The carriage trundled under the large overhanging branches of the tree-lined avenue leading to the village. Gray skies lapped deepening shadows, the snowdrifts of several days ago browning into slush, something that had taken her by surprise. She should remember the early December snows. What else had she forgotten in the years since she’d been away?
The wheels clattered over the wooden bridge, the carriage drawing nearer, up the steep incline to where the church steeple pointed to the heavens. Fiona’s chest tightened. The posted sentries straightened, their eyes following her slow progress. Would she be remembered as the conquering daughter of a king or as the despised maid who had sold her soul—
Bang!
Tires skidded. A gasp escaped. Heart pounding, Staci clutched the steering wheel even more firmly, muttering a prayer for protection as the car jerked and shuddered, before grinding away into the street curb as it finally drew to a pause. She exhaled. Thank God she hadn’t hit anyone. Thank God she hadn’t hit anything. What a homecoming that would’ve been.
She heaved in another breath as her heartbeat slowed and her white knuckled-grip eased. Well, she was wide awake now. Had that been caused by a moment of travel-induced weariness? Maybe leaving in the wee small hours and trying to drive ten hours today wasn’t her smartest idea. She wrenched open the door, and Muskoka Shores welcomed her with icy breath. A glance at the back wheel revealed a deflated tire. Awesome. Welcome home, indeed.
Shivering, she slammed the door shut, huddling in the driver’s seat, willing herself warm as she summoned up the courage to get back outside and change the tire. The frigid temperatures were just one of the many reasons she’d been happy to leave all those years ago. But university in LA had led to a job that scarcely matched the blue skies on offer, forcing her to the Midwest for a better pay rate, even if little else attracted initially. But she’d ended up enjoying Chicago, the architecture, the museums, the fact she could order food delivery any hour to the condo her parents’ bequest had bought her. She had especially enjoyed when her small magazine editorial role had taken a turn to the right and the historical story she’d been tinkering on for years had been snapped up by Bronwyn at a writer’s conference, then soon sold to a publisher with a fledgling imprint called Flame. She’d kept working for a year or so, before demand for her books had grown so loud she’d been able to quit the magazine and focus full-time on writing. Flame had been good to her. At least in the beginning. She hoped they remembered it when this stupid manuscript finally appeared. If she could ever figure out what to write.
A knock came at the window, startling her.
“Miss?” An older man’s weathered face peered in at her, gesturing that she lower the window.
She pressed the button, but the car engine had been switched off too long. Sighing, she switched the car back on, and the engine shuddered back to life, along with the car accessories. The car window zipped down, releasing more coolness inside.
“Hey, missy. You seem to have a flat tire there.”
“Yes, it seems I do.”
“You gonna fix it, or hope an angel will come along?”
“I was planning on fixing it, but if you happen to know of any handy angels…”
He chuckled, then motioned her outside. “Come on. I’ll help you.”
Gratitude at his offer relaxed her tight smile into real. She hadn’t planned on tire fixing when she’d dressed in her suede boots, leggings, and oversized orange sweater in Chicago’s predawn darkness.
She popped the trunk and stared at the fabric-lined cavity. Where was the spare?
“Look under there,” the man pointed to a corner.
She peeled it away. Lo and behold: the spare tire.
“You can change a tire, can’t you, missy?”
The goodwill from earlier evaporated under a tide of feminist defensiveness. “Of course I can. My grandfather taught me when I first started driving.”
“Your grandfather? Not your dad?” He peered at her more closely. “Hey, wait a minute, aren’t you the Everton girl?”
“Anastacia Everton.” She squinted at him, but her memory came up empty. “And you are…?”
“Mitch Wells. I used to teach at the high school. But that was a long while ago.” He bent down and retrieved the mechanics kit, and drew out the jack and a lug wrench, the latter of which he handed to her. “Know how to use one of these?”
“Yes, sir.”
He positioned the jack and wielded some muscle power to heft the vehicle higher. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” She squatted down and began working the first lug free as he drew out the spare.
“Jenny, my wife, taught English.”
“Oh, I remember Mrs. Wells! She was my favorite teacher. I think I got my love of words from her classes.”
He glanced over at her, brow creased. “That’s right. Jenny has talked about you. Aren’t you a famous author now?”
“Well, I don’t know about famous.” She flashed a smile. “In fact, I’m pretty certain I’m not.”
“That’s not what she said.”
