Rescued by Christmas

By Erika Marks

All pop star Jackson Wilder wants this Christmas is a few weeks out of the spotlight in a rented cabin in the Colorado mountains. But when a blizzard leaves him stranded on a country road on his way out of town—and still wearing the Santa costume from a last-minute commercial shoot—he takes shelter in a nearby horse barn to wait out the storm.

Miranda O’Keefe will be lucky to get a wreath up on her door this year. Between raising her six year-old son, Ollie, running her vet practice, and getting her horse rescue project off the ground—Christmas will have to take a back seat. But when Ollie tells Miranda he’s found Santa Claus asleep in their horse barn—and has asked Santa to heal his beloved rescue horse Twisty—the self-reliant single mother finds herself asking for a stranger’s help to grant her son’s Christmas wish.

But when attraction turns to affection, will love come to the rescue this holiday for Miranda and Jackson too?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: Sep 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781949068832

Erika Marks

Erika Marks is a women’s fiction writer and the author of Little Gale Gumbo, The Mermaid Collector, The Guest House and It Comes In Waves (July, 2014). On the long and winding road to becoming published, she worked many different jobs, including carpenter, cake decorator, art director, and illustrator. But if pressed, she might say it was her brief tenure with a match-making service in Los Angeles after college that set her on the path to writing love stories (not that there isn’t romance in frosting or power tools!) A native New Englander, she now makes her home in Charlotte, NC, with her husband, a native New Orleanian who has taught her to make a wicked gumbo, and their two little mermaids.

Book preview

Author

Chapter One

Denver, Colorado

Thursday night—Three weeks to Christmas

"Jacks, are you sure you won’t wait until morning to leave?"

Jackson Wilder tossed his agent a warning glance over his shoulder as Ted Carlisle followed him into his dressing room and closed the door behind them.

Not a chance. After a long day of filming holiday commercial spots, all Jackson wanted was to get out of this big red oven mitt and on the road to his mountain hideaway. Two glorious weeks off the grid, where he could pretend to be the unknown California beach bum he was before his break-out single, Under Your Skin, made him one of the country’s hottest pop stars five years ago. And no stalled snowstorm was going to mess it up for him.

I don’t know how these department store Santas do it. Jackson yanked off his fur-lined hat and gave his sprayed-white hair a hard ruffling. It’s like walking around in a giant sauna.

I still say you should keep the beard, said Ted. Facial hair is hot right now.

It’s hot, all right, Jackson muttered. "As in boiling." He scratched at his whiskered jaw—the one part of this Santa Claus costume he wouldn’t be able to remove until he got to the cabin. Jackson only hoped the white would wash out as easily as the makeup people promised. They’d even managed to coat his eyebrows with the awful stuff.

I don’t know why you’re complaining, Ted said. You told me you wanted to make a difference this Christmas. A beard is different.

That’s not what I meant and you know it, said Jackson, tugging at the collar of his Santa suit for relief. I wanted to do something to give back this year. Something meaningful.

Ted’s mouth curled into a smirk. "If it makes you feel any better, fifteen percent of this singing Santa deal is pretty meaningful to me."

Jackson chuckled. You’re all heart.

Speaking of hearts… Ted folded his arms. Mine is still dangerously close to stopping at the thought of you driving yourself up that mountain.

Relax, will you? said Jackson. I don’t know why you’re so worried. You said you rented me a good snow truck, right?

"Having a good snow truck is only good if you’ve got a good snow driver, Ted pointed out irritably. And let’s review again how many times you’ve driven in snow?"

Including today? Let’s see… Jackson glanced upward, pretending to deliberate then grinned. Once.

His agent’s lips wrinkled with displeasure, clearly not appreciating the attempt at humor. At least let one of the crew drive you.

Jackson frowned. And have someone else know where I plan to hide out for the next few weeks? Forget it. He reached down to tug off his black boots. Besides, you’re looking at someone who spent their teenage years doing doughnuts in a Jeep on the beach. How different can snow be from sand?

The fact that you are even asking me that question is a problem, Ted muttered, moving to the dressing room window while Jackson struggled to free his other foot. Oh crap.

Jackson straightened. What’s wrong?

His agent squinted through the parted blinds. Better get comfortable. There’s quite a crowd out there waiting for you.

You told me no one knew we were filming here.

Thank the wonders of social media.

Jackson fell back with a defeated groan. So much for a quick getaway.

My advice? Ted pointed to the red Santa hat Jackson had just tossed on the chair. Keep the suit on and go out the side door. Your fans will be looking for Jackson Wilder—not Santa Claus.

It wasn’t the worst idea. As much as Jackson couldn’t wait to get out of this steam bath of a suit, it might be the only way to sneak past. Usually he loved connecting with his fans, but right now all he wanted was to hit the road.

He shoved his feet back into his black boots and yanked the red hat back over his head.

Ted offered a weak smile. Look on the bright side: at least you’ll be warm.

There was that, Jackson supposed as he grabbed his packed duffel and walked with Ted back out into the hallway.

At the side exit, his agent handed him a set of keys. It’s the black Range Rover with the Arizona plates. Call me when you get there, okay? Let me know you didn’t drive off the side of the mountain?

Jackson chuckled. Don’t worry, he said, giving his agent a hard pat on the shoulder. I’ll just let the reindeer steer.

