A Christmas Bride (10 page)

The little girl had come to play with her American Girl doll, which sat in a doll-size rocking chair in the corner, surrounded by her clothes and accessories. The moment Natalie arrived, Willow lost interest in her conversation with arguably the best-known wedding dress retailer in America.

And in any case, Kleinfeld didn't have what Willow was looking for, even though they had tried to do backflips for her the minute she'd dropped Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon's name.

She ended her call, turned off her phone, and stretched her back. She had an obscene amount of work to do, but she wasn't going to pass up this opportunity to get to know Natalie better.

“Hi,” Willow said. “I really like your doll. Does she have a name?”

“Angelina.”

“She looks like you.”

Natalie didn't reply. Instead she looked away, conveying her shyness and making Willow feel like a dolt. Where should she start? She didn't know anything about kids or their interests. Maybe it didn't matter as long as she made an effort, which was more than she'd done in the past.

“So, did Mrs. M tell you that you're going to be a flower girl in your cousin's wedding?” Willow asked.

“Mrs. M?”

Willow cringed. Of course Natalie didn't know Poppy by that name. “Grammy,” Willow corrected herself.

Natalie nodded but didn't make eye contact.

“I've been searching for bridesmaid and flower girl dresses all day. Yours is the only one I've managed to buy. You want to see it?”

“Not really.” Natalie picked up her doll and had started to stuff various accessories into a pink tote.

“Going somewhere?” Willow asked.

Natalie continued to look away.

“I guess I've disturbed you, huh? I'm sorry. Mrs. M—Grammy—told me to set up my table here. I could move to the lobby if you want.”

“No, it's okay.” Natalie stood up, carrying the pink bag that was almost as big as she was. She didn't look in Willow's direction, choosing instead to stare down at her shoes. Willow wanted to give the kid a hug, but Natalie wasn't ready for that.

“You sure you don't want to see your dress? It's pretty.”

“I hate red dresses.” Natalie finally met Willow's gaze, and the fire in her dark brown eyes was impressive.

“Oh, honey, of course you do. I wouldn't put you in a red dress. What made you think I would?”

“You were just talking to someone about red dresses. Grandmother is always putting me in red dresses, and I hate them.”

Willow opened her arms. “Come here just for a minute and I'll show you the dress I got for you. It's green. And I think we'll put baby's breath and green plaid ribbons in your beautiful hair. You'll look like a little ginger princess.”

“You think my hair is pretty?”

“Of course I do. It's just like your mom's and just like Angelina's.” Willow's heart swelled. “Did your mommy help you name your doll?”

Natalie nodded. “How did you know?”

“Because she had a doll with that name once a long time ago. We played with her Barbie dolls all the time. Your mom and me. You sure you don't want to see your dress?”

Natalie stood there for a long moment while she evidently weighed her choices. After almost thirty seconds, she finally moved to Willow's side and inclined her head toward the computer screen, where Willow had brought up an image of the dress.

Natalie's eyes grew wide. “It looks like Little Red Riding Hood only green.”

“I know. Melissa loves fairytales. And all her friends thought it would be fabulous to dress you like Little Red Riding Hood, only in green because of your red hair. I'm trying to find a hooded cloak just like yours in white for Melissa. It hasn't been easy, though.”

“I really like that dress.”

“I'm really glad you do, sweetheart. So, I know you're planning to go someplace else to play, but I was just about to take a break. I'm going for a walk. Want to come with me?”

Finally a smile. “You know about the secret place, don't you? You helped Daddy find it.”

Willow nodded. “I used to go out to Laurel Chapel with your mom all the time. We used to play a game called Pretend Princess. Do you know that game?”

Natalie shook her head.

“No? Well, one of us gets to be the princess and the other gets to be the prince. The prince has to slay a dragon, rescue the princess from the stony tower, and awaken her with true love's kiss.”

“That sounds fun. Can I be the prince?”

