A Stone Creek Christmas

Sophie loved New York. She planned to attend college there, and then medical school, and eventually set up a practice as a neurosurgeon. No small-time goals for his kid, but then, the doctor gene had come from Kat, not him. Kat. As beautiful as a model and as smart as they come, she’d been a surgeon, specializing in pediatric cardiology. She’d given all that up, swearing it was only temporary, to have Sophie. To travel the world with her footloose husband…

“But then I wouldn’t get to see Butterpie,” Sophie protested. A raw giggle escaped her. “I don’t think they’d let her stay at the Waldorf with us, even if we paid a pet deposit.”

Tanner pictured the pony nibbling on the ubiquitous mongo flower arrangement in the hotel’s sedate lobby, with its Cole Porter piano, dropping a few road apples on the venerable old carpets. And he grinned. “Probably not.”

“Don’t you want me with you, Dad?” Sophie spoke in a small voice. “Is that it? My friend Cleta says her mom won’t let her come home for Christmas because she’s got a new boyfriend and she doesn’t want a kid throwing a wet blanket on the action.”

Cleta. Who named a poor, defenseless kid Cleta?

And what kind of person put “action” before their own child, especially at Christmas?

Tanner closed his eyes, walking toward the dark house he didn’t know his way around in yet, since he’d spent the first couple of nights at Brad’s, waiting for the power to be turned on and the phones hooked up. Guilt stabbed through his middle. “I love you more than anything or anybody else in the world,” he said gruffly, and he meant it. Practically everything he did was geared to provide for Sophie, to protect her from the nameless, faceless forces who hated him. “Trust me, there’s no action going on around here.”

“I’m going to run away, then,” she said resolutely.

“Good luck,” Tanner replied after sucking in a deep breath. “That school is hermetically sealed, kiddo. You know that as well as I do.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

Losing you. The kid had no way of knowing how big, and how dangerous, the world was. She’d been just seven years old when Kat was killed, and barely remembered the long flight home from northern Africa, private bodyguards occupying the seats around them, the sealed coffin, the media blitz.

“U.S. Contractor Targeted by Insurgent Group,” one headline had read. “Wife of American Businessman Killed in Possible Revenge Shooting.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Tanner lied.

“It’s because of what happened to Mom,” Sophie insisted. “That’s what Aunt Tessa says.”

“Aunt Tessa ought to mind her own business.”

“If you don’t come and get me, I’m breaking out of here. And there’s no telling where I’ll go.”

Tanner had reached the old-fashioned wraparound porch. The place had a certain charm, though it needed a lot of fixing up. He could picture Sophie there all too easily, running back and forth to the barn, riding a yellow bus to school, wearing jeans instead of uniforms. Tacking up posters on her bedroom walls and holding sleepovers with ordinary friends instead of junior celebrities and other mini-jet-setters.

“Don’t try it, Soph,” he said, fumbling with the knob, shouldering open the heavy front door. “You’re fine at Briarwood, and it’s a long way between Connecticut and Arizona.”

“Fine?” Sophie shot back. “This place isn’t in a parallel dimension, you know. Things happen. Marissa Worth got ptomaine from the potato salad in the cafeteria, just last week, and had to be airlifted to Walter Reed. Allison Mooreland’s appendix ruptured, and—”

“Soph,” Tanner said, flipping on the lights in the entryway.

Which way was the kitchen?

His room was upstairs someplace, but where?

He hung up his hat, shrugged off his leather coat, tossed it in the direction of an ornate brass peg designed for the purpose.

Sophie didn’t say a word. All the way across country, Tanner could feel her holding her breath.

“How’s this? School lets out in May. You can come out here then. Spend the summer. Ride Butterpie all you want.”

“I might be too big to ride her by summer,” Sophie pointed out. Tanner wondered, as he often did, if his daughter wouldn’t make a better lawyer than a doctor. “Thanksgiving is in three days,” she went on in a rush. “Let me come home for that, and if you still don’t think I’m a good kid to have around, I’ll come back to Briarwood for the rest of the year and pretend I love it.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good kid, Soph.” In the living room by then, Tanner paused to consult a yellowed wall calendar left behind by the ranch’s previous owner. Unfortunately, it was several years out of date.

Sophie didn’t answer.

