual time, but there would be few, if any, customers. Only the most intrepid would wade through knee-deep snow merely for coffee and pie, or anything else she served.
Brynne smiled, sipping her coffee. Suddenly, she was a kid again, excited and pleased by this deep and glistening gift of nature. Back then, a storm like this one meant no school. Going sledding with the other kids. Building snowmen and having snowball fights in the park.
“Snow day,” she said, glancing down at Waldo curling around her slippered feet and purring persuasively.
He didn’t care about snow days or happy memories.
He just wanted his breakfast.
Brynne turned from the window and headed for the kitchen, where she poured kibble into the fancy pottery bowl Miranda Clark had given him for Christmas.
In her spare time, Miranda dabbled in pottery, and she was good at it. Her pieces were colorful and unique, reflecting her personality.
Miranda, of course, would be a prime candidate for the art festival Brynne had in mind. In fact, she’d bounce the idea off Miranda first, get her perspective on the pros and cons.
She’d call Shallie Hollister, too, for sure.
Like Brynne herself, Shallie was an artist, though her medium was photography. A woman of many talents, she also worked side by side with Cord training horses and, with her friend Emma Grant, she was planning to open a local center for riding therapy. Disabled children especially benefited from this kind of treatment.
With these thoughts in her mind, Brynne left Waldo to his breakfast and went off to shower and dress for a new day. Afterward, she donned black cords and a long-sleeved pink T-shirt, brushed her teeth, blew her chin-length blond hair dry and applied a little lip gloss.
That done, she gathered up her laptop and cell phone and went downstairs to warm up the grill, brew the obligatory pots of regular and decaf, and unlock the front door.
No one was out and about, as far as Brynne could see, and it was no wonder. The ancient thermometer, just visible through the frosted front window, read a shivery ten degrees.
Too cold to snow, her dad would have said, had he been there.
Brynne returned to the kitchen, whipped up her customary mixture of yogurt, fruit and granola, and took a seat at the end of the counter, where she’d set her laptop and phone.
She ate while the laptop booted up. The phone rang, not surprisingly, as soon as she’d put a spoonful of the breakfast concoction into her mouth.
She swallowed, thumbed the appropriate button and answered, “Hello, Miranda. Calling to tell me you’re snowed in and can’t come to work?”
Miranda laughed her throaty, infectious laugh. “You’re psychic,” she teased.
“Something like that,” Brynne replied.
“I don’t imagine you’ll get a whole lot of folks coming in to eat,” Miranda said.
“Most likely not.”
“I hate not getting to work. Especially when we have so much to do to get ready for the New Year’s Eve thing.”
“We’ll get everything done,” Brynne assured her, looking around at the Christmas decorations—sagging tinsel swags, vintage Santa and snowman faces that lit up, the wonderfully tacky aluminum Christmas tree in a far corner. She’d take it all down herself. Make good use of the day.