Well, everything was relative.
“Jenny said you live in the big smoke now.” He snorted. “Never understood what it is with kids wanting to get away from here. God’s own country, this is.” He gestured to the snow-dusted trees and distant bluish hills.
“It’s certainly very pretty, especially at this time of year.”
“At any time of year.”
Sensing he would not be particularly receptive to her reasons for leaving, she turned the conversation back to his wife. “How is Mrs. Wells these days?”
“Survived her second bout with breast cancer,” he said proudly.
“Oh my goodness!” Guilt strummed. How could she not have known? “That must’ve been so challenging.”
“It certainly hasn’t been easy.”
She pocketed the lugs, and eyed the tire, then eyed her hands. It had been a long time since she’d changed a spare. Oh well, it wasn’t as if she really needed manicured nails…
He motioned her to move, which she promptly obeyed. She wasn’t about to let feminist principles stand in the way of keeping warm and dry and clean. Men needed opportunities to feel good about their masculinity, after all.
“You have…” she paused, trying to remember as she rubbed her hands together briskly, “two sons, or is it three?” The Wells boys had always been a few years ahead of her at school. Church had been their only common circle.
“Was three. John got killed in the Middle East two years back.”
Her heart wrenched. Poor, poor Mrs. Wells. Why hadn’t she known? Oh, she knew why. Such was the price of wiping off the small-town dust from her wannabe designer-label clad feet. “I’m so sorry.”
“Now we have Jem and Jeffrey.”
“And what are they up to?”
“Jeff has married, and lives in Nebraska. Jem is just back in town after being away. Good to have him home.” He tugged the wheel free with a grunt, then motioned for her to roll him the spare. Ice and rubber assailed her senses, eliciting a wince.
“I truly appreciate your help, Mr. Wells.”
“Mitch, please. I’ve been retired these past five years.” He pushed the spare into place, gesturing for the lugs then tightening them in place.
She collected the scattered tools as he shifted the flat tire to her trunk.
“There you go.”
“Mr.—I mean, Mitch, thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you.”
He chuckled. “And I thought you were supposed to be good with words.”
“Well, I suppose I could try.” She eyed the nearby row of stores. “Is The Coffee Blend any good these days?”
“Not too bad.”
“In that case, I’d love to buy you a coffee and muffin—unless of course you want an early lunch—and try to more fully explain the depths of my thankfulness, if you are interested.” She grinned. “Or even if you’re not.”
Laughter rumbled from his chest. “I could be persuaded. But I have a better suggestion. I know Jenny would love to see you. How long are you in town for?”
Her smile grew strained. “A few weeks.” At least until her book was written. Then it was back to the big smoke to escape the small-town Christmas craziness.
“Then I hope you’ll join us for dinner sometime soon.”
“That’d be wonderful. But I feel you’re the one doing me another favor.”
He shrugged, smiled. “Never hurts to be a good Samaritan.”
“At least let me buy you a coffee now to warm up.”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
She retrieved her purse and beeped the car locked, joining him on the slippery sidewalk to where the coffee shop’s twinkling lights beckoned.
The door opened, releasing a huff of caffeine-scented air. Instantly her taste buds kicked to overdrive, her stomach releasing a growl of anticipation.
“That sound reminded me of my boys,” Mitch said with a laugh.
That sound reminded Staci that she’d skipped lunch after her obnoxiously early escape from the city. She glanced about her. The Coffee Blend was nothing like what she remembered. Instead of the 80s plastic vibe, the room was dressed in earthy tones, with timber floors, recycled painted chairs, and large polished wood offcuts as bar tables. The walls were lined with memorabilia: antlers, battered ice skates, and black and white photographs of long-ago Muskoka Shores. She drew closer, studying a print of a wooden shack with smoke curling from the chimney, positioned between two grand poplars. She’d seen that place before…
“Hey, Suzy. Look who I found. Muskoka Shores’s own famous author.”
Staci glanced up, moving to the counter which encompassed a refrigerated display case of cupcakes, muffins, cakes, and slices. Her stomach’s protest rumbled again. “Hi.”
“Sounds like someone needs a sugar fix.” The blonde woman in her fifties smiled. “Hey, I’m Suzy. I saw you seemed to be having some car trouble out there.”
“I’m Staci.” She gestured to the room. “Is this your café?”
“Sure is.”
“It’s fantastic. Really inviting.”