“Thanksgiving is in three days?” Tanner muttered, dismayed. Living the way he did, he tended to lose track of holidays, but it figured that if Christmas was already a factor, turkey day had to be bearing down hard.

“I could still get a ticket if I flew standby,” Sophie said hopefully.

Tanner closed his eyes. Let his forehead rest against the wall where a million little tack holes testified to all the calendars that had gone before this one. “That’s a long way to travel for a turkey special in some greasy spoon,” he said quietly. He knew the kid was probably picturing a Norman Rockwell scenario—old woman proudly presenting a golden-brown gobbler to a beaming family crowded around a table.

“Someone will invite you to Thanksgiving dinner,” Sophie said, with a tone of bright, brittle bravery in her voice, “and I could just tag along.”

He checked his watch, started for the kitchen. If it wasn’t where he thought it was, he’d have to search until he found it, because he needed coffee. Hold the Jack Daniel’s.

“You’ve been watching the Hallmark Channel again,” he said wearily, his heart trying to scramble up his windpipe into the back of his throat. There were so many things he couldn’t give Sophie—a stable home, a family, an ordinary childhood. But he could keep her safe, and that meant staying at Briarwood.

A long, painful pause ensued.

“You’re not going to give in, are you?” Sophie asked finally, practically in a whisper.

“Are you just figuring that out, shortstop?” Tanner retorted, trying for a light tone.

She huffed out a weight-of-the-world sigh. “Okay, then,” she replied, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Chapter Two

It was a pity Starcross Ranch had fallen into such a state of disrepair, Olivia thought as she steered the Suburban down the driveway to the main road, Ginger beside her in the passenger seat, Rodney in the back. The place bordered her rental to the west, and although she passed the sagging rail fences and the tilting barn every day on her way to town, that morning the sight seemed even lonelier than usual.

She braked for the stop sign, looked both ways. No cars coming, but she didn’t pull out right away. The vibe hit her before she could shift out of neutral and hit the gas.

“Oh, no,” she said aloud.

Ginger, busy surveying the snowy countryside, offered no comment.

“Did you hear that?” Olivia persisted.

Ginger turned to look at her. Gave a little yip. Today, evidently, she was pretending to be an ordinary dog—as if any dog was ordinary—incapable of intelligent conversation.

The call was coming from the ancient barn on the Starcross property.

Olivia took a moment to rest her forehead on the cold steering wheel. She’d known Brad’s friend the big-time contractor was moving in, of course, and she’d seen at least one moving truck, but she hadn’t known there were any animals involved.

“I could ignore this,” she said to Ginger.

“Or not,” Ginger answered.

“Oh, hell,” Olivia said. Then she signaled for a left turn—Stone Creek was in the other direction—and headed for the decrepit old gate marking the entrance to Starcross Ranch.

The gate stood wide open. No sheep or cattle then, probably, Olivia reasoned. Even greenhorns knew livestock tended to stray at every opportunity. Still, some kind of critter was sending out a psychic SOS from that pitiful barn.

They bumped up the rutted driveway, fishtailing a little on the slick snow and the layer of ice underneath, and Olivia tooted her horn. A spiffy new red pickup stood in front of the house, looking way too fancy for the neighborhood, but nobody appeared to see who was honking.

Muttering, Olivia brought the Suburban to a rattling stop in front of the barn, got out and shut the door hard.

“Hello?” she called.

No answer. Not from a human being, anyway.

The animal inside the barn amped up the psychic summons.

Olivia sprinted toward the barn door, glancing upward once at the sagging roof as she entered, with some trepidation. The place ought to be condemned. “Hello?” she repeated.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light, since the weather was dazzle-bright, though cold enough to crystallize her bone marrow.

“Over here,” said a silent voice, deep and distinctly male.

Olivia ventured deeper into the shadows. The ruins of a dozen once-sturdy stalls lined the sawdust-and-straw aisle. She found two at the very back, showing fresh-lumber signs of recent restoration efforts.

A tall palomino regarded her from the stall on the right, tossed his head as if to indicate the one opposite.

Olivia went to that stall and looked over the half gate to see a small, yellowish-white pony gazing up at her in befuddled sorrow. The horse lay forlornly in fresh wood shavings, its legs folded underneath.

