The Gift-Wrapped Groom

This book is dedicated to its editor, Bonnie Crisalli, for her gentle kindness, encouragement and support, but most of all for the warm smile she always carries in her voice.

I
f Noel Winsome had known why her grandfather was calling her on that cold December evening, she most certainly would never have picked up the phone. And if she had had any inkling of who was with him, she probably would have given serious consideration to hightailing it over the Canadian border.

As it was, her grandfather didn't mince words. “Noel, I need to see you.”

“What's wrong? Problems with the Christmas festival? The mining consortium?”

“Can't discuss it over the phone, child. Need you to come at once.”

William Winsome's “request” was immediately punctuated by an emphatic blaring of dial tone in Noel's ear.

She dropped the receiver onto its cradle, her forehead puckering into an irritated frown. She'd come through the door of her cozy country home a mere moment before, after a full day at her Christmas store in the village and a full-fledged verbal sparring match with that knucklehead Kurt Haag.

She was tired. And hungry. Visions of warmed-up, leftover chicken legs danced in her head.

For a moment, she played with the idea of taking time out for something to eat before responding to the abrupt summons. But her grandfather had said “need,” and that wasn't a term proud old William Winsome used easily. Now the only question was, had he used it on her tonight because he truly did need to talk to her or because he just knew what button to push to guarantee her compliance?

Hard to know which with her sly old grandfather.

Still, if he needed to see her about some snafu in the Christmas festival or a mettlesome new move by the mining consortium to take over their valley, the situation was indeed urgent.

She sighed in resignation. Oh well, his ranch was but a twenty-minute drive. And among his good qualities was a penchant for brevity. If she left right away, she should be able to drive over, find out what this urgent need was all about and be back home in less than an hour.

Her stomach growled, an immediate reminder of how long an hour could be. She tried to ignore the discomfort as she looked down at Mistletoe, standing patiently by her side. Postponing her own dinner was one thing, but he'd just put in a long day, too, and she wasn't about to make him wait.

She headed for the pantry, dogged every step by the little West Highland white terrier, who knew the pantry meant food was on the way. His fluffy white tail waved straight up, a flag caught in the wind of hungry anticipation.

Noel opened a can of Mighty Dog and spooned it into Mistletoe's bowl on the counter. He hopped on his hind legs, his little black nose quivering excitedly, barely giving her a chance to set his bowl on the stone kitchen floor before his fluffy white head disappeared into it.

Noel listened for a moment to the loud chomping sounds coming out of her little dog before slowly, stealthily reaching a hand toward his bowl and growling. Mistletoe paused from wolfing down his food, his fluffy little body vibrating with his low, returning growl.

She laughed, delighted at this macho display by this special male with whom she shared her life. Of course, it was only display and only for this game they played. Mistletoe was a sweet little guy without a mean bone in his body. The one and only time Noel had actually slipped the dish away, his little ears had shot up and his square white head had cocked itself at her as though to ask if his growl had not been convincing enough.

She smiled as she gave one of his pointed ears an affectionate rub.

“I'll be back soon. And just so you won't be tempted to sneak out back and go ice-skating on the frozen pond and come to bed with frozen paws again tonight, I'm locking your doggy door for the winter.”

Mistletoe wagged his tail at Noel's indulgent tone, still engrossed in his food.

“I can't believe it's December already,” Noel mumbled to herself as she rose. Where had the time gone? How could Christmas be only two weeks away?

She headed back through the living room, pausing in dismay to note how plain and bleak its pine floors and walls and simple furnishings seemed without a Christmas tree or lights or any decorations to celebrate the season. She would have to find the time this week to select a tree and get the decorations out of the attic. She just had to.

She grabbed her coat, shoulder bag and truck keys from where she'd laid them only a moment before, and with one last longing look at her cozy home, turned to go.

Outside, the arctic air slapped her cheeks with its decisive, sharp chill. It hadn't snowed since Thanksgiving and the roads were hard and dry. She wrapped her fleece-lined coat snugly around her, tasting the clean bite of icy air on her tongue as she made her way to her truck.

A strange, purple darkness had descended on this still Montana December night—like an illusionist's cloak spread over the dark landscape, the magician waiting for the proper moment to whip back its royal purple drape and reveal something magical for the eyes.

Noel shook away the fanciful image as the tires of her old Dodge truck crunched over the crisp gravel of her driveway. She carefully steered onto the single-lane country road, away from the lights of her modest home, thankful for the lingering warmth in the truck. The soft, eerie darkness swallowed her vehicle whole. Her favorite “oldies but goodies” radio station out of Missoula had just ended “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and launched into the theme from
The Pink Panther.

A frown drew her eyebrows together as an image flashed through her mind of the mischievous Pink Panther sporting the face of her grandfather. What if his use of the word
need
meant that something had gone wrong with his part of the festival? The theatrical production was a crucial element—the one that brought in the most tourists and, consequently, the most tourist dollars. The village of Midwater needed those dollars, this year more than ever. She certainly hoped that wasn't the problem.

But if it wasn't the festival he wanted to discuss, the problem would have to relate to the powerful mining consortium and its unrelenting attempt to take over the village and valley land. Had they been successful in convincing another family to sell? Perhaps, on second thought, she should hope the problem did involve the festival.

Damn. Why couldn't her grandfather have told her over the phone? Not knowing what calamity awaited at his ranch only made things worse. Still, he probably guessed—and accurately—that if he'd told her the problem, she might have found a reason not to drive over. By just hinting at the ticking bomb, he knew she'd come running.

Typical William Winsome tactics. Noel sighed.

Their relationship had become increasingly strained ever since her parents' deaths, at which point her grandfather had started poking his prominent, interfering nose further and further into her personal affairs.

