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A Stone Creek Christmas
Linda Lael Miller
A miracle in Stone CreekStone Creek vet Olivia O’Ballivan communicates easily with animals, but men are another story. Especially rugged architect-turned-rancher Tanner Quinn. Olivia’s uncanny bond with animals has him questioning her sanity. Olivia thinks he’s just another arrogant man.Then his twelve-year-old daughter conspires with Olivia to get Tanner into the spirit of Christmas with all the trimmings. But will a holiday miracle transform Tanner into a rancher – and family man – for all seasons?


“Why do you keep calling me ‘Doc’?”
She was nervous. Maybe she sensed that Tanner wanted to kiss her senseless and then take her upstairs to his bed.
“Because you’re a doctor?”
“I have a name.”
“A very beautiful name.”
Olivia grinned and some of the tension eased, which might or might not have been a good thing. “Get a shovel,” she said. “It’s getting deep in here.”
He laughed, pushed away his pie.
“I should go now,” she said, but she looked and sounded uncertain.
Hallelujah, Tanner thought. She was tempted, at least.
“Or you could stay,” he suggested casually.
She gnawed at her lower lip. “Is it just me,” she asked bluntly, “or are there sexual vibes bouncing off the walls?”
“There are definitely vibes,” he confirmed.
“We haven’t even kissed.”
“That would be easy to remedy.”
Linda Lael Miller grew up in rural Washington. The self-confessed barn goddess was inspired to pursue a career as an author after a teacher said the stories she was writing might be good enough to be published.
Linda broke into publishing in the early 1980s. She is now a New York Times bestselling author of more than sixty contemporary, romantic suspense and historical novels, including McKettrick’s Choice, The Man from Stone Creek and Deadly Gamble. When not writing, Linda enjoys riding her horses and playing with her cats and dogs. Through her Linda Lael Miller Scholarships for Women, she provides grants to women who seek to improve their lot in life through education.
For more information about Linda, her scholarships and her novels, visit www.lindalaelmiller.com (http://www.lindalaelmiller.com).

A Stone Creek Christmas
Linda Lael Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Sandi Howlett, dog foster mum, with love.
Thank you.

Chapter One
Sometimes, especially in the dark of night, when pure exhaustion sank Olivia O’Ballivan, DVM, into deep and stuporous sleep, she heard them calling—the finned, the feathered, the four-legged.
Horses, wild or tame, dogs beloved and dogs lost, far from home, cats abandoned alongside country roads because they’d become a problem for someone, or left behind when an elderly owner died.
The neglected, the abused, the unwanted, the lonely.
Invariably, the message was the same: Help me.
Even when Olivia tried to ignore the pleas, telling herself she was only dreaming, she invariably sprang to full wakefulness as though she’d been catapulted from the bottom of a canyon. It didn’t matter how many eighteen-hour days she’d worked, between making stops at farms and ranches all over the county, putting in her time at the veterinary clinic in Stone Creek, overseeing the plans for the new, state-of-the-art shelter her famous big brother, Brad, a country musician, was building with the proceeds from a movie he’d starred in.
Tonight it was a reindeer.
Olivia sat blinking in her tousled bed, trying to catch her breath. Shoved both hands through her short dark hair. Her current foster dog, Ginger, woke up, too, stretching, yawning.
A reindeer?
“O’Ballivan,” she told herself, flinging off the covers to sit up on the edge of the mattress, “you’ve really gone around the bend this time.”
But the silent cry persisted, plaintive and confused.
Olivia only sometimes heard actual words when the animals spoke, though Ginger was articulate—generally, it was more of an unformed concept made up of strong emotion and often images, somehow coalescing into an intuitive imperative. But she could see the reindeer clearly in her mind’s eye, standing on a frozen roadway, bewildered.
She recognized the adjoining driveway as her own. A long way down, next to the tilted mailbox on the main road. The poor creature wasn’t hurt—just lost. Hungry and thirsty, too—and terribly afraid. Easy prey for hungry wolves and coyotes.
“There are no reindeer in Arizona,” Olivia told Ginger, who looked skeptical as she hauled her arthritic yellow Lab/golden retriever self up off her comfy bed in the corner of Olivia’s cluttered bedroom. “Absolutely, positively, no doubt about it, there are no reindeer in Arizona.”
“Whatever,” Ginger replied with another yawn, already heading for the door as Olivia pulled sweatpants on over her boxer pajama bottoms. She tugged a hoodie, left over from one of her brother’s preretirement concert tours, over her head and jammed her feet into the totally unglamorous work boots she wore to wade through pastures and barns.
Olivia lived in a small rental house in the country, though once the shelter was finished, she’d be moving into a spacious apartment upstairs, living in town. She drove an old gray Suburban that had belonged to her late grandfather, called Big John by everyone who knew him, and did not aspire to anything fancier. She had not exactly been feathering her nest since she’d graduated from veterinary school.
Her twin sisters, Ashley and Melissa, were constantly after her to ‘get her act together,’ find herself a man, have a family. Both of them were single, with no glimmer of honeymoon cottages and white picket fences on the horizon, so in Olivia’s opinion, they didn’t have a lot of room to talk. It was just that she was a few years older than they were, that was all.
Anyway, it wasn’t as if she didn’t want those things—she did—but between her practice and the “Dr. Dolittle routine,” as Brad referred to her admittedly weird animal-communication skills, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to do it all.
Since the rental house was old, the garage was detached. Olivia and Ginger made their way through a deep, powdery field of snow. The Suburban was no spiffy rig—most of the time it was splattered with muddy slush and worse—but it always ran, in any kind of weather. And it would go practically anywhere.
“Try getting to a stranded reindeer in that sporty little red number Melissa drives,” Olivia told Ginger as she shoved up the garage door. “Or that silly hybrid of Ashley’s.”
“I wouldn’t mind taking a spin in the sports car,” Ginger replied, plodding gamely up the special wooden steps Olivia dragged over to the passenger side of the Suburban. Ginger was getting older, after all, and her joints gave her problems, especially since her “accident.” Certain concessions had to be made.