Although she was technically trespassing, Olivia couldn’t resist unlatching the gate and slipping inside. She crouched beside the pony, stroked its nose, patted its neck, gave its forelock an affectionate tug.

“Hey, there,” she said softly. “What’s all the fuss about?”

A slight shudder went through the little horse.

“She misses Sophie,” the palomino said, from across the aisle.

Wondering who Sophie was, Olivia examined the pony while continuing to pet her. The animal was sound, well fed and well cared for in general.

The palomino nickered loudly, and that should have been a cue, but Olivia was too focused on the pony to pay attention.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing sneaking around in my barn?” demanded a low, no-nonsense voice.

Olivia whirled, and toppled backward into the straw. Looked up to see a dark-haired man glowering down at her from over the stall gate. His eyes matched his blue denim jacket, and his Western hat looked a little too new.

“Who’s Sophie?” she asked, getting to her feet, dusting bits of straw off her jeans.

He merely folded his arms and glared. He’d asked the first question and, apparently, he intended to have the first answer. From the set of his broad shoulders, she guessed he’d wait for it until hell froze over if necessary.

Olivia relented, since she had rounds to make and a reindeer owner to track down. She summoned up her best smile and stuck out her hand. “Olivia O’Ballivan,” she said. “I’m your neighbor—sort of—and…” And I heard your pony calling out for help? No, she couldn’t say that. It was all too easy to imagine the reaction she’d get. “And since I’m a veterinarian, I always like to stop by when somebody new moves in. Offer my services.”

The blue eyes sized her up, clearly found her less than statuesque. “You must deal mostly with cats and poodles,” he said. “As you can see, I have horses.”

Olivia felt the sexist remark like the unexpected back-snap of a rubber band, stinging and sudden. Adrenaline coursed through her, and she had to wait a few moments for it to subside. “This horse,” she said when she’d regained her dignity, indicating the pony with a gesture of one hand, “is depressed.”

One dark eyebrow quirked upward, and the hint of a smile played at the corner of Tanner Quinn’s supple-looking mouth. That had to be who he was, since he’d said “I have horses,” not “we” or “they.” Anyhow, he didn’t look like an ordinary ranch hand.

“Does she need to take happy pills?” he asked.

“She wants Sophie,” the palomino said, though of course Mr. Quinn didn’t hear.

“Who’s Sophie?” Olivia repeated calmly.

Quinn hesitated for a long moment. “My daughter,” he finally said. “How do you happen to know her name?”

Olivia thought fast. “My brother must have mentioned her,” she answered, heading for the stall door and hoping he’d step back so she could pass.

He didn’t. Instead, he stood there like a support beam, his forearms resting on top of the door. “O’Ballivan,” he mused. “You’re Brad’s sister? The one who’ll be running the shelter when it’s finished?”

“I think I just said Brad is my brother,” Olivia replied, somewhat tartly. She felt strangely shaken and a little cornered, which was odd, because she wasn’t claustrophobic and despite her unremarkable height of five feet three inches, she knew how to defend herself. “Now, would you mind letting me out of this stall?”

Quinn stepped back, even executed a sweeping bow.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” the palomino fretted. “Butterpie needs help.”

“Give me a second here,” Olivia told the concerned horse. “I’ll make sure Butterpie is taken care of, but it’s going to take time.” An awkward moment passed before she realized she’d spoken out loud, instead of using mental e-mail.

Quinn blocked her way again, planting himself in the middle of the barn aisle, and refolded his arms. “Now,” he said ominously, “I know I’ve never mentioned that pony’s name to anybody in Stone Creek, including Brad.”

Olivia swallowed, tried for a smile but slid right down the side of it without catching hold. “Lucky guess,” she said, and started around him.

He caught hold of her arm to stop her, but let go immediately.

Olivia stared up at him. The palomino was right; she couldn’t leave, no matter how foolish she might seem to Tanner Quinn. Butterpie was in trouble.

“Who are you?” Tanner insisted gruffly.

“I told you. I’m Olivia O’Ballivan.”

Tanner took off his hat with one hand, shoved the other through his thick, somewhat shaggy hair. The light was better in the aisle, since there were big cracks in the roof to let in the silvery sunshine, and she saw that he needed a shave.

