That Maddening Man. Debrah Morris
into birdsong every hour, on the hour. Madden was right on time.
“Just a minute!” She zipped Lizzie up and tucked her hair into her stocking cap. “There. Run and open the door for Santa’s friend.”
She collected her parka and purse. She had changed into a heavy sweater, jeans and thick-soled boots. She snugged a wide knit headband over her ears and dashed into the living room.
If she had been one of Lizzie’s Saturday morning cartoon characters, the rug would have accordioned as she plowed to a stop and her eyes would have popped out on springs. The man standing by the door, his hands clasped behind his back, could not be Santa Jack.
He was younger than she’d expected. Way younger. A good four or five years her junior, for sure. And taller than she remembered. Without the extra pillow padding, his slim, well-built physique was even more impressive. Wide shoulders. Trim waist. Narrow hips. And, unless she was completely out of touch with reality, which was possible considering she’d agreed to this rendezvous, that heavy seaman’s coat concealed a nicely developed chest and biceps.
His brown hair was cut in a short, messy-trendy style that he must have combed with his hand. With his eyes closed. His bottom lip was fuller than the top and high cheekbones lent his face an interesting angularity. The arching brows were brown, not white. And without the beard, well, you really had to admire the strong chin.
He wasn’t soap-opera handsome. His features weren’t quite perfect enough. But damn, he was cute. Adorable. Like a great big, cuddly, overgrown elf. He still wore the wire-rims, which were obviously not part of the costume, and the smug look in the merry eyes behind the lenses indicated just how much he was enjoying her discomfort. He opened the door with a lopsided grin and dramatic flourish.
“Mommy, this is Santa’s friend Jack.” Lizzie performed the necessary introductions as they walked to the street. “And guess what? He gots a truck just like Santa’s.”
“What a coincidence.”
He grinned. “So. Ellin Bennett. How’re you this fine day?”
It took her a moment to respond. Jack Madden was just full of surprises. “Fine.”
“Are you ladies ready to chop down a Christmas tree?” He opened the truck door, and she and Lizzie climbed inside.
“Yeah!” Lizzie submitted to being buckled into a regular lap belt on the seat between them but couldn’t sit still.
Ellin pulled on her gloves as though her composure were perfectly intact. Jack gallantly ignored her as he drove out of town. By directing his comments to Lizzie, he gave her time to get over her initial shock.
What had happened to her internal alarm? It was supposed to warn her when she was about to do something really stupid, but it seemed to be malfunctioning today. She considered bailing out and running back to the house. She didn’t trust that instant spark of attraction that had cranked up her heart rate and interfered with her objectivity. She knew how dangerous desire could be.
Something was happening here, chemistry-wise. It might feel good, but it was bad. It was beyond bad. The man aroused feelings she’d hadn’t felt in a long time. They would only complicate things, and her life was plenty complicated enough. If she were to research “Bad Idea” on the Internet, Jack Madden’s name would definitely pop up.
Then she looked at Lizzie’s excited little face. How could she deny her only child a much-anticipated experience?
It wasn’t like this was a date, she told herself. It didn’t have to be the start of anything. In fact, she was probably reading far more into it than she should. The man was just being neighborly. Wasn’t that what people did in Arkansas? What was she so worried about? They would get the stupid Christmas tree to make Lizzie happy, and that would be the end of it. It was up to her to keep their relationship strictly professional. She could do that. She wasn’t known as the Ice Queen of Chicago for nothing.
So what was the problem?
Him. Her. The situation. Spending time alone in the woods with a charmer who didn’t even know how appealing he was. Letting herself get close to someone she’d have to leave behind in a few months. The list could go on and on, but the point was Jack Madden would be nothing but trouble. And it was her policy to not go out looking for trouble. It found her often enough on its own.
Jack looked at her over Lizzie’s head, and his grin sent a rush of heat through her. Why did she feel he could actually read her thoughts? This was not good. As Ida Faye would put it, she was poking a wildcat with a short stick.
Chapter Three
While Jack steered the truck in and out of winding hairpin curves with practiced ease, Ellin fielded Lizzie’s questions and faked intense interest in the country landscape. Having spent her entire life within city limits, she was not accustomed to seeing nature as it was in northwestern Arkansas. Trees and gnarled underbrush flourished with in-your-face abandon just beyond the reach of highway brush-cutting crews.
Brown and russet leaves carpeted the ground beneath winter-bare trees. Oaks, hickories and bois d’arcs stretched gray limbs toward the pale, cloudless sky. Tall pines and squat cedars splashed the drab hillsides with waves of green.
Across the valley, the land rolled to the horizon in a crazy quilt of muted colors. Here and there, wispy columns of smoke spiraled from chimneys and flues and drifted lazily above the treetops.
“How much longer?” Lizzie bounced on the seat, unable to contain her excitement.
“Nearly there.” Jack flipped on the turn signal and angled off the highway onto a rocky track that wound through the trees. When they came to a heavy gate secured with a looped chain, he stopped, set the brake, and jumped out to release the padlock. The gate swung wide.
“Holy-moley! Is this a road?” Ellin asked skeptically as the truck began its bone-jarring climb up the hill.
“Actually it’s an old dry stream bed.” He explained the property belonged to his sister and brother-in-law who’d given him permission to cut a tree from an upland meadow. “They had the bed leveled to make it easier to get in and out.”
“You call this level?” Ellin braced her hand against the dash. “And easier?”
“For these parts, it is.” Jack drove carefully. He didn’t want to blow a tire or knock the front wheels out of alignment. “Jana and Ted drive SUVs,” he said. “They don’t have any trouble getting up to Crazy Bear Holler.”
“Crazy Bear Holler?” Lizzie giggled. “That’s a silly name.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Jack grinned down at the little girl. “But back in the 1800s a mean old bear terrorized the homesteads around here. The men tried tracking it down with dogs, but they couldn’t find his trail.”
“’Cause it was a crazy bear,” Lizzie put in.
“That’s right.” Jack went on in his storyteller voice. “That bear caused a lot of trouble. Then one morning, a settler’s wife caught him raiding her chicken coop.”
“What did she do?” Lizzie’s eyes widened.
“Well, she didn’t like it one bit that he was stealing her chickens. So she grabbed up the shotgun and filled his ornery old hide full of buckshot. He ran off and no one ever saw him again.”
“Good for her.” Ellin smiled at him over Lizzie’s head. “Never underestimate the wrath of a ticked-off pioneer woman.”
Jack laughed. “Or any woman, for that matter. That’s always been my policy.”
“Oh, I get it,” Lizzie said. “It’s called Crazy Bear Holler ’cause the lady made the crazy bear holler.”
Careful not to discount the little girl’s conclusion, he explained that in Arkansas, the valleys between hills were known as hollows, but most people