“That’s what we aimed for when we bought it five years ago.” She wiped her hands on a cloth. “I saw you had a visiting angel before.”
“Mitch was a godsend, for sure.”
“He often is. Now, what’ll it be?”
“This is my treat.” Staci glanced at Mitch and raised a brow.
“Just my usual, thanks, Suzy.”
“One TD coming up. And for you, precious?”
It must be the sense of cloying sweetness permeating the room that pricked her eyes. No one had called Staci by that endearment since her last visit in town. “I, er, oh…” She blinked away the moisture, tilted her chin and adopted an expression she hoped conveyed city cool. “What coffee flavors do you have?”
A plastic-sleeved menu was placed in front of her, and she studied the options. Pumpkin spice?
“Sorry, Suzy, better make mine to go.” Mitch glanced apologetically at Staci. “I just remembered Jenny had asked me to pick up some things which I plumb forgot about.”
“Oh, but—”
“Sorry, Staci, but I better scoot.” Mitch nodded as Suzy handed him a to-go cup, which he collected with a murmured thanks. “Now don’t forget about dinner. I know Jenny will be tickled pink to hear you’re back in town. I’m sure she’ll call you soon to arrange the details. You staying with your grandma?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Well, be seeing you both. Thanks, Staci.” He lifted his cup in salute. “Much obliged. See you later, Suzy.”
“Sure you don’t want a pastry?”
“I do, but better not. Jenny’s trying to keep sugar-free, and I don’t want to lead her astray.”
“Fair enough.”
“Thanks again, Mr. Wells,” Staci called.
“It’s Mitch. And you’re very welcome. See you around.”
He held up a hand in farewell, then drew open the door, nearly colliding with someone coming in, where they stopped and exchanged greetings.
Staci sighed, returning her gaze to the coffee menu. What a friendly man Mitch Wells was. And she hadn’t exaggerated before. She did thank God that he’d taken pity on her and deigned to help a lady out. When she looked up Suzy was smiling at her again. “Sorry. I seem to have lost all decision-making ability.”
“No hurry.”
Just as well. She bit her lip, wondering about the pumpkin spice flavor. Should she? Oh, for goodness sake! “A pumpkin spice latte please.”
“Regular, tall, or grande?”
“Um, tall?”
“To have here or to go?”
So many decisions! She probably should have it to go. She was already later than what she’d told her grandmother. But she really needed some form of sustenance if she was to face the barrage of love sure to be her fate. “To go, thanks.”
“And something to eat?”
She paced back to eye the delectable goodies on display, almost colliding with the newcomer, a man of curly dark hair, a five o’clock shadow, and a bemused expression who held up his hands. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” His voice was low, holding a rich, soothing timbre. No, holding mellifluous tones.
Since she’d been a little girl, certain phrases had called to her, begging her to remember. She closed her eyes. Mellifluous tones. She really should write that down. It totally matched the warm expression in his dark green eyes. And totally suited Fiona’s hero.
“Miss?”
A touch on her arm jerked her eyelids open. “Oh!” What a fool she must look. Refusing to look at the man anymore she hastened back to the counter to where Suzy waited patiently. “And a chocolate croissant, please.”
“As it comes or heated?”
What to choose? “Uh, heated would be nice, thanks.”
“Coming right up.”
Staci paid, then pivoted, nearly colliding with the man a second time. “Sorry.” Heat flushed her cheeks as she refused to look at him, instead moving to the collections of pictures on the wall to study the cottage photograph from before, as a low-voiced conversation continued behind her. What was that wisp of memory?
A ding sounded.
“Staci?” Suzy called. “Here you go.” She pushed a paper bag across the counter top toward her.
Staci hurried past the man who was looking at his phone and ripped the bag open. The scent of freshly baked chocolate croissant reactivated her hunger. She might have moaned as the first mouthful melted against her tongue.
The dark-haired man’s mouth twitched, as if suppressing a smile. She raised her brows and turned away, as the sound of the coffee machine rumbled again.
“Those things will kill you, you know.”
What?
The low tones she’d imagined might belong to her—no, Fiona’s—hero came again as she shoved the last corner of pastry in her mouth. “Chocolate croissants are considered to be the number one food to avoid if one wants to live a healthy life.”
He was talking to her? She swallowed creamy deliciousness and wiped either side of her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”
He smiled, his gaze descending to her lips, before meeting her gaze again. “Not from the sugar or the butter, but from the risk of choking when being eaten so quickly.”
