Colorado Christmas (5 page)

A small part of her enjoyed being wooed with flowers. It was a crying shame the man in question didn’t have a job she could respect.

In spite of his failings, something about Will O’Malley appealed to her on an elemental level and Becky was damned if she could figure out why.

Will paid the mayor a visit. Garrett Henderson had never liked Will and made it clear what he thought of his campaign to save the buildings.

He didn’t rise to shake Will’s proffered hand and things went downhill from there. He placed his size-seven Italian leather shoes on his expensive desk, leaned back in his chair and said, “When are you leaving town?”

Will mused that, for someone so large, the mayor had very small feet. “I’m not.”

Mayor Henderson pulled his feet from the desk and leaned forward menacingly. “Yeah, you are.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not gonna stay, O’Malley. Everyone around here knows you never finish anything.”

Will was unmoved. “Everyone?”

“Everyone who counts.”

Everyone
being the owners of the development company…Will had done some research on the directors. None of them were registered as voters within the county or the town. Except the mayor. “Everyone who counts to
me,”
Will said, “is fully behind saving those buildings. I’ll stay as long as I’m needed. And then I might stay a bit longer. Maybe forever.”

The mayor put his feet back up on the desk, tapped his
fingers together over the expanse of his belly and said, “I run this town, sonny. And don’t you forget it.”

“I think you’re forgetting you run this town along with the council. And you’ll only be doing it while you’re in office.”

“Which I will be for a very long time.”

“Elections are coming up next year. Maybe I’ll run against you.”

That had the mayor sitting up and dropping his feet back on the floor with a thud. “The
hell
you will!”

Will remained unmoved by the mayor’s threatening demeanor. “Keep giving your support to the development company and you’ll lose your job.”

“Not to you!”

Will shrugged and stood. He’d accomplished what he’d come for. He’d rattled the mayor, hinted he wasn’t invincible. Not that the man’s ego would concede that yet, but Will would let him sleep on it some. “Maybe. Or maybe to someone else. Come on out to the ranch next weekend and see how much support there is for saving those buildings.”

He gave the mayor a casual salute and stalked out, hoping the man would back down and he’d never have to run for his job.

A
FTER THAT,
W
ILL BORROWED
Matt’s SUV, piled Miss P.’s dogs into it and took a ride out to the ranch.

While the dogs explored the house or relaxed on the comfortably worn furniture, Will told his parents about his plans for the fundraiser. Ever supportive, they made several helpful suggestions.

Luke was the fly in the ointment. He started off grumbling about too many people scaring his horses. Then he wanted to know where Will intended to put all the machinery from the barn he’d earmarked for dancing. “And where are you proposing to park all the cars?” Luke demanded. “Assuming anyone would be crazy enough to go to a barbecue in the middle of winter!”

For days, Will had rehearsed his answers to the various
scenarios Luke would be likely to raise and object to. Knowing his brother well and practicing paid off when Luke finally relented—after Will promised that everything would be returned to its usual order the day after the barbecue.

Since his brother was in a receptive mood, Will broached the subject of Luke seeing his way clear to adopting Edward, claiming he’d be excellent for rounding up sheep.

“We don’t run sheep,” Luke said.

“Well, I know that! He’ll come in handy when you get some to keep him occupied.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Wait a minute. You’re saying I should take this mutt off your hands—” he indicated Edward snoring at Will’s feet “—and in addition, I should buy some sheep to keep him company?”

“Only a couple hundred head. Just enough to make him feel useful. Edward would appreciate it.”

Luke shook his head. “What am I going to do with a brother like you?” he asked, grinning.

“Humor me?”

“I’ve been doing that all your life.” He reached down and scratched Edward behind the ears. The dog responded with a louder snore. “Give me a week or so to think on it. And if he gets up to any mischief, I’ll shoot him. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Will agreed, knowing full well his brother couldn’t shoot straight and, within days, Luke’s daughters would have Edward sleeping on their beds. He’d been joking about Luke buying the sheep. He was sure if Edward ever saw a real sheep he’d run away in fright.

Back at Miss P.’s, he outlined his plans for the fundraiser and told her about his meeting with the mayor.

“Oh, he’s such a nasty man!” she said. “This town has done nothing but go downhill since he took office.” Her face wrinkled even more as she frowned, then her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands. “Oh, I’ve just had a wonderful idea!”