“Fat chance,” Olivia said, pushing back the steps once Ginger was settled in the shotgun seat, then closing the car door. Moments later she was sliding in on the driver’s side, shoving the key into the ignition, cranking up the geriatric engine. “You know how Melissa is about dog hair. You might tear a hole in her fancy leather upholstery with one of those Fu-Manchu toenails of yours.”
“She likes dogs,” Ginger insisted with a magnanimous lift of her head. “It’s just that she thinks she’s allergic.” Ginger always believed the best of everyone in particular and humanity in general, even though she’d been ditched alongside a highway, with two of her legs fractured, after her first owner’s vengeful boyfriend had tossed her out of a moving car. Olivia had come along a few minutes later, homing in on the mystical distress call bouncing between her head and her heart, and rushed Ginger to the clinic, where she’d had multiple surgeries and a long, difficult recovery.
Olivia flipped on the windshield wipers, but she still squinted to see through the huge, swirling flakes. “My sister,” she said, “is a hypochondriac.”
“It’s just that Melissa hasn’t met the right dog yet,” Ginger maintained. “Or the right man.”
“Don’t start about men,” Olivia retorted, peering out, looking for the reindeer.
“He’s out there, you know,” Ginger remarked, panting as she gazed out at the snowy night.
“The reindeer or the man?”
“Both,” Ginger said with a dog smile.
“What am I going to do with a reindeer?”
“You’ll think of something,” Ginger replied. “It’s almost Christmas. Maybe there’s an APB from the North Pole. I’d check Santa’s Web site if I had opposable thumbs.”
“Funny,” Olivia said, not the least bit amused. “If you had opposable thumbs, you’d order things off infomercials just because you like the UPS man so much. We’d be inundated with get-rich-quick real estate courses, herbal weight loss programs and stuff to whiten our teeth.” The ever-present ache between her shoulder blades knotted itself up tighter as she scanned the darkness on either side of the narrow driveway. Christmas. One more thing she didn’t have the time for, let alone the requisite enthusiasm, but Brad and his new wife, Meg, would put up a big tree right after Thanksgiving, hunt her down and shanghai her if she didn’t show up for the family festival at Stone Creek Ranch, especially since Mac had come along six months before, and this was Baby’s First Christmas. And because Carly, Meg’s teenage sister, was spending the semester in Italy, as part of a special program for gifted students, and both Brad and Meg missed her to distraction. Ashley would throw her annual open house at the bed-and-breakfast, and Melissa would probably decide she was allergic to mistletoe and holly and develop convincing symptoms.
Olivia would go, of course. To Brad and Meg’s because she loved them, and adored Mac. To Ashley’s open house because she loved her kid sister, too, and could mostly forgive her for being Martha Stewart incarnate. Damn, she’d even pick up nasal spray and chicken soup for Melissa, though she drew the line at actually cooking.
“There’s Blitzen,” Ginger said, adding a cheerful yip.
Sure enough, the reindeer loomed in the snow-speckled cones of gold from the headlights.
Olivia put on the brakes, shifted the engine into neutral. “You stay here,” she said, pushing open the door.
“Like I’m going outside in this weather,” Ginger said with a sniff.
Slowly Olivia approached the reindeer. The creature was small, definitely a miniature breed, with eyes big and dark and luminous in the light from the truck, and it stood motionless.
“Lost,” it told her, not having Ginger’s extensive vocabulary. If she ever found a loving home for that dog, she’d miss the long conversations, even though they had very different political views.
The deer had antlers, which meant it was male.
“Hey, buddy,” she said. “Where did you come from?”
“Lost,” the reindeer repeated. Either he was dazed or not particularly bright. Like humans, animals were unique beings, some of them Einsteins, most of them ordinary joes.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, to be certain. Her intuition was rarely wrong where such things were concerned, but there was always the off chance.
Nothing.
She approached, slowly and carefully. Ran skillful hands over pertinent parts of the animal. No blood, no obvious breaks, though sprains and hairline fractures were a possibility. No identifying tags or notched ears.
The reindeer stood still for the examination, which might have meant he was tame, though Olivia couldn’t be certain of that. Nearly every animal she encountered, wild or otherwise, allowed her within touching distance. Once, with help from Brad and Jesse McKettrick, she’d treated a wounded stallion who’d never been shod, fitted with a halter, or ridden.
“You’re gonna be okay now,” she told the little deer. It did look as though it ought to be hitched to Santa’s sleigh. There was a silvery cast to its coat, its antlers were delicately etched and it was petite—barely bigger than Ginger.
She cocked a thumb toward the truck. “Can you follow me to my place, or shall I put you in the back?” she asked.
The reindeer ducked its head. Shy, then. And weary.
“But you’ve already traveled a long way, haven’t you?” Olivia went on.
She opened the back of the Suburban, pulled out the sturdy ramp she always carried for Ginger and other four-legged passengers no longer nimble enough to make the jump.
The deer hesitated, probably catching Ginger’s scent.
“Not to worry,” Olivia said. “Ginger’s a lamb. Hop aboard there, Blitzen.”
“His name is Rodney,” Ginger announced. She’d turned, forefeet on the console, to watch them over the backseat.
“On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer or—Rodney,” Olivia said, gesturing, but giving the animal plenty of room.
Rodney raised his head at the sound of his name, seemed to perk up a little. Then he pranced right up the ramp, into the back of the Suburban, and lay down on a bed of old feed sacks with a heavy reindeer snort.
Olivia closed the back doors of the rig as quietly as she could, so Rodney wouldn’t be startled.
“How did you know his name?” Olivia asked once she was back in the driver’s seat. “All I’m getting from him is ‘Lost.’”
“He told me,” Ginger said. “He’s not ready to go into a lot of detail about his past. There’s a touch of amnesia, too. Brought on by the emotional trauma of losing his way.”
“Have you been watching soap operas again, while I’m away working? Dr. Phil? Oprah?”
“Only when you forget and leave the TV on when you go out. I don’t have opposable thumbs, remember?”
