Christmas In Mustang Creek

“We sure will. Maybe we can go out for dinner sometime. You can buy.”

“Dream on, cowboy.” Charlotte fished out a small knitted cap from her suitcase and slipped it on.

Her aunt had crocheted it, he figured. It looked homemade, and she looked delectable.

The woman he’d known in New York, always wearing designer outfits and pricey shoes, the woman he’d called Charlie, probably wouldn’t have been caught dead in that hat, not in the city anyway.

Cute was the only word he could come up with, and it made him laugh. Charlie, the original uptown girl—cute? What a concept. “We spent the night together, so maybe you do owe me dinner. Just sayin’.”

She pointed at her bed, but he could swear there was a gleam in her eye. “I slept here, and you slept there. Which means we didn’t ‘spend the night together,’ not in the strictest sense of the term, anyhow.”

“You’re right,” he said, with a twinkle.

“Jax, could you stop messing with my head for a second, please?”

He did his best cowboy imitation. “I’ll try, but, darlin’, you make it difficult.”

Some nuance in his tone or manner must have gotten to her, because she blushed. Despite all the big-city polish, Charlotte was still a small-town girl. She said hurriedly, “I need to go. I haven’t met this Mrs. Klozz who’s been helping Aunt Geneva, but apparently, she doesn’t have a cell phone, so I doubt she even knows I’m in town. I also need to check on the house and the animals, and then visit Aunt Geneva.”

“Don’t get stuck in the snow.”

She muttered as she wheeled her suitcase toward the door, “I’ll do my best.”

CHAPTER THREE (#u63110428-9117-5e8f-b2e4-2396290dfaeb)

THE OLD HOUSE was covered in snow, but it looked warm and inviting. A decorated Christmas tree stood framed in the big front window, and Charlotte could have described every single one of those beloved ornaments in detail.

She smiled at the blue one with the image of a small town that had “Silent Night” printed on it in lacy white letters. The twisty ones with frosted glass in various colors. The sparkly red reindeer she’d bought with babysitting money and hung on the tree when she was twelve, so delighted to contribute. It really didn’t match the antique decorations, but Aunt Geneva had loved it, hugged her tightly, and the memory of her warm acceptance left Charlotte sitting in the car for a few minutes, teary eyed. This was hard.

Very hard.

Geneva should be coming out on the porch right now, wearing an apron like she always did and waving hello, her eyes alight.

Okay, put that aside. Life changed, Charlotte knew it did. Her aunt was in her eighties, and she’d seen a lot of Christmases over the years. The two of them had shared so many good memories; Charlotte refused to spoil them with regrets. She got out and shut the car door, noting that someone, no doubt Mr. Simpson next door, had plowed the driveway.

She didn’t need a key after all.

The faceted glass front door opened easily. The smell of cinnamon and allspice immediately hit her, and Charlotte realized someone was inside, baking cookies.

It was very much like coming home—even without Aunt Geneva.

“Hello,” she called out cautiously, not wanting to startle anyone.

Mutley came running, leaping all over her, barking with excitement. His breed certainly wasn’t a known pedigree—more like a combination of half a dozen or so—hence his name. She appreciated being greeted with all that unbridled enthusiasm. Can-Can was curled up on the sofa on her special blanket, and she raised her head and gave a feline yawn, followed by her version of a smile before she settled back into her nap.

Both animals were fine. That was a relief anyway. Charlotte assured Mutley she loved him, too, fended off a few more dog kisses, then set down her suitcase and tried again. “Um, hello?”

“Hello, dear.” The woman who bustled out of the kitchen was short and a little stout, white-haired, her eyes bright and her smile infectious. “I’ve been expecting you. That was quite a storm, wasn’t it? I made coffee and there’s a warm crumb cake, sweet rolls, too. It’s a new recipe, and I need an opinion.”

She tried for a semiformal introduction. “I’m Charlotte.”