Will grinned. Miss P. might be pushing ninety, but she had more enthusiasm than most teenagers. “I’m all ears.”

She bustled out of the room and came back with a large art pad. She opened the pad and started to sketch.

B
ECKY’S FRUSTRATION OVER
not finding a suitable caregiver for Nicolas during the upcoming holidays was evident when she dropped and broke three dishes as she cleaned up the kitchen after dinner.

All she wanted was someone to care for Nicolas in the afternoons, supervise his homework and make his dinner. Was that really asking too much? He might be in fifth grade but he was only eight, so too young to be left to his own devices. She was prepared to pay double the going rate, but so far none of the applicants were remotely suitable. Should she set her standards a little lower in order to get someone? Anyone?

“No!”
she muttered as she opened the fridge and poured a small glass of wine to calm her nerves. Taking it to the living room, she curled up on the sofa. Nicolas deserved to have someone who cared about him—or at least knew how to care for a child. She’d devoted several lunch hours to interviewing candidates, and now she was getting desperate. The Christmas holiday was looming and Nicolas had told her tearfully that he didn’t want to go to the program organized by the town, saying the bullies from school went there, too.

She rubbed her forehead. The fact that Nicolas was being bullied at school preyed on her mind. Coming to a small town, she’d thought all of that would be behind them, but it had reared its ugly head on several occasions. She’d spoken to Nicolas’s teacher and the woman had reiterated that the school had a zero tolerance policy toward bullying and assured Becky she’d dealt with the perpetrator.

But Becky wasn’t so sure. Nicolas seemed withdrawn and his tearful outburst tonight over attending the town’s holiday program only worsened her fears that the bullying had continued. She’d tried to get him to talk about it, but he’d clammed up and gone to bed early. She’d have to make time to discuss it some more, but not when he was tired and overwrought.

She scanned the list of applicants she’d interviewed for the job. But reviewing the list caused her even more stress.

There were a number of questions she asked potential caregivers, to confirm that they were of the moral fiber and intellectual capacities she desired in her employees.

Frank Farquar’s great-niece, Ellie, was one of the applicants. But when questioned about the types of movies she enjoyed, the teen had recounted a list of the most frightening and diabolically violent movie titles Becky had ever heard of. Ellie was a definite nonstarter. So was the woman addicted to soap operas and another addicted to both caffeine and tranquilizers. Grandmotherly Virginia Smith had seemed promising, until Becky discovered she was illiterate. The kindly woman had difficulty reading the simple list of duties Becky handed her. What hope did she have of helping Nicolas with his homework?

Many more interviews had taken up Becky’s precious spare time and she groaned at the memory of the ways each and every applicant had proved unsuitable.

She took a deep breath to try to relax, but the scent of roses filled her lungs.

Will O’Malley! She couldn’t seem to escape the man, even in her own home. And his name was on the register for tomorrow’s hearings….

She tucked her feet beneath her and sipped her wine. What would he be up to tomorrow? And would he have the audacity to ask her out again?

W
ILL AND
M
ISS
P
ATTERSON
worked into the night designing a poster for SOB. Miss P. created a watercolor painting of the mountains, with the town and its Victorian buildings in the foreground. While the painting dried, she and Will shared a pizza at her kitchen table.

“You’re a very talented artist,” he said, indicating the beautiful paintings of town scenes hanging around her house. “I hope I’m going to score a Miss P. original when I marry the judge.”

Miss P. never sold her paintings, only gave them as gifts. They were a much-prized wedding present and many homes in the county had at least one Florence Patterson watercolor adorning their walls.

She patted his hand. “You can be sure of getting more than one, dear.” Tonight she was as animated as a kid with an exciting project. “I’m so happy you like the poster idea. I was wondering how I could contribute to the cause,” she said and bit into a slice of pizza. Her eyes widened. “My, this stuff is wonderful! I should eat it more often.”

He laughed. Miss P. was another of Spruce Lake’s living treasures. “You don’t think being part of a human chain was enough of a contribution?”

She waved her hands dismissively. “Anyone can be part of a human chain, but not everyone can paint. I don’t know why I didn’t suggest this before.” She frowned. “Do you think people would mind hanging the posters in their stores?”

Will covered her wrinkled hand. “I can’t imagine anyone would object. The poster is lovely and so reminiscent of the town.”

