Under the Christmas Star Page 17

  “I don’t want bonding time,” said Beau, grinding his teeth. “I want you to finish the remodel and host the humongous Christmas party you invited the entire community to.”

  “You don’t want me to get married?” Sad baby deer and kicked puppies didn’t sound nearly as pitiful as Elizabeth did in that moment. Beau raised an eyebrow. Seemed like Elizabeth pulled out all the stops and went for full manipulation mode. He felt flattered. Sort of.

  “No, of course not,” said Beau, running a hand over his face. He definitely wanted her married.

  “Oh, good.” Her business tone snapped back on.

  Beau rolled his eyes. Yep, definitely manipulative. “Glad you think so, sis.” He silently wished Chris good luck.

  “Now, now. You’ll do fine. I’ve got an entire three-ring binder full of all the plans, contractor phone numbers, swatches. Everything from A to Z that’s supposed to happen from now until Christmas. Think of it as a recipe. Just follow the directions and voilà.”

  “I hate cooking,” said Beau, not caring if he sounded grumpy or not. She’d just dumped a ton more work on him. The work already on his plate would keep him busy until spring. How was he supposed to do her share too?

  Maybe he could hire someone else to do it. He perked up. “On second thought, I’ll do it. I really am happy for you, sis. Really. Congratulations and all that.”

  “Uh. Well. Thank you,” said Elizabeth. “I think. Are you sure? Because I could…”

  “Seriously. I got this,” said Beau, breaking in. “You just go have fun and send lots of photos.” He mentally patted himself on the back at the brilliance of hiring an event coordinator. The party would be perfect, and he wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

  “Okay, well, I have to go.” He could hear a horn honk in the background. “Chris is waiting for me. Love you. And thanks, big brother. You’re the bestest.”

  “Be safe.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. She only called him ‘big brother’ when she got what she wanted. His amusement lasted for about five minutes when he remembered his “honey-do list” had just doubled in size.

  He sighed and reached over to turn the radio back up again, not paying much attention to the curve in the road. A flash of white jumped out at him, and Beau reflexively jerked the wheel to the side, sending the truck into a slide toward the edge of the road and the massive pines beyond.

  The hard, wet asphalt pressed up against Shelby’s jaw and cheekbone. She wasn’t dead. Thank you, God! The white truck swerved to the left as she threw herself away from it. I can’t believe that worked. A laugh bubbled up. What if that was Sam? He had a white truck, too. The laughter died immediately. Got to get off this road, now. She rolled over onto her back, not suppressing the painful groan as she did. The truck may have missed her, but the road certainly hadn’t.

  She tried to move faster, but the burning sensations along her right side made it impossible. Shelby pushed herself up into a sitting position and screeched as a sharp pain lanced through her hands. She cradled the palm of her hand against her chest and tried to assess the damage. It was too dark to see how bad it was. Where was that stupid flashlight?

  It only took her a second to locate the cause of her current predicament. Rather than standing up, Shelby scooted over and stretched her hurt hand into its light. The sight made her want to scream at the unfairness of it all. Her palm was scraped and bleeding with bits of what looked like pavement stuck in the deeper cuts. It didn’t look like she’d be sketching or painting until it healed. A wave of misery swamped her as she checked for damage on her left hand.

  It was scraped but not nearly as badly as her right hand. Maybe she could learn to be ambidextrous. The image of her wielding a paintbrush in each hand startled a harsh laugh from her throat. She wasn’t da Vinci.

  Snorting at the thought, Shelby pushed herself off the road, wincing as she found her feet. Putting weight on her right side caused a shooting pain down her hip. If she was a mess, what kind of condition was the truck’s driver in?

  The taillights were still on, a solid red that lit up the surrounding area like a macabre scene from a horror film. Shelby shivered at the mental picture but summoned up her courage, wished for a working cell phone, and limped toward the truck.

  It had slid off the road into the ditch, front lights shining into the dark forest. As she got closer, the details of the truck didn’t match Sam’s old white one. This was a different make and model, and silver rather than white.