Olivia shoved the recalcitrant transmission into reverse, backed into a natural turnaround and headed back up the driveway toward the house. She supposed she should have taken Rodney to the clinic for X-rays, or over to the homeplace, where there was a barn, but it was the middle of the night, after all.
If she went to the clinic, all the boarders would wake up, barking and meowing fit to wake the whole town. If she went to Stone Creek Ranch, she’d probably wake the baby, and both Brad and Meg were sleep deprived as it was.
So Rodney would have to spend what remained of the night on the enclosed porch. She’d make him a bed with some of the old blankets she kept on hand, give him water, see if he wouldn’t nosh on a few of Ginger’s kibbles. In the morning she’d attend to him properly. Take him to town for those X-rays and a few blood tests, haul him to Brad’s if he was well enough to travel, fix him up with a stall of his own. Get him some deer chow from the feed and grain.
Rodney drank a whole bowl of water once Olivia had coaxed him up the steps and through the outer door onto the enclosed porch. He kept a watchful eye on Ginger, though she didn’t growl or make any sudden moves, the way some dogs would have done.
Instead, Ginger gazed up at Olivia, her soulful eyes glowing with practical compassion. “I’d better sleep out here with Rodney,” she said. “He’s still pretty scared. The washing machine has him a little spooked.”
This was a great concession on Ginger’s part, for she loved her wide, fluffy bed. Ashley had made it for her, out of the softest fleece she could find, and even monogrammed the thing. Olivia smiled at the image of her blond, curvaceous sister seated at her beloved sewing machine, whirring away.
“You’re a good dog,” she said, her eyes burning a little as she bent to pat Ginger’s head.
Ginger sighed. Another day, another noble sacrifice, the sound seemed to say.
Olivia went into her bedroom and got Ginger’s bed. Put it on the floor for her. Carried the water bowl back to the kitchen for a refill.
When she returned to the porch the second time, Rodney was lying on the cherished dog bed, and Ginger was on the pile of old blankets.
“Ginger, your bed—?”
Ginger yawned yet again, rested her muzzle on her forelegs and rolled her eyes upward. “Everybody needs a soft place to land,” she said sleepily. “Even reindeer.”
The pony was not a happy camper.
Tanner Quinn leaned against the stall door. He’d just bought Starcross Ranch, and Butterpie, his daughter’s pet, had arrived that day, trucked in by a horse-delivery outfit hired by his sister, Tessa, along with his own palomino gelding, Shiloh.
Shiloh was settling in just fine. Butterpie was having a harder time of it.
Tanner sighed, shifted his hat to the back of his head. He probably should have left Shiloh and Butterpie at his sister’s place in Kentucky, where they’d had all that fabled bluegrass to run in and munch on, since the ranch wasn’t going to be his permanent home, or theirs. He’d picked it up as an investment, at a fire-sale price, and would live there while he oversaw the new construction project in Stone Creek—a year at the outside.
It was the latest in a long line of houses that never had time to become homes. He came to each new place, bought a house or a condo, built something big and sleek and expensive, then moved on, leaving the property he’d temporarily occupied in the hands of some eager real estate agent.
The new project, an animal shelter, was not his usual thing—he normally designed and erected office buildings, multimillion-dollar housing compounds for movie stars and moguls, and the occasional government-sponsored school, bridge or hospital, somewhere on foreign soil—usually hostile. Before his wife, Katherine, died five years ago, she’d traveled with him, bringing Sophie along.
But then—
Tanner shook off the memory. Thinking about the way Katherine had been killed required serious bourbon, and he’d been off the sauce for a long time. He’d never developed a drinking problem, but the warning signs had been there, and he’d decided to save Sophie—and himself—the extra grief. He’d put the cork back in the bottle and left it there for good.
It should have been him, not Kat. That was as far as he could go, sober.
He shifted his attention back to the little cream-colored pony standing forlornly in its fancy new stall. He was no vet, but he didn’t have to be to diagnose the problem. The horse missed Sophie, now ensconced in a special high-security boarding school in Connecticut.
He missed her, too. More than the horse did, for sure. But she was safe in that high-walled and distant place—safe from the factions who’d issued periodic death threats over things he’d built. The school was like a fortress—he’d designed it himself, and his best friend, Jack McCall, a Special Forces veteran and big-time security consultant, had installed the systems. They were top-of-the-line, best available. The children and grandchildren of presidents, congressmen, Oscar winners and software inventors attended that school—it had to be kidnap-proof, and it was.
Sophie had begged him not to leave her there.
Even as Tanner reflected on that, his cell phone rang. Sophie had chosen the ring tone before their most recent parting—the theme song from How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
He, of course, was the Grinch.
“Tanner Quinn,” he said, even though he knew this wasn’t a business call. The habit was ingrained.
“I hate this place!” Sophie blurted without preamble. “It’s like a prison!”
“Soph,” Tanner began, on another sigh. “Your roommate sings lead for your favorite rock band of all time. How bad can it be?”
“I want to come home!”
If only we had one, Tanner thought. The barely palatable reality was that he and Sophie had lived like Gypsies—if not actual fugitives—since Kat’s death.
“Honey, you know I won’t be here long. You’d make friends, get settled in and then it would be time to move on again.”
“I want you,” Sophie all but wailed. Tanner’s heart caught on a beat. “I want Butterpie. I want to be a regular kid!”
Sophie would never be a “regular kid.” She was only twelve and already taking college-level courses—another advantage of attending an elite school. The classes were small, the computers were powerful enough to guide satellites and the visiting lecturers were world-renowned scientists, historians, linguistics experts and mathematical superstars.
“Honey—”
“Why can’t I live in Stoner Creek, with you and Butterpie?”
A smile tugged at one corner of Tanner’s mouth. “Stone Creek,” he said. “If there are any stoners around here, I haven’t made their acquaintance yet.”
Not that he’d really made anybody’s acquaintance. He hadn’t been in town more than a few days. He knew the real estate agent who’d sold him Starcross, and Brad O’Ballivan, because he’d built a palace for him once, outside Nashville, which was how he’d gotten talked into the animal-shelter contract.