Was he teasing her? She was about to ask whether he worked in the health industry and was therefore qualified to make such assumptions when Suzy called, “One pumpkin spice and one tall, dark and handsome to go.”
One what?
Ignoring the twinkle in Suzy’s eyes, Staci thanked her and grabbed the coffee marked PSL on the white lid and hurried to the exit. If the coffee proved good, she suspected this place might prove handy to refuel her creative juices. She pushed open the door, conscious of Mr. Croissant-hater behind her, and met the icy breeze just as she took a sip of coffee.
Ugh. Her taste buds protested the lack of sugar, the lack of milk, the lack of anything but what tasted like pure unadulterated caffeine.
A choking sound behind swung Staci’s gaze to the man who objected to her eating habits, whose wince seemed to mirror hers. “This is foul.”
“No, this is foul.”
He glanced at her, frowned. “Did you get my nearly black coffee?”
“Your what?”
“Did you get my coffee by mistake?”
She peeled off the lid and stared at the very dark brown contents. “What did you call this?”
He sighed, his breath making a huffing white cloud in the cool air. “It’s Suzy’s little joke. It’s not black coffee because it’s got a splash of milk, so she calls it a tall, dark...” his words, his gaze faltered.
“Tall, dark, and handsome, wasn’t it?” How had those words slipped out? Though that was what Suzy had said. Just because he fitted that description didn’t mean… didn’t mean anything. Heat renewed its dance along her cheeks.
Heat she felt sure matched the color filling his. “Suzi likes to tease.” He shook his head and handed her his coffee, tinted a warm dark golden hue. “I think this is yours, Pumpkin Spice.”
“Thanks.” She eyed it. Took a sniff. Wait—what had he just called her? She frowned up at him. “Did you just call me Pumpkin Spice?”
His mouth twitched. “Maybe. Sorry. I’m caffeine-deprived so I can’t be fully aware of what I say.”
Again his gaze flickered to her mouth. Despite her misgivings, she knew, as any good romance author did, just what that meant. But seriously? He wanted to kiss her? They’d only just met. She didn’t even know his name!
“Um, I think you should know…”
She didn’t have time for this. He might have a lovely voice, and be handsome, in a rough-around-the-edges kinda way, but she had no interest in a small-town holiday romance. “Do you want your coffee then?” She held out the cup. “I’ve only taken one sip. One sip was more than enough.”
“Do you have cooties?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Cooties. Do you have them?”
“Are you five-years-old?”
“No. I’m just health-conscious.” His head tilted to one side. “So do you?”
“What, have cooties?”
“Or any other communicable disease?”
“No!”
He chuckled. “It’s fine. You can have the rest.”
“But it’s disgusting. I don’t want—”
“Oh!” Suzy burst through the door. “Oh, I think I muddled your orders. I’m so sorry. Here, come back and I’ll make you another one.”
Staci glanced at her watch. “I really need to go.”
“I can’t believe I got it wrong.” Suzy looked genuinely upset. “Please, next time you’re in it’s on the house. That plus a pastry. I can’t have visitors thinking I don’t know the difference between a latte and a long, almost black.”
And Staci couldn’t afford to get the locals offside. Not if she was going to stay here for a few weeks to get the manuscript done. “Sure. Thanks, Suzy.”
“Thank you.” She turned to the man. “And you, want your freebie now or later?”
“Later is fine,” he said. For some reason his eyes were still fixated on Staci’s mouth.
A surprised feeling of gratification—a feeling that feminist Staci should probably despise—swelled her chest. He must have the hots for her quite badly.
Suzy peered at her closely, then swatted his arm. “Really, James, what kind of gentleman are you letting a girl walk around with chocolate beside her mouth?”
What?
Staci slowly echoed Suzy’s mimed wiping beside her lips, which revealed that yes, she did seem to be wearing some of the chocolate from her croissant… from how long ago? She forced out a gritty sounding laugh. Far from having the hots for her, he seemed only to have the knack to make her feel like a fool.
“Thanks a lot,” she muttered. Her gaze shifted to Suzy. Probably wouldn’t be back for the make-up coffee, after all. “I need to go.”
“Sure, precious.” Again that word pricked unwanted emotion. “Hope to see you soon.”
