Chapter 5
As she had told her aunt, she had made good time. In fact, at five thirty, it was only barely dusk. She rounded a curve and caught a glimpse of an old and familiar sign that read Granny’s Red Rooster Christmas Tree Farm. Beneath it was a set of scaffolding, and a person was atop, paint brush in hand. And it definitely wasn’t Granny.
She slowed, but even at this distance, she could see cowboy boots, Levis, and a blue work shirt. A ball cap was atop his blond head, as was the custom in Christmas Creek, if you weren’t so inclined to wear a cowboy hat. And no doubt, said cap was sporting a yellow and green logo for that famous tractor company.
Her eyes reluctant to pull away, as she got closer, she caught sight of a furry white ball as it dashed across the highway in front of her. Fear rushed through her as she hit the brakes as hard as she could. The back tires, now caught up in a stretch of gravel that ran beside the road, slowly began to slide the car around. Should she let up on the brakes? Or was that when you were on ice? She couldn’t remember! The car made a wild U turn and something scraped across the back of the car. In her rearview mirror, she could see the metal scaffolding collapsing as the car came to a halt.
Her heart galloped in her throat as she threw open the door and rushed to the collapsed scaffolding that seemed to be buried in a pile of hay. Somewhere, beneath all of that metal and hay, was a man in a John Deere hat.
Please let him be all right, Lord. Please let him be all right, she prayed as she knelt and began to frantically dig in the dusty, dry hay. The white ball of fur, a small dog, had returned and began to dig beside her.
She pulled her phone from her pocket. She had to call for help, her fingers reaching to dial the number, when a large hand emerged from the hay and grabbed hold of hers. A muffled voice choked, coughed, and said, “I’m OK, lady.”
She dropped the phone and swiped the hay away from the man’s face. At that moment, he sat up and brushed the hay from his hair and eyes. She swallowed. If ever a man could look good with a cap set crooked on his head and hay stuck all over him, this one could. His sunny, golden hair almost matched some of the hay strands, and his dark blue eyes, the color of the early morning sky, seemed friendly and almost amused, despite the situation.
Macy stood and offered her hand to help him up. He waved her help away and pushed himself to a standing position.
She swallowed. He was tall, well over six feet. “I’m so sorry —”
He let out a laugh. “I’m Scott. Scott Henson. And no worry on your part. It was the dog’s fault. I should have never let him out of his closed yard.”
“Macy Colbert,” she introduced herself. She stared at the furry animal, now seated at her feet. “He doesn’t look very old.”
Scott shook his head and bits of hay and dust drifted through the air around them, making a golden fog. “Just a pup. Got him from somebody giving away a whole passel of them at the grocery store parking lot a few weeks back. Looks like maybe it was a mistake,” he said, eyeing the naughty dog.
Macy reached down and scratched the fluffy head. The dog looked up, his tongue hanging out, his dark eyes full of mischief. “I’m just glad that you weren’t hurt.”
He brushed another handful of hay from his shirt sleeve. “Let’s have a look at your car.”
***
Scott Henson was still waving in her rearview mirror, as she drove away. She gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary and took the first left that led into town.
No wonder you have so much trouble finding someone, Macy. You practically run them over.
Still shaking from the accident, she felt herself relax a little, as the town came into sight. She slowed as she drove past the sign announcing Christmas Creek, population 2500. The town, founded in 1880 by a group of settlers that arrived on Christmas Day, survived these days by promoting itself as a small western town with an interesting history.
Legend told that the early settlers and a traveling band of a now unknown Indian tribe had teamed up to keep out a group of rich cattlemen trying to burn them out and steal their land. The pioneers and Indians had won the Battle of Christmas Creek, and the town had survived.
Most of the store buildings sported false fronts like a true western town. And a majority of the shops were geared for visitors passing through to Route 66. There was the Old Time Photograph Shop, Dixie’s Home Cooking, and Jackson’s Leather Works. Just down the street was an operating blacksmith shop, and across the street from it, was Aunt Alta’s store, The Stitichin’ Post, located in an old livery barn. She sold an array of items, including locally made quilts, jams, candles, candy, and craft supplies. If you kept going, on down the road, there was also a library, ice cream shop, and several other businesses, including a shop that specialized in western clothing.
Macy took a left off of Main Street to the small Victorian house she had shared with Aunt Alta during her teenage years.
Alta had been living in an apartment when Macy had come to live with her. After the first year, she announced that they needed a house. A ‘real home’ was the way she put it. And so, the two of them had looked and looked in Christmas Creek, as well as several small towns in the area. The search seemed to go on forever, until the day they pulled in this driveway. And there it was.
“Complete and perfect,” Aunt Alta had announced. “All we need now is a cat!”
CAT! Macy hurriedly pulled her keys from the ignition. Her aunt had probably forgotten about Butterscotch, the orange striped cat that ruled the house. The poor kitty would need to be fed!
Inside the front door, she paused and took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of cinnamon that always dominated any space that Alta Colbert occupied. Home. She was home. At least for a while. Now, to find the cat.
Scotchy, as she was affectionately called, came at once, winding her long, striped tail around Macy’s leg. “So, you haven’t forgotten me, have you?” she smiled, lowering herself down on her heels and letting her hand run down the cat’s back. “Let’s go find something for you to eat.”
The small kitchen, lined with glass-fronted upper cabinets, was re-modeled when they moved in. And, as always, it was spic and span in characteristic Alta Colbert style. She had even unloaded the dishwasher before she left for her ill-fated flight with Howie.
Macy was busy scooping canned food into Scotchy’s dish when another ‘meow’ sounded in her ear. She looked up to see a puffy ball of brown fur approaching. Scotchy ignored the intruder. “And just who are you?” Her aunt hadn’t mentioned getting a new cat in any of their conversations. Whoever she was, she took right to the food Macy dished out in the little bowl next to Scotchy’s. “Looks like I’m going to have plenty of company tonight,” she laughed.
***
After her shower, she unpacked her suitcase and arranged her clothing in the closet and drawers in her old room. The pink rose wallpaper put her in a nostalgic mood. She might dig around in the closet later and find some of her old boxes of memories, maybe turn the radio on an oldies station.
But for all the memories, her mind kept going back to her embarrassing, almost deadly encounter with Scott Henson. Tall, blond, blue eyes with an amused twinkle. How could a man laugh when he was staring into the face of the stranger that had almost killed him? To be fair, the dog that caused the accident had been his own. Maybe he bore at least part of the responsibility. Still, it made her tremble to think about what might have been.
He had said he was fine, she smiled. And he had looked fine. More than fine, standing there, his long, lanky figure covered in bits of hay and grass. Those dark blue eyes had held hers for longer than she had wanted. Well. . .maybe not longer than she wanted, but certainly longer than was necessary. Or appropriate. She blushed just thinking about it. Probably every single woman in town had been caught in the line of those baby blues. And here she was, her mind reflecting over the incident like a love-sick teenager.
She shook her head. No more silliness for tonight. In the morning, she would be at the hospital bright and early and get to the bottom of the story that included Aunt Alta flying an airplane.