When the paint had dried, she’d written Save Our Buildings at the bottom of the poster.

It was nearly midnight when the task was finished.

“Now, I know you’ve got a court hearing in the morning, dear,” she said. “So you run along and get some sleep and I’ll go to the print shop first thing and have them copy this. By the time court opens, the town will be plastered with them!”

Will chuckled at her enthusiasm. “Don’t forget, Mrs. C. has plenty of funds to pay for printing costs. Do you want me to come by and help put them up?”

“No, dear, you have enough on your plate with the hearing tomor—Oh! I mean, today,” she corrected herself after checking her clock. “My neighbors have been wanting to help, so I’ll send them all out with posters to the businesses on Main Street and beyond.”

Will whistled as he strolled home and mused that it was people like Miss P. who made living in Spruce Lake special.

Exhausted, he tumbled into bed and dreamed of the house he’d build on his land. In his dream, Judge Becky was standing in the doorway, welcoming him home….

Court seemed to drag on forever the next morning until at last Will O’Malley’s name was called. A pleasant warmth suffused Becky when she glanced up to find him standing in front of her.

Devastating, was the only word that could describe how he looked
and
his effect on her peace of mind. He’d trimmed his hair and was wearing…a tie. A neatly pressed navy-blue shirt molded to his broad chest and muscled arms. The dark shirt accentuated his tanned face. Becky swallowed. He looked…magnificent. And masculine. And unbelievably sexy. If Will O’Malley asked her out now, she wasn’t sure of her resolve to turn him down.

She’d spent a good part of the night remembering how wonderful his arms had felt around her. And then been preoccupied thinking of those strong arms at breakfast and had burned the toast—twice.

Get a grip!
she lectured herself sternly.
This guy is a rogue and a heartbreaker and you don’t want that.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” he said without his characteristic smile. He handed some papers to the bailiff, who passed them to Becky.

“This is a petition asking you to grant an injunction stopping the demolition of the buildings situated on Main Street,” he said as Becky scanned the document.

He explained his reasons for seeking the injunction. He’d certainly done his research.

“Thank you, Mr. O’Malley,” she said, then addressed the lawyers for the development company, lined up like tin soldiers. Five highly qualified lawyers against a lone petitioner. It didn’t seem fair. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

The Denver-based lawyers, led by Jason Whitby, wore smirks of derision, as though they believed “might was right” and they’d prevail in this small community.

Perhaps “might” ruled in the city, Becky reflected, but in a town like this, passion held a lot of sway. Judging by the size of the audience there was a great deal of passion in Spruce Lake. Also present were several reporters from Denver. It gave her a sense of satisfaction to know the campaign—and indeed the plight of many small towns attempting to maintain their unique character in the face of rampant development—was being taken to the city. The audience started to boo the lawyers for the development company as Jason Whitby began to speak.

Becky banged her gavel to restore order. “Silence!” she said. “Please remain quiet while the development company presents its case.”

“They don’t have a case. This is our town and we don’t want them here!” Frank Farquar bellowed. His statement was accompanied by wolf whistles.

“Mr. Farquar, please leave the court,” Becky said in her sternest tone. “And take your pig with you.”

Louella snorted at her. Frank Farquar didn’t budge. The Denver Five, as Becky had named them, rolled their eyes and snickered among themselves.

Will O’Malley turned to the audience and said, “Frank, everyone, please. This won’t help our cause. You have to let the judge hear the other side.”

Becky was taken aback when the audience immediately quieted and, with a nod of apology in her direction, Frank Farquar left with his pig at his heels.

She returned her attention to the Denver Five nudging one another like schoolboys, probably sharing a joke regarding her inability to control her courtroom without help. “You
have something amusing you’d like to tell us, Mr. Whitby?” she asked.

“No, Your Honor,” he shot back, trying to straighten his face and failing. Becky decided she hated him. He was making fun of her court. Making fun of the people of Spruce Lake who had a genuine love of their town. Okay, so they weren’t the most sophisticated people in the world and no one brought their pigs to court in Denver, but Becky was beginning to realize that such eccentric behavior was part of the charm of Spruce Lake.

The only reason the Denver Five were here was because of money. Greed. The only reason the Mountain Resorts Development Company was in town was to make money. More greed. It made her angry.