He gave a heavy sigh. “Could we start over, here?” he asked. “If you’re who you say you are, then we’re going to be working together on the shelter project. That’ll be a whole lot easier if we get along.”

“Butterpie misses your daughter,” Olivia said. “Severely. Where is she?”

Tanner sighed again. “Boarding school,” he answered, as though the words had been pried out of him. The denim-colored eyes were still fixed on her face.

“Oh,” Olivia answered, feeling sorry for the pony and Sophie. “She’ll be home for Thanksgiving, though, right? Your daughter, I mean?”

Tanner’s jawline looked rigid, and his eyes didn’t soften. “No,” he said.

“No?” Olivia’s spirits, already on the dip, deflated completely.

He stepped aside. Before, he’d blocked her way. Now he obviously wanted her gone, ASAP.

It was Olivia’s turn with the folded arms and stubborn stance. “Then I have to explain that to the horse,” she said.

Tanner blinked. “What?”

She turned, went back to Butterpie’s stall, opened the door and stepped inside. “Sophie’s away at boarding school,” she told the animal silently. “And she can’t make it home for Thanksgiving. You’ve got to cheer up, though. I’m sure she’ll be here for Christmas.”

“What are you doing?” Tanner asked, sounding testy again.

“Telling Butterpie that Sophie will be home at Christmas and she’s got to cheer up in the meantime.” He’d asked the question; let him deal with the answer.

“Are you crazy?”

“Probably,” Olivia said. Then, speaking aloud this time, she told Butterpie, “I have to go now. I have a lost reindeer in the back of my Suburban, and I need to do some X-rays and then get him settled in over at my brother’s place until I can find his owner. But I’ll be back to visit soon, I promise.”

She could almost hear Tanner grinding his back teeth.

“You should stand up,” Olivia told the pony. “You’ll feel better on your feet.”

The animal gave a snorty sigh and slowly stood.

Tanner let out a sharp breath.

Olivia patted Butterpie’s neck. “Excellent,” she said. “That’s the spirit.”

“You have a reindeer in the back of your Suburban?” Tanner queried, keeping pace with Olivia as she left the barn.

“See for yourself,” she replied, waving one hand toward the rig.

Tanner approached the vehicle, and Ginger barked a cheerful greeting as he passed the passenger-side window. He responded with a distracted wave, and Olivia decided there might be a few soft spots in his steely psyche after all.

Rubbing off dirt with one gloved hand, Tanner peered through the back windows.

“I’ll be damned,” he said. “It is a reindeer.”

“Sure enough,” Olivia said. Ginger was all over the inside of the rig, barking her brains out. She liked good-looking men, the silly dog. Actually, she liked any man. “Ginger! Sit!”

Ginger sat, but she looked like the poster dog for a homelesspets campaign.

“Where did you get a reindeer?” Tanner asked, drawing back from the window to take a whole new look at Olivia.

Ridiculously, she wished she’d worn something remotely feminine that day, instead of her usual jeans, flannel work shirt and mud-speckled down-filled vest. Not that she actually owned anything remotely feminine.

“I found him,” she said, opening the driver’s door. “Last night, at the bottom of my driveway.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Tanner smiled, and the effect was seismic. His teeth were white and straight, and she’d have bet that was natural enamel, not a fancy set of veneers. “Okay,” he said, stretching the word out a way. “Tell me, Dr. O’Ballivan—how does a reindeer happen to turn up in Arizona?”

“When I find out,” Olivia said, climbing behind the wheel, “I’ll let you know.”

Before she could shut the door, he stood in the gap. Pushed his hat to the back of his head and treated her to another wicked grin. “I guess there’s a ground-breaking ceremony scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”

Olivia nodded, feeling unaccountably flustered.

Ginger was practically drooling.

“Nice dog,” Tanner said.

“Be still, my heart,” Ginger said.

“Shut up,” Olivia told the dog.

Tanner drew back his head, but the grin lurked in his eyes.

Olivia blushed. “I wasn’t talking to you,” she told Tanner.

He looked as though he wanted to ask if she’d been taking her medications regularly. Fortunately for him, he didn’t. He merely tugged at the brim of his too-new hat and stepped back.

Olivia pulled the door closed, started up the engine, ground the gearshift into first and made a wide 360 in front of the barn.

