The Scrooge Of Loon Lake

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?”