In the past few days, Becky had inspected the buildings—not that she was any sort of expert—but if the posters supporting SOB, displayed in every store on Main Street this morning, were any indication of public sentiment, then this was a matter of vital importance to the town. Will O’Malley was correct, there’d been little or no public input into the fate of the buildings and that disturbed her.

She’d discovered the structures were a mix of former commercial and residential premises. Many were more than a century old and been vacant for decades, apart from a couple that were being used for storage. One was the former livery stables; another, the home of a freed black slave. There was a Mason’s hall and an old chophouse that had served the miners, a Methodist church and even a former bordello. A half-dozen crumbling homes and a row of old shops completed the site.

As she’d wandered around the derelict buildings she’d felt an…atmosphere, as though beneath their shabby facades, each had a story to tell. Those stories shouldn’t end in a pile of rubble.

The buildings would need a considerable amount of capital to make them habitable; however, they were worth preserving. She was happy to grant the injunction so they could try to find a solution.

Becky turned back to the lawyers who were still snickering. “Do you have anything to say?” she demanded.

Misreading her question, they sent back a collective, “No, Your Honor.”

“Good,” she said and picked up the injunction papers. “Mr. O’Malley, you’ve presented a most persuasive argument. On those grounds, and taking into consideration the support of the local community, plus the fact that counsel for the development company has nothing to say on the issue…”

Becky could hear rumblings of disagreement from the Denver lawyers, but ignored them. “I’m of the opinion a moratorium is warranted to prevent the demolition of the buildings while a satisfactory outcome for all parties is negotiated. I’m therefore granting an injunction for thirty days.”

“But Your Honor,” Jason Whitby protested. “You haven’t heard our side.”

Becky looked at him over her glasses. It was well past time to put this pack of ambulance chasers in their place. “Excuse me,
sir,
but less than thirty seconds ago I asked if you had anything to say and you
all
assured me you didn’t.”

“We were…We thought…” Jason Whitby glanced at his colleagues for support. They remained mute.

Becky enjoyed seeing “groupthink” in action. Particularly when it backfired and gave the advantage to the underdog. She wished she could be a fly on the wall when the Denver Five explained to their clients how they’d messed up in court this morning. It might’ve been arbitrary of her to cut him off, but that was her prerogative. She’d already decided the appellants had a strong enough case for granting the injunction.
Let that be a lesson to them for making fun of Spruce Lake!
she thought, surprising herself with her passion.

Jason Whitby tried again.

“You haven’t allowed us to present our client’s case, Your Honor.”

Becky pinned him with a glare. “You don’t need to,” she said. “I want cool heads to prevail in this matter. The protest group
has the right to try to find a solution. Your client won’t suffer if they have to wait another thirty days. However, the demolition of those buildings will have a lasting and possibly devastating effect on this town.” She signed the papers granting the injunction and returned them to Will O’Malley via the bailiff.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” he said, then turned to the audience with the papers clenched in his fist. The courtroom erupted in loud cheers, accompanied by a great deal of backslapping.

Becky let them celebrate, wondering how the Denver papers would report this, then stood and walked out of the courtroom.

W
ILL SAT ON A STOOL
at Rusty’s Bar and Grill, nursing a beer, but he found it hard to join in the festivities. He’d woken at 3:00 a.m. in the grip of a nightmare about the avalanche. He’d felt moody and disoriented this morning. And he’d been afraid he might not be able to present SOB’s case in court today without having a panic attack.

He’d had several nightmares since the avalanche. Mind-numbing, limb-numbing, heart-palpitating episodes that left him in a cold sweat and wondering if he’d function like a normal human being ever again. He’d worked hard on maintaining the facade of being in control, when deep down he thought he’d go to pieces—thought he’d mess up and let everyone down. They all had such blind faith in him. They’d won today. But what about next week? Next month? Next year when the development company had triumphed and the buildings were completely razed and replaced by an ugly mall and hundreds of condos?

Snap out of it!
he told himself and took a long draft of beer, then choked as he was slapped on the back for what seemed the thousandth time that day.

“You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet,” his brother Jack said. “What’s up?”

Will shook his head. “Nothing much.” He wasn’t ready to reveal his fears to Jack, but then he reconsidered. Jack was the least judgmental of his brothers and always willing to lend an
ear. He’d resigned from the priesthood a couple of years ago, giving little explanation to his family. He’d then trained as a carpenter and was developing a reputation for restoring Victorian homes. Jack worked long hours and, as far as Will was aware, hadn’t dated since moving back to Spruce Lake.