Brad O’Ballivan. He’d thought the hotshot country-and-western music star would never settle down. Now he was over-the-top in love with his bride, Meg, and wanted all his friends married off, too. He probably figured if he could fall that hard for a woman out here in Noplace, U.S.A., Tanner might, too.
“Dad, please,” Sophie said, sniffling now. Somehow his daughter’s brave attempt to suck it up got to Tanner even more than the crying had. “Get me out of here. If I can’t come to Stone Creek, maybe I could stay with Aunt Tessa again, like I did last summer…”
Tanner took off his hat, moved along the breezeway to the barn doorway, shut off the lights. “You know your aunt is going through a rough time right now,” he said quietly. A rough time? Tessa and her no-account husband, Paul Barker, were getting a divorce. Among other things, Barker had gotten another woman pregnant—a real blow to Tess, who’d wanted a child ever since she’d hit puberty—and now she was fighting to hold on to her home. She’d bought that horse farm with her own money, having been a successful TV actress in her teens, and poured everything she had into it—including the contents of her investment portfolio. Against Tanner’s advice, she hadn’t insisted on a prenup.
We’re in love, she’d told him, starry-eyed with happiness.
Paul Barker hadn’t had the proverbial pot to piss in, of course. And within a month of the wedding he’d been a signer on every account Tess had. As the marriage deteriorated, so did Tess’s wealth.
Cold rage jangled along Tanner’s nerves, followed the fault line in his soul. At Kat’s suggestion, he’d set up a special trust fund for Tess, way back, and it was a damn good thing he had. To this day, she didn’t know the money existed—he and Kat hadn’t wanted Barker to tap in to it—and when she did find out, her fierce Quinn pride would probably force her to refuse it.
At least if she lost the horse farm to Barker and his dream team of lawyers—more like nightmare team—she’d have the means to start over. The question was, would she have the heart to make a new beginning?
“Dad?” Sophie asked. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” Tanner said, looking around at the nightshrouded landscape surrounding him. There must have been a foot of snow on the ground already, with more coming down. Hell, November wasn’t even over yet.
“Couldn’t I at least come home for Christmas?”
“Soph, we don’t have a home, remember?”
She was sniffling again. “Sure we do,” she said very softly. “Home is where you and Butterpie are.”
Tanner’s eyes stung all of a sudden. He told himself it was the bitterly cold weather. When he’d finally agreed to take the job, he’d thought, Arizona. Cacti. Sweeping desert vistas. Eighty-degree winters.
But Stone Creek was in northern Arizona, near Flagstaff, a place of timber and red rock—and the occasional blizzard.
It wasn’t like him to overlook that kind of geographical detail, but he had. He’d signed on the dotted line because the money was good and because Brad was a good friend.
“How about if I come back there? We’ll spend Christmas in New York—skate at Rockefeller Center, see the Rockettes—”
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.
Brad reached her, hooked an arm around her neck and gave her a big-brother half hug. “She’s referring to the paper one,” he told her in an exaggerated whisper.
Olivia contrived to look surprised. “Oh!” she said.
Brad laughed and released her from the choke hold. “So what brings you to Stone Creek Ranch, Doc?”
Olivia glanced around, taking in the familiar surroundings. Missing her grandfather, Big John, the way she always did when she set foot on home ground. The place had changed a lot since Brad had semiretired from his career in country music—he’d refurbished the barn, replaced the worn-out fences and built a state-of-the-art recording studio out back. At least he’d given up the concert tours, but even with Meg and fourteen-year-old Carly and the baby in the picture, Olivia still wasn’t entirely convinced that he’d come home to stay.
He’d skipped out before, after all, just like their mother.
“I have a problem,” she said in belated answer to his question.
Meg had gone back inside, but she and Brad remained in the yard.
“What sort of problem?” he asked, his eyes serious.
“A reindeer problem,” Olivia explained. Oh, and I got off to a fine start with your friend the contractor, too.
Brad’s brow furrowed. “A what?”
“I need to get out of this truck,” Ginger transmitted from the passenger seat. “Now.”
With a slight sigh Olivia opened Ginger’s door so she could hop out, sniff the snow and leave a yellow splotch. That done, she trotted off toward the barn, probably looking for Brad’s dog, Willie.
“I found this reindeer,” Olivia said, heading for the back of the Suburban and unveiling Rodney. “I was hoping he could stay here until we find his owner.”
“What if he doesn’t have an owner?” Brad asked reasonably, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair before reaching out to stroke the deer.
“He’s tame,” Olivia pointed out.
“Tame, but not housebroken,” Brad said.
Sure enough, Rodney had dropped a few pellets on his blanket.
“I don’t expect you to keep him in the house,” Olivia said.
Brad laughed. Reached right in and hoisted Rodney down out of the Suburban. The deer stumbled a little, wobbly legged from riding, and looked worriedly up at Olivia.
“You’ll be safe here,” she told the animal. She turned back to Brad. “He can stay in the barn, can’t he? I know you have some empty stalls.”
“Sure,” Brad said after a hesitation that would have been comical if Olivia hadn’t been so concerned about Rodney. “Sure,” he repeated.
Knowing he was about to ruffle her hair, the way he’d done when she was a little kid, Olivia took a step back.
“I want something in return, though,” Brad continued.
“What?” Olivia asked suspiciously.
“You, at our table, on Thanksgiving,” he answered. “No excuses about filling in at the clinic. Ashley and Melissa are both coming, and Meg’s mother, too, along with her sister, Sierra.”
The invitation didn’t come as any surprise to Olivia—Meg had mentioned holding a big Thanksgiving blowout weeks ago—but the truth was, Olivia preferred to work on holidays. That way, she didn’t miss Big John so much, or wonder if their long-lost mother might come waltzing through the door, wanting to get to know the grown children she’d abandoned so many years before.
“Livie?” Brad prompted.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be here. But I’m on call over Thanksgiving, and all the other vets have families, so if there’s an emergency—”
“Liv,” Brad broke in, “you have a family, too.”
“I meant wives, husbands, children,” Olivia said, embarrassed.
“Two o’clock, you don’t need to bring anything, and wear something you haven’t delivered calves in.”