“Of course you can.” Willow was surprised. And then it occurred to her that in all her years playing that game with Shelly, Willow had never, ever gotten the chance to be the princess.

“C'mon, let's go.” Natalie put down her doll and grabbed Willow's hand. The next thing Willow knew, an eight-year-old was dragging her from the library and her Herculean task.

And she wasn't in the least concerned.

D
avid hadn't been to church in a long time. He sent Natalie off to Grace Presbyterian Sunday school with Poppy, but he was too angry to visit God's house. Instead, on Sundays when the weather was good, he rose at dawn and headed off to Liberty Forge—the derelict foundry located on Morgan Avenue on the south side of town.

A hundred and fifty years ago, Liberty Forge had been the manufacturer of cast-iron “Liberty Stoves,” making the McNeil family, who had owned the ironworks, one of the wealthiest families in Jefferson County. But cast-iron stoves had gone out of style, and the forge had closed more than eighty years ago. Now the crumbling brick building with its chain-link fence, no-trespassing signs, and heavily padlocked gate was the biggest eyesore in town.

On this particular Sunday, David parked his car on Morgan Avenue, grabbed his fishing gear from the trunk, and unlocked the padlock. Once through the gate, he strolled around the building to a set of concrete steps that led down to a weedy open area behind the forge. He took the dirt path that cut across this field, passing the ruins of a much older blacksmith's forge that dated back to the 1700s. The path eventually led through a stand of oaks and into a large expanse of meadowland that provided access to the spring-fed stream called Liberty Run.

This land was owned by David's friend and fishing buddy Dusty McNeil, the sole heir of the family who had built both the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century forges. Dusty let his friends fish this section of stream, and David was honored to be one of them, with a key to the padlock on the front gate.

It was a sunny, seasonably cool day, perfect for worshipping nature by casting a line. David strolled along the run's banks to his favorite spot, put on his waders, and settled into the snapping motion of his casts and the graceful fall of the leader as it laid his fly on the run's riffled surface. The bubble and rush of the creek crowded out conscious thought, along with his sorrows, worries, and all his disappointments.

David enjoyed this solitude for more than half an hour before Dusty disturbed it. “Hey,” Dusty called from the stream's bank.

The real world returned with an unpleasant rush as David looked over his shoulder. Dusty stood with his hands thrust into the pockets of his gray fishing pants, a frown on his normally happy face. Dusty had a day job as a nursery foreman, but he was also one of the best fishing guides in Jefferson County. He knew the location of every good fishing spot on the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers and could tell you what kind of fly to use in any possible situation.

David fished with him often, and it was a known fact that you could spend a whole day with Dusty and not have to worry about any conversations lasting more than two minutes. But not today, apparently. Today Dusty squinted at David from underneath the wide brim of his fishing hat and said, “I was hoping to find you out here. I need to talk to you about something important.”

“What's up?” David asked.

“I need the advice of a lawyer.”

Crap.

David reeled in his line and waded to shore. “What's the matter?”

Dusty unzipped one of his pants pockets and pulled out an envelope marked with a certified mail sticker. His hands trembled as he passed the letter to David. “I got this letter on Friday. Can the County Council do this to me?”

David pulled a sheet of Jefferson County Council stationery from the envelope and several other documents that appeared to be real estate plats. The main document was a notice from the Jefferson County Council of its intention to hold a hearing on December eighth to accept public comment on a plan to develop the historic site known as Liberty Forge into a county park. The plan, according to the document, included demolishing the old foundry building and restoring the eighteenth-century forge in order to turn it into a historic interpretative site that would be managed by the Jefferson County Historical Society. The county also wanted to take all the land surrounding the forge in order to turn it into a day-use park with picnic tables, athletic fields, and public fishing access.

“Can they?” Dusty's voice cracked with emotion. “I'm not opposed to a new park, David, but you know I've had plans for this land for years. They can't take my land, can they?”