Chapter Two

Friday

Miranda O’Keefe pulled open the oven door and blew out a relieved breath. For someone who’d worked three jobs to put herself through vet school, it was shocking how much pride she took in not burning a batch of gingerbread men.

The kitchen, which usually reeked of take-out Chinese or microwave burritos, now smelled sweetly of cinnamon and cloves, the unmistakable and glorious fragrance of Christmas. She’d even clicked on one of Pandora’s holiday playlists and had Nat King Cole chiming out O Holy Night.

Slipping her hands into a pair of padded oven mitts, Miranda pulled out the two sheets and set them on the top of the stove to cool, taking a moment to savor her uncharacteristically festive behavior. Most Christmases found her madly cutting out store-bought cookie dough Christmas Eve, but here she was, three weeks before the big night, with two dozen gingerbread cookies. So what if it was only because this crazy pop-up blizzard had kept her home from work, and Oliver home from kindergarten? She’d still allow herself a little pat on the back. Especially since this fit of homemaking skills might be her peak for this year’s holiday. Between working full-time, keeping up her horse rescue program Free Spirits, and trying to bring her most recent rescued horse back to health, she’d given up on having a Christmas tree this year—and felt crippling guilt for it.

Cut yourself some slack, will you, girl? her vet tech Temple’s kind command echoed.

Miranda had promised to try but it wasn’t easy. She wasn’t a big fan of self-pity. Lots of women—lots of mothers—had it much worse.

Miranda should know. She met plenty in her line of work—frazzled single mothers who took heat from their bosses because they had to leave early to bring in their sick cats, or dogs, gerbils, geckos—you name it. Mothers who looked as if they hadn’t slept in days, let alone had five minutes to themselves.

Thud! Thwack!

Miranda glanced down the counter to see the source of the banging: her tow-headed, six-year-old son, Oliver, rummaging through their kitchen’s junk drawers, lips tight, face screwed up in deep concentration.

Affection swelled behind her ribs. Who needed Santa Claus when she had all she could ever want for Christmas, this holiday or any holiday, in this remarkable little man?

Hey, bud. What’cha looking for?

Band-Aids, Oliver said without slowing his frantic search. The really, really big ones.

An instinctive flash of motherly panic slowed her steps. Did you cut yourself?

He shook his head, so roughly that his shaggy blond bangs fell over his eyes as he continued to hunt. They’re not for me.

Relief bloomed. Let me guess… She squinted at him. Mr. Moo got a boo-boo?

Oliver swiped his hair out of his eyes and shot her one of his I’m-too-big-for-baby-talk-Mom looks. It’s not for Mr. Moo, Oliver said impatiently, his digging growing more urgent now. It’s for Santa.

Miranda smiled. "Sweetie, I’m pretty sure kids leave cookies for Santa—not Band-Aids," she said gently, gathering the dirty measuring cups and collecting them in the empty mixing bowl.

"I’m not talking about Christmas Eve, Mom. Santa needs them now. Oliver stared at her, his blue eyes practically shaking with desperation. He’s hurt real bad!"

Miranda bit her lip as she walked the dishes to the sink, not daring to hurt his feelings. She nodded calmly instead, forcing her lips to flatten into a somber line. And how would you know that, bud?

"Because I saw him. Just now. In the barn."

The metal bowl fell from her hands and clattered in the sink.

Miranda lunged across the counter for the window curtain and yanked it back, the view of her backyard and the horse barn across the driveway barely visible through the relentless screen of falling snow, and her blood froze.

The barn’s side door swung open.

Hurricane gales couldn’t open that door when she latched it. And in preparation for the storm, at ten thirty last night, she’d latched it.

She came to Oliver and dropped down in front of him, her pulse pounding.

"Ollie…sweetheart…I need you to tell me the truth. No games, no pretend. Is there someone in our barn right now?"

"I told you, Mom. Santa."

She swallowed hard. Santa, right. She managed a cheerful smile and brushed her son’s bangs back from his eyes, even as her heart hammered behind her ribs. "And you say you just saw him?"

Oliver nodded. I went out to check on Twisty, just like you said I could. And Santa was right there, sleeping against the hay. But he’s got this real bad cut on his hand so he needs a Band-Aid…

Panic drowned out her son’s words, Miranda’s brain could hear only one: intruder. Her mind raced with possible actions. She kept a canister of pepper spray in her purse—but that wouldn’t do much if the man was mobile.

She could call Joey, Granite Falls’s sole deputy, but with the snow still piling up, who knew how long it would be before the roads were safe to travel?

Reality shuddered up her spine like a chill: for the next few hours—maybe even days—she was on her own.

And if there was someone hiding out in their barn, Miranda needed to know. Now.

She closed her eyes and pushed out a shaky breath.

Oliver’s light touch brought her back. You don’t have to be scared, Mom. Santa wouldn’t hurt anyone. He can’t even move!

She’d be the judge of that.

Miranda walked to the coatrack by the door and tugged down her thickest parka. More fears ricocheted across her brain as she stuffed her hands into a pair of gloves and pulled on her hood.

Had this intruder hurt Twisty? And what if Oliver was right that this man really was hurt—badly enough that he couldn’t move? Miranda had the tools here to heal, but only animals of the four-legged kind. And with Twisty’s health still so precarious, the last thing she needed