She glared up at him. “Can I see my nephew now,” she asked, “or is there a dress code for that, too?”
Brad laughed. “I’ll get Rudolph settled in a nice, cozy stall while you go inside. Check the attitude at the door—Meg wasn’t kidding when she said she was in the holiday spirit. Of course, she’s working extra hard at it this year, with Carly away.”
Willie and Ginger came from behind the barn, Willie rushing to greet Olivia.
“His name is Rodney,” Olivia said. “Not Rudolph.”
Brad gave her a look and started for the barn, and Rodney followed uncertainly, casting nary a backward glance at Olivia.
Willie, probably clued in by Ginger, was careful to give Rodney a lot of dog-free space. Olivia bent to scratch his ears.
He’d healed up nicely since being attacked by a wolf or coyote pack on the mountain rising above Stone Creek Ranch. With help from Brad and Meg, Olivia had brought him back to town for surgery and follow-up care. He’d bonded with Brad, though, and been his dog ever since.
With Ginger and Willie following, Olivia went into the house.
Mac’s playpen stood empty in the living room.
Olivia stepped into the nearest bathroom to wash her hands, and when she came out, Meg was standing in the hallway, holding six-month-old Mac. He stretched his arms out to Olivia and strained toward her, and her heart melted.
She took the baby eagerly and nuzzled his neck to make him laugh. His blondish hair stood up all over his head, and his dark blue eyes were round with mischievous excitement. Giggling, he tried to bite Olivia’s nose.
“He’s grown!” Olivia told Meg.
“It’s only been a week since you saw him last,” Meg chided, but she beamed with pride.
Olivia felt a pang, looking at her. Wondered what it would be like to be that happy.
Meg, blond like her husband and son, tilted her head to one side and gave Olivia a humorously pensive once-over. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Olivia said, too quickly. Mac was gravitating toward his playpen, where he had a pile of toys, and Meg took him and gently set him inside it. She turned back to Olivia.
Just then Brad blew in on a chilly November wind. Bent to pat Ginger and Willie.
“Rudolph is snug in his stall,” Brad said. “Having some oats.”
“Rudolph?” Meg asked, momentarily distracted.
Olivia was relieved. She and Meg were very good friends, as well as family, but Meg was half again too perceptive. She’d figured out that something was bothering Olivia, and in another moment she’d have insisted on finding out what was up. Considering that Olivia didn’t know that herself, the conversation would have been pointless.
“Liv will be here for Thanksgiving,” Brad told Meg, pulling his wife against his side and planting a kiss on the top of her head.
“Of course she will,” Meg said, surprised that there’d ever been any question. Her gaze lingered on Olivia, and there was concern in it.
Suddenly Olivia was anxious to go.
“I have two million things to do,” she said, bending over the playpen to tickle Mac, who was kicking both feet and waving his arms, before heading to the front door and beckoning for Ginger.
“We’ll see you tomorrow at the ground-breaking ceremony,” Meg said, smiling and giving Brad an affectionate jab with one elbow. “We’re expecting a big crowd, thanks to Mr. Country Music here.”
Olivia laughed at the face Brad made, but then she recalled that Tanner Quinn would be there, too, and that unsettled feeling was back again. “The ground’s pretty hard, thanks to the weather,” she said, to cover the momentary lapse. “Let’s hope Mr. Country Music still has the muscle to drive a shovel through six inches of snow and a layer of ice.”
Brad showed off a respectable biceps, Popeye-style, and everybody laughed again.
“I’ll walk you to the truck,” he said, when Olivia would have ducked out without further ado.
He opened the driver’s door of the Suburban, and Ginger made the leap, scrabbling across to the passenger seat. Olivia looked at her in surprise, since she usually wasn’t that agile, but Brad reclaimed her attention soon enough.
“Is everything okay with you, Livie?” he asked. He and the twins were the only people in the world, now that Big John was gone, who called her Livie. It seemed right, coming from her big brother or her sisters, but it also made her ache for her grandfather. He’d loved Thanksgiving even better than Christmas, saying he figured the O’Ballivans had a great deal to be grateful for.
“Everything’s fine,” Olivia said. “Why does everybody keep asking me if I’m okay? Meg did—now you.”
“You just seem—I don’t know—kind of sad.”
Olivia didn’t trust herself to speak, and suddenly her eyes burned with moisture.
Brad took her gently by the shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. “I miss Big John, too,” he said. Then he waited while she climbed onto the running board and then the driver’s seat. He shut the door and waved when she went to turn around, and when she glanced into the rearview mirror, he was still standing there with Willie, both of them staring after her.

Chapter Three
Although Brad liked to downplay his success, especially now that he didn’t go out on tour anymore, he was clearly still a very big deal. When Olivia arrived at the building site on the outskirts of Stone Creek at nine forty-five the next morning, the windswept clearing was jammed with TV news trucks and stringers from various tabloids. Of course the townspeople had turned out, too, happy that work was about to begin on the new animal shelter—and proud of their hometown boy.
Olivia’s feelings about Brad’s fame were mixed—he’d been away playing star when Big John needed him most, and she wasn’t over that—but seeing him up there on the hastily assembled plank stage gave her a jolt of joy. She worked her way through the crowd to stand next to Meg, Ashley and Melissa, who were grouped in a little cluster up front, fussing over Mac. The baby’s blue snowsuit was so bulky that he resembled the Michelin man.
Ashley turned to smile at Olivia, taking in her trim, tailored black pantsuit—a holdover from her job interview at the veterinary clinic right after she’d finished graduate school. She’d ferreted through boxes until she’d found it, gone over the outfit with a lint roller to get rid of the ubiquitous pet hair, and hoped for the best.
“I guess you couldn’t quite manage a dress,” Ashley said without sarcasm. She was tall and blond, clad in a long skirt, elegant boots and a colorful patchwork jacket she’d probably whipped up on her sewing machine. She was also stubbornly old-fashioned—no cell phone, no Internet connection, no MP3 player—and Olivia had often thought, secretly of course, that her younger sister should have been born in the Victorian era, rather than modern times. She would have fit right into the 1890s, been completely comfortable cooking on a woodburning stove, reading by gaslight and directing a contingent of maids in ruffly aprons and scalloped white caps.