Not that he sought to interfere with malicious intent. She was his only grandchild. He wanted the best for her. She knew that. But what he couldn't seem to grasp was that this was
her
life. He'd be running every aspect of it by now if she had let him.

She hadn't let him. She couldn't. She valued her independence too much.

But it was a constant struggle. That conniving Pink Panther was devious. Give him an inch and he'd take a light-year.

Like that lamentable business on her twenty-ninth birthday the previous year. If she hadn't been in such desperate straits—what with the bank getting ready to foreclose on her store as well as her house—she never would have accepted his help.

Noel downshifted with more vehemence than necessary as she swung the wheel into a sharp right turn, up the next country road.

It still galled her to think of the “price” he'd attached to that help. Imagine him thinking she'd give him the right to pick out a husband for her! He should have known that she would never agree to such nonsense.

Well, actually she had agreed. But only because the restrictions he'd put on himself and the standards he'd required this mythical man to meet had been so brazenly ludicrous and impossible.

Noel shook her head in continuing disbelief as she recalled last Christmas Eve, when her grandfather had delineated the details of his preposterous proposition in that same confident baritone he had used so successfully to win over audiences in both theatrical and political arenas.

“Noel, I promise to have him for you no later than next Christmas Eve—your thirtieth birthday—or you'll be under no obligation. And as for qualifications, you can be sure that I will match you with only the best. He'll have to have perfect health, of course. Intelligence is of paramount importance, so I'll insist upon a proper education—a doctorate degree should do—and an IQ of at least one-forty. That's the minimum for genius.”

“What?”

Her grandfather had ignored her interruption. “I don't want any short, skinny great-grandchildren, either, so he'll have to be over six feet and muscularly built—able to bench press at least, oh say, four hundred pounds.”

“Four hun—”

“And speaking of great-grandchildren, since you represent the last of my bloodline, this husband of yours is going to have to agree that your children will carry the Winsome surname.”

“That's all?” Noel had managed to squeak after squandering most of her breath on a good old-fashioned belly laugh.

Her grandfather had not cracked a smile. “I'm serious, Noel.”

“I know. That's the funniest part.”

Again, she had erupted into laughter. It had continued unabated for a full minute, during which she virtually ignored her grandfather's deepening scowl. But his next words she couldn't ignore.

“Noel, after last year's disaster, you can't still be thinking that you can select the proper kind of bridegroom?”

Her grandfather's words had scored a direct hit. Her laughter came to an abrupt stop.

“That subject is not—”

“A pleasant one, I'm sure. I didn't bring it up to hurt you, child. But, you must admit that Cade Patterson was as poor an excuse for husband material as—”

“Look, Grandfather, I know you mean well. But this is my life, and I make the choices of how to live it and who to make part of it. I've learned from my mistake with Cade. And what I've learned is to never again put any faith in the empty promises of a man. Besides, what do I need one for? I have Mistletoe for companionship, Mom and Dad's place to call home and, of course, my work at the store—”

“How can you say you have your home and store? You've been nervously twisting that bank foreclosure on both your store and your house in those hot little hands of yours ever since you arrived.”

Another direct hit. But for this one, Noel had been prepared.

“A temporary setback, Grandfather. The Christmas store is doing well. It's just that a big shipment of my special ornaments was so unexpectedly lost. If Hank were still running the bank, I'm sure he would have understood and carried me until I could get on my feet again. But the mining consortium that took over the bank last year wants the back mortgage plus late charges or they'll take everything. If you could just see your way clear to loan me enough to cover their demands and give me time to get back on my feet, I'll pay whatever interest rate you ask and—”

“I'm not a bank, Noel. I'm your grandfather. I will loan you nothing. But I will give you the money outright if you just agree to accept this bridegroom I find for you.”

“
Just
agree to accept him? Grandfather, this is the middle of the 1990s in the United States of America. Arranged marriages went out at least a century ago. How would you have reacted if your parents—or grandparents—had attempted to arrange your marriage?”

“I married your grandmother at twenty, Noel, and had your father within two years. If I'd still been single at twenty-nine and spouting nonsense about not needing a spouse, then I would have hoped my parents—or grandparents—would have stepped in and done whatever it took to find me a proper mate.”

Whatever it took?
Noel had squinted at her grandfather, suddenly worried about what lengths her crafty old relative might go to in pursuit of this “proper” mate.

“Grandfather, you know the unattached females outnumber the unattached males in Midwater by a hefty margin, even without all these requirements of yours, which none of the local men could come close to filling, anyway. Exactly where are you going to go looking for this mythical man?”

“You only consider him mythical because you've been setting your sights too low.
Far
too low. I will find him. I don't care where I have to go or what difficulties I might face in getting him here. I will find him, and I will bring him to you.”

Noel's squint had deepened. “You're not going to offer some guy a few million dollars to marry me, are you?”

William Winsome had straightened to every inch of his six-foot-one height, run a hand impatiently over his mane of thick white hair and had disdainfully looked down his long nose at his granddaughter's impertinent suggestion.

“You think I intend to
buy
a bridegroom for you, Noel? You think I would allow a man who could be bought to father the children that will carry on my name?”

Noel smiled. “In a second, Grandfather. You love the control your money affords you.”

Winsome's spine had straightened into a dramatic, indignant straight line. “I'm appalled you entertain such opinions of your poor grandfather!”

Noel had not been fooled. She was very familiar with the various screen emotions he had perfected in his time. This one came right out of an old 1960s movie in which he had played the kindly, street-hawking Santa Claus falsely charged with retaining the money he'd collected for the poor.

“Grandfather, you haven't been
poor
since you were thirty. Not that I don't admire the hard work you put in to achieve the financial position you've attained. You know I do. I just don't want to feel the clout of your money controlling my life.”