Not if Staci could help it. She nodded, hurried to her car, and slammed the door, pride keeping her head stiff as she refused to glance at Mr. Croissant-hater, still watching her from his place in front of The Coffee Blend. She muttered a prayer of thanks when her car started without incident, keeping her gaze averted as she carefully drove onto the snowy street.
And saw, in the rear-view mirror, the dark-haired man swivel to watch her drive away.
Regret crossed James’s heart as he watched her drive off. Seriously? Suzy was right. How had he let the redhead go on speaking for so long with that drop of chocolate by her mouth? Except it had seemed more of a beauty spot than a smudge, something that begged him to pay attention to pink lips that seemed as quick to smile as pout, her words drawing an urge to banter, the repartee something he’d thought long days of hard work had rusted quite away. Not that he thought he’d managed the banter very successfully. Cooties? That was the best he could do? Not that it mattered. He really should not be thinking about a stranger he’d likely never see again.
James drove to the clinic for his afternoon session, and soon forgot her in his focus on patients who came with colds and boils and pains. The work was satisfying, and not too strenuous. More challenging cases could always be referred to Muskoka Shores’s small hospital, where he worked the three days he was not rostered here. This was not like Africa. Poverty did not present in the same way, yet he noticed his role as listening ear remained the same.
A knock on the door preceded his call of, “Enter.”
The receptionist, Anna Morely, poked her dark head in, her smile warm. “How are you doing, James?”
He dimmed back his own smile a notch. Anna was sweet and all, but the way she looked at him sometimes made him wonder if she hadn’t read the handbook on workplace protocols. “Fine, thanks.”
“Okay, well, your last patient is here. Miss Jemima Taylor.”
He nodded. How he hoped this wasn’t another of the eyelash-fluttering types who had visited in recent days, almost like they’d heard a new doctor was in town. “Send her in.”
He braced as a murmur of conversation and soft laughter came from beyond the door, yet more proof of the small-town vibes that lent itself to personal exchanges beyond medically-related conversation. The door opened again and in walked a small redheaded girl followed by a woman, presumably her mother, who explained Jemima had been complaining of a sore throat. The little girl soon proved to also have a cute lisp, no doubt further embellished by her missing teeth. He bit back a smile at his earlier presumptuous thoughts.
“You look as though the tooth fairy has visited recently,” he said.
The redhead nodded proudly. “I’m weally witch now.”
“She means really rich,” her mother whispered.
He vaguely recognized the woman from church. A glance at the file revealed her name: Rachel Taylor. He nodded and returned his attention to the small girl. “It’s nice when tooth fairies are generous.”
She shook her small head. “No, there’th only one.”
“Only one—? Oh, only one tooth fairy, of course. My apologies,” he said. “Now, open wide.”
He peered inside her mouth, but there was no sign of tonsil redness, or anything that might construe illness. Just a sniffly nose, and an over-anxious mother. After taking her temperature, and asking a few more questions, he stood to wash his hands at the china basin in the corner and dry them before reseating himself.
“Now, Miss Jemima, I think you’re going to be fine, but you need to stay warm.” He glanced at the mom, tilting his head at the jar of candy, and received a nod. “Now, do you think you can manage to do that?”
Jemima nodded seriously.
“Do you think you might like a piece of candy?”
Her blue eyes lit. “Oh, yeth!”
He pulled out a wrapped candy and dropped it in her hand and glanced at the mother. “Don’t worry, we have a reciprocal arrangement with the dentist up the road.”
She chuckled and ruffled her daughter’s red curls. “Now, what do you say to the nice doctor, pumpkin?”
He blinked, barely hearing the sing-song, “Fank you,” and farewells as his mind backtracked to hours earlier, to another redhead. What was she doing? Would she remember him? He grimaced, remembering his all-too-charming small talk about cooties and the like. Yeah, she’d probably not forgotten, had probably decided to avoid him like the plague. How weird that the role that drew some people like a magnet led others to regard his conversation topics as a loss.
Oh well. She’d been cute, with her big eyes, flaming curls, and orange sweater. Stylish, too, which likely meant she had expensive tastes, like his sister-in-law, who’d drawn Jeff from an unpretentious background to workaholic to pay the bills. He’d never understand how someone could justify paying thousands for a pair of shoes.
He pushed back in his seat, scrubbed his hands over his weary face. How tired must he be to even be thinking like this? No. He needed someone grounded, someone who valued life as he did too. Especially now he knew how easily such life could be stolen away.