“Best I could do on short notice,” Olivia chimed in, exchanging a hello grin with Meg and giving Mac’s mittened hand a little squeeze. His plump little cheek felt smooth and cold as she kissed him.
“Since when is a year ‘short notice’?” Melissa put in, grinning. She and Ashley were fraternal twins, but except for their deep blue eyes, they bore no noticeable resemblance to each other. Melissa was small, an inch shorter than Olivia, and wore her fine chestnut-colored hair in a bob. Having left the law office where she worked to attend the ceremony, she was clad in her usual getup of high heels, pencil-straight skirt, fitted blazer and prim white blouse.
Up on stage, Brad tapped lightly on the microphone.
Everybody fell silent, as though the whole gathering had taken a single, indrawn breath all at the same time. The air was charged with excitement and civic pride and the welcome prospect of construction jobs to tide over the laid-off workers from the sawmill.
Meg’s eyes shone as she gazed up at her husband. “Isn’t he something?” she marveled, giving Olivia a little poke with one elbow as she shifted Mac to her other hip.
Olivia smiled but didn’t reply.
“Sing!” someone shouted, somewhere in the surging throng. Any moment now, Olivia thought, they’d all be holding up disposable lights in a flickering-flame salute.
Brad shook his head. “Not today,” he said.
A collective groan rose from the crowd.
Brad put up both hands to silence them.
“He’ll sing,” Melissa said in a loud and certain whisper. She and Ashley, being the youngest, barely knew Brad. He’d been trying to remedy that ever since he’d moved back from Nashville, but it was slow going. They admired him, they were grateful to him, but it seemed to Olivia that her sisters were still in awe of their big brother, too, and therefore a strange shyness possessed them whenever he was around.
Brad asked Olivia and Tanner to join him on stage.
Even though Olivia had expected that, she wished she didn’t have to go up there. She was a behind-the-scenes kind of person, uncomfortable at the center of attention. When Tanner appeared from behind her, took her arm and hustled her toward the wooden steps, she caught her breath. Stone Creekers raised an uproarious cheer, and Olivia flushed with embarrassment, but Tanner seemed untroubled.
He wore too-new, too-expensive boots, probably custommade, to match his too-new hat, along with jeans, a black silk shirt and a denim jacket. He seemed as at home getting up in front of all those people as Brad did—his grin dazzled, and his eyes were bright with enjoyment.
Drugstore cowboy, Olivia thought, but she couldn’t work up any rancor. Tanner Quinn might be laying on the Western bit a little thick, but he did look good. Way, way too good for Olivia’s comfort.
Brad introduced them both: Tanner as the builder, and Olivia—“You all know my kid sister, the horse doctor”—as the driving force behind the project. Without her, he said, none of this would be happening.
Never having thought of herself as a driving force behind anything in particular, Olivia grew even more flustered as Brad went on about how she’d be heading up the shelter when it opened around that time next year.
More applause followed, the good-natured, hometown kind, indulgent and laced with chuckles.
Let this be over, Olivia thought.
“Sing!” someone yelled. The whole audience soon took up the chant.
“Here’s where we make a run for it,” Tanner whispered to Olivia, and the two of them left the stage. Tanner vanished, and Olivia went back to stand with her sisters and Meg.
Brad grinned, shaking his head a little as one of his buddies handed up a guitar. “One,” he said firmly. After strumming a few riffs and turning the tuning keys this way and that, he eased into “Meg’s Song,” a ballad he’d written for his wife.
Holding Mac and looking up at Brad with an expression of rapt delight, Meg seemed to glow from the inside. A sweet, strange alchemy made it seem as though only Brad, Meg and Mac were really there during those magical minutes, on that blustery day, with the snow crusting hard around everybody’s feet. The rest of them might have been hovering in an adjacent dimension, like actors waiting to go on.
When the song ended, the audience clamored for more, but Brad didn’t give in. Photographers and reporters shoved in close as he handed off the guitar again, descended from the stage and picked up a brand-new shovel with a blue ribbon on the handle. The ribbon, Olivia knew, was Ashley’s handiwork; she was an expert with bows, where Olivia always got them tangled up, fiddling with them until they were grubby.
“Are you making a comeback?” one reporter demanded.
“When will you make another movie?” someone else wanted to know.
Still another person shoved a microphone into Brad’s face; he pushed it away with a practiced motion of one arm. “We’re here to break ground for an animal shelter,” he said, and only the set of his jaw gave away the annoyance he felt. He beckoned to Olivia, then to Tanner, after glancing around to locate him.
Then, with consummate showmanship, Brad drove the shovel hard into the partially frozen ground. Tossed the dirt dangerously close to one reporter’s shoes.
Olivia thought of the finished structure, and what it would mean to so many stray and unwanted dogs, cats and other critters, and her heart soared. That was the moment the project truly became real to her.
It was really going to happen.
There were more pictures taken after that, and Brad gave several very brief interviews, carefully steering each one away from himself and stressing the plight of animals. When one reporter asked if it wouldn’t be better to build shelters for homeless people, rather than dogs and cats, Brad responded that compassion ought to begin at the simplest level, with the helpless, voiceless ones, and grow from there.
Olivia would have hugged her big brother in that moment if she’d been able to get close enough.
“Hot cider and cookies at my place,” Ashley told her and Melissa. She was already heading for her funny-looking hybrid car, gleaming bright yellow in the wintry sunshine. “We need to plan what we’re taking to Brad and Meg’s for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I have to get back to work,” Melissa said crisply. “Cook something and I’ll pay you back.” With that, she made for her spiffy red sports car without so much as a backward glance.
Olivia had rounds to make herself, though none of them were emergencies, and she had some appointments at the clinic scheduled for that afternoon, but when she saw the expression of disappointment on Ashley’s face, she stayed behind. “I’ll change clothes at your house,” she said, and got into the Suburban to follow her sister back through town. Ginger had elected to stay home that day, claiming her arthritis was bothering her, and it felt odd to be alone in the rig.