“I’m trying to figure out our next move,” Will said, pushing aside some tinsel that had fallen onto the bar. “I wish we had the funds to buy back the buildings.”

“Fat chance, even with Frank donating wads of money every day.”

That finally raised a smile from Will. Frank was making daily donations to the cause in order to see more of Mrs. C. She hadn’t forgiven him for “the Louella Incident” yet, but she did offer a smile of encouragement whenever he stuffed money into the donation tin on her counter. Which, of course, encouraged Frank to donate more. They were also now both signatories to the SOB fundraising account.

In Will’s opinion, it was only a matter of time until Mrs. C.’s heart thawed and she and Frank would be dating like teenagers again.

“Have you thought of having that ranch land of yours valued?” Jack asked. “You might be able to buy those buildings yourself.”

Will rubbed his chin. “Matt said the same thing. But I paid a pittance for it and can’t see how it could’ve increased all that much in value. You’re talking millions of dollars.”

“Anderson’s old ranch got carved up into ten-acre housing lots last year and sold like hotcakes. You should look into it. It’s a pretty valley. You might be surprised by what the land is worth—”

“Hey, Will!”

If Will had been standing, he would’ve been knocked flat by the force of Lloyd Wilmott’s beefy paw landing in the middle of his back. The director of the ski patrol was a bear of a man standing over six foot six and built like a refrigerator. In spite of his size, he was hell on skis.

“I hear you’re looking for a job. We need experienced people like you. Come and see me tomorrow.”

During college, Will had been a member of the ski patrol. However, the strict discipline hadn’t really worked for him.

He picked up a napkin to blot the sweat beading on his upper lip. This was exactly what he
didn’t
need. Someone pressuring him to go up the mountains. And save people. He cleared his throat before saying, “Thanks for the offer, Lloyd, but I’m kind of tied up with saving the buildings.”

Lloyd clapped him on the back again, nearly sending Will’s beer flying. “Good man. Anything the ski patrol can do to raise public awareness, just let me know, okay?”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. To be honest, I always figured I didn’t quite fit in with the ski patrol.”

Lloyd frowned. “You’re kidding, right? Okay, so you’re a bit high-spirited, but you’re also fearless. I knew if there was any sort of emergency, you were the guy we could depend on. That’s why I want you back on the patrol. The pay’s increased since you were doing it, too.”

Lloyd tipped back his head and chugged a whole beer, then set the bottle on the counter. He wiped his hand across his mouth. “You’ve got the right stuff, buddy.”

Will’s spirits lifted at the heartfelt compliment. Maybe he should spend more time with Lloyd. The guy was doing wonders for his ego.

“This town could use more people like you,” he said, clapping his big paw on Will’s shoulder. “I’ve gotta get home, but I wanted to say I hope you’re planning on staying for a while. The place always seems more lively with you around.”

“If you took the job with the ski patrol, the judge might find you more attractive,” Jack suggested when Lloyd left.

“It’s not an option, so forget it,” Will said, putting a stop to that line of conversation.

“The development company is going to make a killing pulling down those buildings and putting up a mall and condos. But what if you raised enough money by selling off your land to buy them back? I could renovate some of those old beauties to create shops with apartments above them, similar to Mrs. C.’s.
The houses would come back to life with some TLC. I’m not sure what you could do with the livery stables—maybe a museum. There are lots of possibilities. Plus there’s some land that could be used for more housing, keeping the Victorian theme, of course.”

Will replaced his beer on the bar and looked hard at Jack. “What are you saying?”

“Those buildings are brimming with the quaint charm that attracts people to Spruce Lake. Renovating them into a mix of retail and residential use would revive that end of town.”

Will shook his head. “And Matt thinks
I’m
the dreamer in the family.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Jack demanded. “You’re acting like a bear with a sore head. Where’s your enthusiasm? Where’s your vision?”

“If selling off my land could raise the capital to buy the buildings—provided the company’s willing to sell them,” Will hastened to add, “I still couldn’t afford to renovate them. They’d sit derelict for another couple of decades.” His shoulders slumped. “And then everyone would blame me for letting that part of town go even further downhill.”