  She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Not Sam. With more confidence, she took stock of what she was seeing. None of the doors were open, and there wasn’t any movement. Maybe the driver had been knocked out. What if there were children in the truck? Or an entire family on their way home?

  All dead.

  The sudden, horrible thought stopped her cold in her tracks. What if she been the cause of someone else’s death? Her chest constricted. She prayed that wasn’t the case, despite the truck remaining still. She stayed where she was, shivering so hard her teeth chattered. All she needed to do was look inside the cab. Scenario after scenario played like a movie on the big screen of her mind.

  Shelby squeezed her eyes shut, before covering them with her scraped hands. It helped hide the truck from view, but not from her mind. Why did God curse me with such an active imagination?

  A sudden crack and thunk from the truck popped her eyes open. She limped as fast as she could toward the driver’s side. Maybe the driver was alive after all. Before she could move forward to help, the driver side door fell open and bounced back on its hinges. A man’s hand whipped out to catch the door before it slammed shut. He pushed the door open so that it wouldn’t slam back in his face and then retreated back into the truck. Moments later, he half clambered, half fell out of the cab onto the side of the road.

  Shelby watched with a mix of awe and terror as the driver unfolded himself. His head was nearly at the same height as the cab. Shelby got the impression, by the weak light of the cab, that he had a clean-shaven jaw and the corner of his eye had plenty of smile lines. There was a bit of gray at the temples of his hair, which needed to be cut, as it curled around his ears and touched his collar.

  She found it much more attractive than she should have considering he nearly killed her on the road. He was definitely not a potential boyfriend.

  He held onto the door for a moment to balance himself, patted his head, looked up, and sighed. He dove back into the cab, only cowboy boots showing. Was he alone? Shelby tensed as she realized, belatedly, that she was a woman by herself and injured to boot. Not the best situation to be in. The man scooted out of the cab and dusted off a Stetson before placing it on his head. At least it’s not a gun.

  The man adjusted the hat once, winced, and looked straight at her. The intensity of his gaze etched itself into her imagination, and her fingers itched for her paints and canvas. Brooding man, backlit by the truck lights shining forest? Definitely a great subject.

  He strode toward her, and all musing fled. The corners of his downturned mouth did not look as if he wanted to sit for her. She backed up until she was about five feet away from the truck’s bumper.

  He stepped toward the end of the truck bed and looked both ways. Shelby realized she had just put herself back into the road. Stupid. She limped toward the side, keeping one wary eye on the stranger. He took a few steps in her direction, hands out with palms down.

  “Hey there,” he said. His calm voice still carried through the noise of the weather. ‘Are you ok? Injuries?’

  She studied him. The heavy jacket he wore covered a plaid collared shirt, one button open at the neck. The tail of a tie hung out from the coat pocket. No big buckle like she saw other men in town wear. Work boots instead of cowboy boots. His hand rested on the tailgate of his truck.

  “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t see you. I just want to make sure you’re ok. Do you need medical attention?”

  The frown on his face deepened and his eyebrows low
ered. He looked concerned. But still. He was a stranger.

  “I’m fine, no thanks to you.” She took a step back. “Don’t come any further. I don’t know you from Adam.”

  He scratched his chin. “Fair point. Let’s start over. I’m Beau Wright. And you are…?”

  “Uh…” Shelby didn’t want to give him her name. He was a stranger after all, but she didn’t want to lie either. “Shelby Matthews.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Shelby,” said Beau, the corner of his mouth quirked up and the smile changed his face completely. “Now we’re not strangers.”

  Shelby’s breath caught. How could she capture that smile in a painting?

  “Let’s see. Are you injured?” The smile was still there, but he’d tipped his head to the side. “Need a ride home? A young girl like yourself shouldn’t be walking in a rainstorm. Your parents will be worried about you.”

  All thoughts of painting his smile fled, and she could feel the blush racing along her cheeks. Why did everyone assume she was sixteen? It must be her five-foot-two height. She had to start wearing heels, or elevator boots.

  “I hurt my hand when I fell,” she ground out, ignoring his comment about her age. “And yes, I need a ride home.”