The breadth of the county's intentions was nothing short of stunning. They wanted Dusty's fishing access, his land, and his personal heritage all in one fell swoop. It was akin to the county deciding to make Charlotte's Grove one of those publicly open plantation houses like Mount Vernon or Montpelier or Monticello.

When had the county hatched this plan, and why hadn't David or Dusty heard anything about it before this? Something wasn't right. Was Bill Cummins pushing this thing now because he knew Dusty was David's friend?

It wasn't all that far-fetched a notion. People would flock to this idea like cats to catnip. And any local politician lining up against a park was likely to be unpopular. “I'm afraid the county has the authority to take anyone's land if they plan to use it for the public good,” he said.

“You're kidding me.”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

Dusty turned, took a few steps, then slapped his hat against his thigh. A long stream of linked-together expletives followed.

When Dusty had finished venting, David spoke again. “Look, this is far from a done deal. There are a bunch of hoops the county has to jump through. For a start, they have to hold this public hearing. Unfortunately, a lot of people are probably going to say that tearing down the warehouse is a great idea. But—”

“You know I plan to take that building down. I just need to build a little more capital.”

“I know, Dusty. But the county's got the jump on you now. Of course they'll have to appropriate funds, and God knows where they're going to get the money. When I was on the council, we didn't have enough money to manage the parks that were already in the system.”

“Yeah, but with this hanging over my head, no one will invest in my plan. I'm dead. The county has destroyed me.”

“Dusty, calm down. It might be nothing. And besides, the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution protects you. The county will have to pay you for the land.”

Dusty pivoted and gave David an angry glance. “Really? I always thought the Fifth Amendment was the one that crooked politicians hid behind.”

“Well, that too. But it's also there to protect private landowners from the government unjustly taking their property.”

“You call that protection?” He pointed at the letter.

“Well, it's public notice, which is more than a lot of people get.”

“Can you help me stop this?”

David didn't want to answer that question. Heather and Hale would tell him to stay the hell away from this controversy. But how could he?

Before he could say another word, a familiar female voice called out, “Dusty McNeil, your momma is so old her birth certificate says expired.”

He and Dusty turned toward the wooded area to the southwest where Willow Petersen, wearing an ancient floppy hat and carrying an even older bamboo rod and fishing creel, waved.

Willow had obviously come up from the Appalachian Trail, where there were no fences, just a bunch of faded no-trespassing signs that she had obviously ignored. From Serenity Farm, the walk was close to five miles. If she picked up the trail on Route 7, it was about a mile and a half. David knew part of that route well. As a boy, he'd walked two miles down the trail from Charlotte's Grove every time he came here to fish with his friends.

Dusty let out a hoot. “Willow Petersen,” he hollered, “I heard you were back in town.” The worried expression left Dusty's face. He jogged through the meadow grass toward Willow. When they met, Dusty picked her up, swung her around, and gave her a kiss.

It wasn't a super-erotic kiss or anything like that, just a friendly peck on the lips—not much more than the kiss she'd given David on Wednesday. The kiss that he'd revisited many times over the last several days.

There had been nothing but friendship in Willow's kiss. They had been talking about Shelly. They'd been sharing their grief.

So why couldn't he get that kiss out of his head?

And why did he suddenly resent the fact that she'd kissed Dusty?

Dusty and Willow had always been tight—so tight that David had often wondered if Dusty's inability to settle down with one woman had something to do with Willow. Well, she was back in town now. So maybe the two of them would finally hook up.

He hated the idea. A slow resentment boiled in his gut as he watched Dusty and Willow walk with arms linked and heads together.

“You beat me to the stream,” Willow said with a grin as she and Dusty approached. “Don't you go to church anymore?”

“Not so much,” David said.

“Guess I'll have to get up earlier, then. I never let you beat me to the stream when we were kids.”

“No, you didn't.”

“It's a glorious day, especially for November.” She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and faced the sun. Her old hat fell to the ground, and the sun lit up her hair with gold. The tomboy had grown into a graceful, poised woman. She wasn't the same girl he'd once known. There were so many new and interesting facets to her.