“That certainly went well,” she told Ginger. “We’re going to be in each other’s hip pockets while the shelter is being built, and he thinks I’m certifiable!”

Ginger didn’t answer.

Half an hour later, the X-rays were done and the blood had been drawn. Rodney was good to go.

Tanner stood in the middle of the barnyard, staring after that wreck of a Suburban and wondering what the hell had just hit him. It felt like a freight train.

His cell phone rang, breaking the spell.

He pulled it from his jacket pocket and squinted at the caller ID panel. Ms. Wiggins, the executive principal at Briarwood. She’d certainly taken her time returning his call—he’d left her a message at sunrise.

“Tanner Quinn,” he said automatically.

“Hello, Mr. Quinn,” Ms. Wiggins said. A former CIA agent, Janet Wiggins was attractive, if you liked the armed-and-dangerous type. Tanner didn’t, particularly, but the woman had a spotless service record, and a good résumé. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call sooner—meetings, you know.”

“I’m worried about Sophie,” he said. A cold wind blew down off the mountain looming above Stone Creek, biting into his ears, but he didn’t head for the house. He just stood there in the barnyard, letting the chill go right through him.

“I gathered that from your message, Mr. Quinn,” Ms. Wiggins said smoothly. She was used to dealing with fretful parents, especially the guilt-plagued ones. “The fact is, Sophie is not the only student remaining at Briarwood over the holiday season. There are several others. We’re taking all the stay-behinds to New York by train to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade and dine at the Four Seasons. You would know that if you read our weekly newsletters. We send them by e-mail every Friday afternoon.”

I just met a woman who talks to animals—and thinks they talk back.

Tanner kept his tone even. “I read your newsletters faithfully, Ms. Wiggins,” he said. “And I’m not sure I like having my daughter referred to as a ‘stay-behind.’”

Ms. Wiggins trilled out a very un-CIA-like giggle. “Oh, we don’t use that term in front of the pupils, Mr. Quinn,” she assured him. “Sophie is fine. She just tends to be a little overdramatic, that’s all. In fact, I’m encouraging her to sign up for our thespian program, beginning next term—”

“You’re sure she’s all right?” Tanner broke in.

“She’s one of our most emotionally stable students. It’s just that, well, kids get a little sentimental around the holidays.”

Don’t we all? Tanner thought. He always skipped Thanksgiving and Christmas both, if he couldn’t spend them with Sophie. Up until now it had been easy enough, given that he’d been out of the country last year, and the year before that. Sophie had stayed with Tessa, and he’d ordered all her gifts online.

Remembering that gave him a hollow feeling in the middle of his gut.

“I know Sophie is stable,” he said patiently. “That doesn’t mean she’s completely okay.”

Ms. Wiggins paused eloquently before answering. “Well, if you would like Sophie to come home for Thanksgiving, we’d certainly be glad to make the arrangements.”

Tanner wanted to say yes. Instantly. Book a plane. Put her on board. I don’t care what it costs. But it would only lead to another tearful parting when it came time for Sophie to return to school, and Tanner couldn’t bear another one of those. Not just yet, anyway.

“It’s best if Sophie stays there,” he said.

“I quite agree,” Ms. Wiggins replied. “Last-minute trips home can be very disruptive to a child.”

“You’ll let me know if there are any problems?”

“Of course I will,” Ms. Wiggins assured him. If there was just a hint of condescension in her tone, he supposed he deserved it. “We at Briarwood pride ourselves on monitoring our students’ mental health as well as their academic achievement. I promise you, Sophie is not traumatized.”

Tanner wished he could be half as sure of that as Ms. Wiggins sounded. A few holiday platitudes were exchanged, and the call ended. Tanner snapped his phone shut and dropped it into his coat pocket.

Then he turned back toward the barn.

Could a horse get depressed?

Nah, he decided.

But a man sure as hell could.

A snowman stood in the center of the yard at the homeplace when Olivia drove in, and there was one of those foldout turkeys taped to the front door. Brad came out of the barn, walking toward her, just as Meg, her sister-in-law, stepped onto the porch, smiling a welcome.

“How do you like our turkey?” she called. “We’re really getting into the spirit this year.” Her smile turned wistful. “It’s strange, without Carly here, but she’s having such a good time.”

Grinning, Olivia gestured toward Brad. “He’ll do,” she teased.