  Beau jerked his thumb over to the truck. “I need to get it out of the ditch.” He squatted down to look at the wheels. “Doesn’t look like it’s in too much mud.” He straightened up and opened the passenger side door. “Hop in. I’ve got a med kit in here.”

  She clutched her arms about her, trying to decide whether to trust him or not. He leaned into the truck and pulled out a heavy wool blanket and held it out. That settled it. Shelby moved as fast as her frozen legs would allow and pulled the blanket from his hands. She mumbled a thanks and dodged his open hand to clamber up into the truck on her own. The door shut behind her with a thunk.

  Shelby reveled in the warm air. As the constant shivering lessened, though, the pain from her tumble increased. She flicked the cab light on and took a good look at her hands. As expected, her right hand was worse, the palm raw and bleeding.

  “Looks bad,” said Beau, giving Shelby a start. She hadn’t heard him open the truck door, much less get in. “May I?” He gestured toward her hand. She slowly gave him her hand and, with a gentle touch, he examined it. “I’ll clean it up, but you may want to have a doctor check it out, just in case.” He glanced up and did a double take.

  After a few seconds, Shelby wiggled in her seat, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “See something you like?”

  “Uh, no. I mean, yes. No, I mean, you’re a lot older than I thought.” His neck flushed red and crept toward his cheeks. “That’s not exactly what I meant to say.”

  “It’s okay. I get that a lot from people.” Shelby shrugged. “I guess it’s the hair. Maybe the nose ring? I don’t know.”

  “You’re the first person I’ve met with purple hair,” said Beau as he bent back over her hand. He snapped the med kit open and pulled out an alcohol swab. “This might sting a bit.”

  “Really?” Shelby sucked in a breath as he swept the burning liquid across her palm. “Surely not with all the tourists Bristlecone gets.”

  Beau chuckled. “Grew up here and been in the military, but you’re right. I’ve seen some pretty wild hair. Never did meet any of them, though.”

  Silence fell as he quickly finished up bandaging her hand. Her hand looked like it might belong to a mummy, but at least she didn’t have to worry about infection. Not with all the alcohol he rubbed into it. She wiggled her fingers to loosen the bandages some.

  Beau snapped the med kit closed and tossed it on the back seat. “Let’s see if we can get this beast out of the mud.” He put the stick shift in gear and began to alternate between forward and reverse. After a few moments of rocking back and forth, the truck shot backward onto the road. He put in gear, and they headed toward Bristlecone and home.

  “So which way are we going?” Beau put the truck into first gear and guided it to the edge of the road. He glanced over at Shelby, who was studying the poor wrap job he’d done on her hands. Her pansy-bright hair dried into curls along her temples. “Back towards the motel…?”

  “No!” Shelby’s back straightened and pressed against the door. “I don’t want to go back there.”

  “Any reason why not?” Her insistence was odd, considering what Beau knew of Sam Pavey. Although, if she’d had a run in with Dana, that might explain it. Most people avoided working for the Paveys because of Dana’s legendary temper. Every once in a while, a stranger needing a job would get hired on at the Pineridge and quit nearly as quickly. “Do we need to call Sheriff Morton?”

  She shook her head, nearly dry strands falling against her cheek. She shoved the errant strand of hair behind her ear. “No, we do not need to call Sheriff Morton. It’s nothing that I can’t take care of myself.” He didn’t quite believe her, but she was pretty earnest.

  “If you’re sure…”

  “I live that way,” said Shelby, not answering his question. She didn’t want help, and he couldn’t force it on her. He wasn’t sure why it irritated him so much. Maybe he didn’t like Sam Pavey or the way he treated his employees? Shelby pulled the blanket closer about her shoulders. Maybe.

  Beau put the truck into first and headed in the direction of town. “Which part of town, Shelby? I can drop you anywhere.” He took another quick glance at her. “Maybe we can stop by the diner and have a burger? You look like you could use a good meal.”

  Shelby stilled and then turned away. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Oh. I just thought you might be hungry,” said Beau, wondering when he had begun to babble rather than converse with women. Maybe his dad was right. He needed to get out more. “I provide the beef to the diner. You know, a ranch to table thing.”