Ashley’s home was a large white Victorian house on the opposite side of Stone Creek, near the little stream with the same name. There was a white picket fence and plenty of gingerbread woodwork on the façade, and an ornate but tasteful sign stood in the snowy yard, bearing the words “Mountain View Bed-and-Breakfast” in elegant golden script. “Ashley O’Ballivan, Proprietor.”
In summer, the yard burgeoned with colorful flowers.
But winter had officially come to the high country, and the blooming lilacs, peonies and English roses were just a memory. The day after Thanksgiving, the Christmas lights would go up outside, as though by the waving of an unseen wand, and a huge wreath would grace the leaded-glass door, making the house look like a giant greeting card.
Olivia felt a little sad, looking at that grand house. It was the off-season, and guests would be few and far between. Ashley would rattle around in there alone like a bean in the bottom of a bucket.
She needed a husband and children.
Or at least a cat.
“Brad was spectacular, wasn’t he?” Ashley asked, bustling around her big, fragrant kitchen to heat up the spiced cider and set out a plate of exquisitely decorated cookies.
Olivia, just coming out of the powder room, where she’d changed into her regulation jeans, flannel shirt and boots, helped herself to a paper bag from the decoupaged wooden paper-bag dispenser beside the back door and stuffed the pantsuit into it. “Brad was—Brad,” she said. “He loves being in the limelight.”
Ashley went still and frowned, oddly defensive. “His heart’s in the right place,” she replied.
Olivia went to Ashley and touched her arm. She’d removed the patchwork jacket, hanging it neatly on a gleaming brass peg by the front door as they came in, and her loose-fitting beige cashmere turtleneck made Olivia feel like a thrift-store refugee by comparison.
“I wasn’t criticizing Brad, Ash,” she said quietly. “It’s beyond generous of him to build the shelter. We need one, and we’re lucky he’s willing to help out.”
Ashley relaxed a little and offered a tentative smile. Looked around at her kitchen, which would have made a great set for some show on the Food Channel. “He bought this house for me, you know,” she said as the cider began to simmer in its shiny pot on the stove.
Olivia nodded. “And it looks fabulous,” she replied. “Like always.”
“You are planning to show up for Thanksgiving dinner out at the ranch, aren’t you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Olivia asked, even as her stomach knotted. Who had invented holidays, anyway? Everything came to a screeching stop whenever there was a red-letter day on the calendar—everything except the need and sorrow that seemed to fill the world.
“I know you don’t like family holidays,” Ashley said, pouring steaming cider into a copper serving pot and then into translucent china teacups waiting in the center of the round antique table. Olivia would have dumped it straight from the kettle, and probably spilled it all over the table and floor in the process.
She just wasn’t domestic. All those genes had gone to Ashley.
Her sister’s eyes went big and round and serious. “Last year you made some excuse about a cow needing an appendectomy and ducked out before I could serve the pumpkin pie.”
Olivia sighed. Ashley had worked hard to prepare the previous year’s Thanksgiving dinner, gathering recipes for weeks ahead of time, experimenting like a chemist in search of a cure, and looked forward to hosting a houseful of congenial relatives.
“Do cows even have appendixes?” Ashley asked.
Olivia laughed, drew back a chair at the table and sat down. “That cider smells fabulous,” she said, in order to change the subject. “And the cookies are works of art, almost too pretty to eat. Martha Stewart would be so proud.”
Ashley joined her at the table, but she still looked troubled. “Why do you hate holidays, Olivia?” she persisted.
“I don’t hate holidays,” Olivia said. “It’s just that all that sentimentality—”
“You miss Big John and Mom,” Ashley broke in quietly. “Why don’t you just admit it?”
“We all miss Big John,” Olivia admitted. “As for Mom—well, she’s been gone a long time, Ash. A really long time. It’s not a matter of missing her, exactly.”
“Don’t you ever wonder where she went after she left Stone Creek, if she’s happy and healthy—if she remarried and had more children?”
“I try not to,” Olivia said honestly.
“You have abandonment issues,” Ashley accused.
Olivia sighed and sipped from her cup of cider. The stuff was delicious, like everything her sister cooked up.
Ashley’s Botticelli face brightened; she’d made another of her mercurial shifts from pensive to hopeful. “Suppose we found her?” she asked on a breath. “Mom, I mean—”
“Found her?” Olivia echoed, oddly alarmed.
“There are all these search engines online,” Ashley enthused. “I was over at the library yesterday afternoon, and I searched Google for Mom’s name.”
Oh. My. God, Olivia thought, feeling the color drain out of her face.
“You used a computer?”
Ashley nodded. “I’m thinking of getting one. Setting up a Web site to bring in more business for the B and B.”
Things were changing, Olivia realized. And she hated it when things changed. Why couldn’t people leave well enough alone?
“There are more Delia O’Ballivans out there than you would ever guess,” Ashley rushed on. “One of them must be Mom.”
“Ash, Mom could be dead by now. Or going by a different name…”
Ashley looked offended. “You sound like Brad and Melissa. Brad just clams up whenever I ask him about Mom—he remembers her better, since he’s older. ‘Leave it alone’ is all he ever says. And Melissa thinks she’s probably a crack addict or a hooker or something.” She let out a long, shaky breath. “I thought you missed Mom as much as I do. I really did.”
Although Brad had never admitted it, Olivia suspected he knew more about their mother than he was telling. If he wanted Ashley and the rest of them to let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie, he probably had a good reason. Not that the decision was only his to make.
“I miss having a mother, Ash,” Olivia said gently. “That’s different from missing Mom specifically. She left us, remember?”
Remember? How could Ashley remember? She’d been a toddler when their mother boarded an afternoon bus out of Stone Creek and vanished into a world of strangers. She was clinging to memories she’d merely imagined, most likely. To a fantasy mother, the woman who should have been, but probably never was.
“Well, I want to know why,” Ashley insisted, her eyes full of pain. “Maybe she regretted it. Did you ever think of that? Maybe she misses us, and wants a second chance. Maybe she expects us to reject her, so she’s afraid to get in touch.”