“Of course you are, child.”

“Did Aunt Geneva tell you I was coming?” She hadn’t even told her aunt she was on her way, in case any of her flights were delayed or canceled. At least, she hadn’t mentioned a specific day; it was a given that she’d be in Mustang Creek for Christmas.

“No, dear, she didn’t. But there are pictures of you everywhere, so it was no trick to recognize you. You’re just as pretty in person.” The older woman smiled. “The cake is still warm. Are you hungry?”

Slightly bemused, Charlotte trailed her into the familiar kitchen. She was hungry, actually. She’d eaten her last meal, a prepackaged sandwich at the airport, yesterday afternoon. And the spice-scented air promised something special enough to make her salivate. “Yes, I am. It smells great in here.”

The outdated kitchen was as immaculate as ever, with the same ruffled curtains at the window, the familiar wooden table and the ancient refrigerator humming away.

“I’m fairly sure the cake is fine, but I’m trying to perfect my cinnamon rolls.” Millicent Klozz breezed over to the old oven, and the door creaked in its usual way as she opened it and took out a pan. “You’d think at my age I’d have the process down cold, but I believe life requires us to continually ask more of ourselves, wouldn’t you agree?” She moved energetically between the oven and the table, setting out two plates. “I want an honest opinion. Too much vanilla in the icing? That’s my biggest fear.” She sat down. “Now, what’s your young man doing today?”

Her what?

“I’m sorry?”

Mrs. Klozz handed her a plate with a roll and a fork as she tilted her head. “You know, the young man. The tall one. Good-looking.”

Charlotte nearly choked on a bite of her pastry. Once she recovered, she managed to say, “I don’t really have a young man.”

“Oh, yes, you do. The one with the blue eyes.” Millicent Klozz waved a hand. “He’s a veterinarian, isn’t he? Yes. That’s right, I remember now. I don’t want to seem old-fashioned, but you stayed with him last night, young lady. This is Mustang Creek.”

There was the perfect amount of vanilla in the icing, Charlotte thought, although that was beside the point.

Yes, this was a very small town, but still... How many people had been out spreading gossip in a storm like that?

She shook off a twinge of—what?

“I shared a room with Jax because there wasn’t any alternative. It was so late, I knew you’d be sleeping, and the weather was terrible. In any case, he isn’t my young man.” Wait, did she sound snarky? Defensive? She hoped not. “The roll is delicious, by the way. You definitely got the vanilla right. Thank you.”

Mrs. Klozz’s eyes fairly twinkled, and she waved off Charlotte’s thanks with a good-natured smile and a motion of one hand. Then she rushed on, caught up in the story she was spinning. “He followed you here. It’s quite romantic. What are you going to do now?”

Wow. The grapevine was in fine form, evidently.

Had Jax followed her to Mustang Creek? Charlotte had her suspicions, but he hadn’t come right out and said so—had he? He’d come to town expressly to join his friend’s veterinary practice; that was her understanding anyway.

Beside her, Mutley gave a very small begging whine. She ignored it. Aunt Geneva didn’t approve of animals hovering during dinner, although Charlotte had been guilty of sneaking him a morsel or two if she was through eating, so his bad habits could be her fault.

Charlotte realized she’d been asked a question and offered a belated response. “I’m not going to do anything,” she said. “Jax has his life, and I have mine. Mustang Creek might be small, but that doesn’t mean we have to be in each other’s pockets.”

Brave words.

Mrs. Klozz didn’t seem to be listening. She picked up a cinnamon roll, took a tiny bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe some more brown sugar in the filling? Raisins? I always hesitate there. Not everyone loves raisins. An acquired taste.” A pause. “What do you think?”

Charlotte wanted to laugh. She liked this woman already. “About brown sugar or raisins? It’s delicious as it is.”

“No, no, dearie, about Jaxon Locke. Keep up with the conversation.” A second pause. “So...what do you have to say about that young man?”