  She shrugged, the blanket slipping over her shoulder. Apparently, she wasn’t impressed with his concern for the environment. He wasn’t either, really, but his sister said that it would help with public relations. Unfortunately, she hadn’t mentioned that it also came with other useless events that he’d sooner forget about.

  “I’ll eat when I get home. Turn right onto Cottonwood Lane.”

  “Cottonwood Lane?” He knew where it was, anyone going out of town had to pass by it. Why did he feel like he knew there was something more about it? He racked his brain for an answer.

  “Yeah. I’m at Cottonwood Cottage,” said Shelby with a small snort. “Silly, isn’t it? Using a name like that twice? Must have been really important to whoever named it.”

  The answer popped into his head. Cottonwood Cottage. Tom Morris’ old place, before he ran off with Anne all those years ago. If he hadn’t been driving Beau would have slapped his forehead. Of course. Anne Morris had moved back earlier in the year and brought a young woman with her. Most people thought the girl was odd, but no one questioned her devotion. Elizabeth had even made a comment about how the girl—Shelby—stood up for Anne when a few of the older ladies at the thrift shop had been less than kind.

  Beau had never bothered to ask Elizabeth about Shelby or Anne. He didn’t even know if Elizabeth had welcomed her home or not. Probably not. Their family history was complicated at best.

  Shelby’s stiff shoulders relaxed as they turned onto Cottonwood Lane. Her whole countenance smoothed out and the pinched look left her face. Beau tried very hard not to notice how lovely that made her. Moving on from that train of thought. A few minutes later they pulled up to the cottage. It was mostly as he remembered it.

  “Something’s not right.” Shelby leaned forward, a frown on her face. Her hand pulled on the door handle. “The lights are off.”

  She flung the door open and bolted from the truck. Beau muttered under his breath and threw the truck into neutral before jumping out after her.

  “Wait, Shelby!” A few long strides and he was at her side, pulling her back. “Are you insane? You just said something’s wrong.”

  “Let go of me,” said Shelby, wriggling
in his grasp. He let her go but flung an arm in front of her to keep her on the porch. “What if Anne’s in trouble? Or there’s an ax murderer in there?”

  “You just said something is wrong,” repeated Beau, jerking his head back at the truck. “Remember? That ax murderer?”

  Shelby’s eyes went round. Finally, he had gotten through to her. He relaxed his arm a bit. She ducked under it and threw open the door.

  “Anne! Anne!” She rushed through the door and hit the light switch. “Where are you?”

  Beau, blinded by the sudden light, grit his teeth and hurried after her. “It’ll serve you right if there is a rabid murderer in here.”

  A gasp and a squeak sent him into overdrive and he nearly fell over her as he entered the short hallway. She was kneeling in front of an upended box with silver tinsel, white lace ribbon, and red bead strings scattered around it. “Did you trip?” He knelt on one knee and righted the box before picking up the spilled items.

  “No, this wasn’t here when I left this morning,” said Shelby, her eyebrows lowered. “Anne’s been wanting to bring down the Christmas decorations for the past few days. I’ve just been so busy I haven’t been able to bring them down for her.”

  “I don’t think she’s here, Shelby.” Beau put the last piece of tinsel in the box and shoved the flaps together so they wouldn’t pop open. He picked it up. “Where to?”

  “Oh.” She pushed herself off the floor and stood for a second, head cocked to the side. “Maybe in the living room?”

  “Back the way we came in then.” He took as step out of the short hallway and looked over his shoulder. “Maybe she left a note? My sister tends to do that to me.”

  “Maybe,” said Shelby, and watched her disappear into an open doorway. He could just see the end of a bed covered with a thick quilt. He took the box into the living room and sat it down on the coffee table.

  The whole room was like stepping into one those magazine spreads Elizabeth was forever looking at. He hadn’t noticed on his way in, between being blinded by the light and Shelby’s discovery. He took a turn. It wasn’t just Pinterest-perfect—another term picked up from Elizabeth—but it felt like a home. Anne had done a great job with the old cabin. It certainly didn’t look like the abandoned hunting cabin from his youth.