“Oh, Ash,” Olivia murmured, slouching against the back of her chair. “You haven’t actually made contact, have you?”
“No,” Ashley said, tucking a wisp of blond hair behind her right ear when it escaped from her otherwise categorically perfect French braid, “but if I find her, I’m going to invite her to Stone Creek for Christmas. If you and Brad and Melissa want to keep your distance, that’s your business.”
Olivia’s hand shook a little as she set her cup down, causing it to rattle in its delicate saucer. “Ashley, you have a right to see Mom if you want to,” she said carefully. “But Christmas—”
“What do you care about Christmas?” Ashley asked abruptly. “You don’t even put up a tree most years.”
“I care about you and Melissa and Brad. If you do manage to find Mom, great. But don’t you think bringing her here at Christmas, the most emotional day of the year, before anybody has a chance to get used to the idea, would be like planting a live hand grenade in the turkey?”
Ashley didn’t reply, and after that the conversation was stilted, to say the least. They talked about what to contribute to the Thanksgiving shindig at Brad and Meg’s place, decided on freshly baked dinner rolls for Ashley and a selection of salads from the deli for Olivia, and then Olivia left to make rounds.
Why was she so worried? she wondered, biting down hard on her lower lip as she fired up the Suburban and headed for the first farm on her list. If she was alive, Delia had done a good job of staying under the radar all these years. She’d never written, never called, never visited. Never sent a single birthday card. And if she was dead, they’d all have to drop everything and mourn, in their various ways.
Olivia didn’t feel ready to take that on.
Before, the thought of Delia usually filled her with grief and a plaintive, little-girl kind of longing. The very cadence of her heartbeat said, Come home. Come home.
Now, today, it just made her very, very angry. How could a woman just leave four children and a husband behind and forget the way back?
Olivia knotted one hand into a fist and bonked the side of the steering wheel once. Tears stung her eyes, and her throat felt as though someone had run a line of stitches around it with a sharp needle and then pulled them tight.
Ashley was expecting some kind of fairy-tale reunion, an Oprah sort of deal, full of tearful confessions and apologies and cartoon birds trailing ribbons from their chirpy beaks.
For Olivia’s money, it would be more like an apocalypse.
Tanner heard the rig roll in around sunset. Smiling, he closed his newspaper, stood up from the kitchen table and wandered to the window. Watched as Olivia O’Ballivan climbed out of her Suburban, flung one defiant glance toward the house and started for the barn, the golden retriever trotting along behind her.
She’d come, he knew, to have another confab with Butterpie. The idea at once amused him and jabbed through his conscience like a spike. Sophie was on the other side of the country, homesick as hell and probably sticking pins in a daddy doll. She missed the pony, and the pony missed her, and he was the hard-ass who was keeping them apart.
Taking his coat and hat down from the peg next to the back door, he put them on and went outside. He was used to being alone, even liked it, but keeping company with Doc O’Ballivan, bristly though she sometimes was, would provide a welcome diversion.
He gave her time to reach Butterpie’s stall, then walked into the barn.
The golden came to greet him, all wagging tail and melting brown eyes, and he bent to stroke her soft, sturdy back. “Hey, there, dog,” he said.
Sure enough, Olivia was in the stall, brushing Butterpie down and talking to her in a soft, soothing voice that touched something private inside Tanner and made him want to turn on one heel and beat it back to the house.
He’d be damned if he’d do it, though.
This was his ranch, his barn. Well-intentioned as she was, Olivia was the trespasser here, not him.
“She’s still very upset,” Olivia told him without turning to look at him or slowing down with the brush.
For a second Tanner thought she was referring to Sophie, not the pony, and that got his hackles up.
Shiloh, always an easy horse to get along with, stood contentedly in his own stall, munching away on the feed Tanner had given him earlier. Butterpie, he noted, hadn’t touched her supper as far as he could tell.
“Do you know anything at all about horses, Mr. Quinn?” Olivia asked.
He leaned against the stall door, the way he had the day before, and grinned. He’d practically been raised on horseback; he and Tessa had grown up on their grandmother’s farm in the Texas hill country, after their folks divorced and went their separate ways, both of them too busy to bother with a couple of kids. “A few things,” he said. “And I mean to call you Olivia, so you might as well return the favor and address me by my first name.”
He watched as she took that in, dealt with it, decided on an approach. He’d have to wait and see what that turned out to be, but he didn’t mind. It was a pleasure just watching Olivia O’Ballivan grooming a horse.
“All right, Tanner,” she said. “This barn is a disgrace. When are you going to have the roof fixed? If it snows again, the hay will get wet and probably mold…”
He chuckled, shifted a little. He’d have a crew out there the following Monday morning to replace the roof and shore up the walls—he’d made the arrangements over a week before—but he felt no particular compunction to explain that. He was enjoying her ire too much; it made her color rise and her hair fly when she turned her head, and the faster breathing made her perfect breasts go up and down in an enticing rhythm. “What makes you so sure I’m a greenhorn?” he asked mildly, still leaning on the gate.
At last she looked straight at him, but she didn’t move from Butterpie’s side. “Your hat, your boots—that fancy red truck you drive. I’ll bet it’s customized.”
Tanner grinned. Adjusted his hat. “Are you telling me real cowboys don’t drive red trucks?”
“There are lots of trucks around here,” she said. “Some of them are red, and some of them are new. And all of them are splattered with mud or manure or both.”
“Maybe I ought to put in a car wash, then,” he teased. “Sounds like there’s a market for one. Might be a good investment.”
She softened, though not significantly, and spared him a cautious half smile, full of questions she probably wouldn’t ask. “There’s a good car wash in Indian Rock,” she informed him. “People go there. It’s only forty miles.”
“Oh,” he said with just a hint of mockery. “Only forty miles. Well, then. Guess I’d better dirty up my truck if I want to be taken seriously in these here parts. Scuff up my boots a bit, too, and maybe stomp on my hat a couple of times.”
Her cheeks went a fetching shade of pink. “You are twisting what I said,” she told him, brushing Butterpie again, her touch gentle but sure. “I meant…”

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