She retrieved her hat and plopped the old thing on her head. In that instant, the girl she'd been melded with the woman she'd become. And something deep in David's chest hitched.

She winked at Dusty. “I hope I can still fish here. I ignored your no-trespassing signs. Those are new.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Probably a dumb idea. I was trying to discourage some of the kids who've decided it's easier to splash around in the run down here than to take the hike up to the falls. They leave beer cans and crap all over the place. I'll bet some fisherman got their panties in a wad, and that explains the trouble I'm in.”

“What trouble?” Willow asked.

Dusty took the letter from David's hands and showed it to Willow. She read it, a frown folding her forehead. She looked up, her green eyes bright with ire. “Oh my God,” she said in a tone laced with outrage. “We can't let this happen. We need to organize a protest or something.”

The fire in Willow's eyes and voice ignited the dry, dead debris that was David's libido. It flamed to life. And like one of those Liberty Stoves that Dusty's ancestors had once built, it warmed him down to his toes.

He wanted her naked right there on the grass. He wanted to run his fingers through her incredible hair. He wanted to cup her breasts.

He wanted her. And wanting her was completely unacceptable.

“What do you think?” Dusty asked David. “You know the council. If we organized some kind of big protest, could we change their minds?”

David took a deep breath and tried to jettison all of the forbidden ideas and images that had just sprung to life in his mind. “Look, I don't know,” he said. “Let me call some of the county councilors and see where this is really heading. If the county doesn't have the money for this plan, then it's not going to happen.”

Willow gave him an appraising look that almost turned him inside out. She didn't say one word. Instead she turned back toward Dusty and gave him a warm smile that David didn't like. Not one bit. The idea of Willow and Dusty hooking up seriously upset him.

Wow. Not good.

He touched his wedding band, and it reminded him that he'd loved Shelly with all his heart.

“I don't know if a protest will change their minds,” Willow said, pulling David back from the brink. “You know how people can be in this town. But Mom would tell you that silence is your worst enemy. God knows I've heard her say that about every issue she's ever protested. Even Holy Cow.”

Dusty laughed. “I never, ever thought I'd hear you quote your mom. Isn't she the one who's so old she rode dinosaurs to school?”

“Yeah, and your momma was so dumb she thought a quarterback was a refund.”

Dusty laughed and gave her another irritatingly warm hug. “I'm sure glad you're home,” Dusty said with that wide smile that the single women of Jefferson County found so irresistible. And apparently Willow wasn't at all immune.

Dusty McNeil had always been easy—easy on the eye, easy to like, easy to be with. Not that Willow had ever entertained any sexual fantasies about him, because Dusty was a buddy—a stand-in for the brother she'd always wanted but never had, sort of like Shelly had been her sister from another mother.

Dusty was as much an orphan child as Willow, so they understood each other. Growing up, they had constantly swapped “your mother” jokes, but the truth of it was that Dusty had never known his mother, and his old man had been a mean, nasty drunk.

With Willow's father MIA and her mother the subject of endless local gossip, it was natural for them to form a bond. They were the outcast kids who'd created their own special place together in each other's company. They had been fishing buddies for years before David Lyndon strolled down from the hill the summer they'd all turned sixteen.

And now here they were again, the three of them, all grown up, fishing three separate pools along the run. For Willow, the day might have turned peaceful and even spiritual were it not for the fact that every time she looked up to admire the scenery or the beauty of Dusty's cast, she found David watching her.

Willow didn't for one minute believe any of the crap Juni dished out about auras, but there was no mistaking the fact that something had changed in the way David looked at her.

And something had changed in the way she reacted to those looks.

There hadn't been one thing remotely carnal about the kiss she'd given David at the Jaybird the other day. And yet her lips remembered the texture of his stubble. Her tongue remembered the taste of his skin. That one, innocent kiss had been enough to turn Willow slightly adolescent when it came to David Lyndon.