A Cold Creek Holiday. RaeAnne Thayne
door finally said to break the silence.
She smiled at her, despite her exhaustion. “Thank you. I made it.”
“You made it?” The older girl’s eyes widened. “Like you sewed it and stuff?”
“Yes. And I designed the material.”
The girl frowned, clearly skeptical. “Nobody designs material. You just buy it at the sewing store. That’s what our mom used to do anyway.”
“Before she died,” the younger one added.
“Be quiet, Tallie,” her sister snapped. “She doesn’t need to know everything.”
Emery wanted to tell them she might not know everything, but she did know about losing a mother. Her own had only been gone a few months. But she supposed the experience of a twenty-seven-year-old woman losing her mother was quite different than that of two young girls.
“You do pick out material in a fabric store,” she answered. “But someone has to design the material in the first place and decide what color dyes and what sort of fibers to use. That’s what I do.”
She didn’t add that her fledgling textile line had recently been called “innovative, exciting and warmly elegant” by the leading trade magazine.
“Can you show me how to make a hat like that?”
“Me, too!” The younger girl exclaimed. “If Claire gets to make one, I want to. I can give it to my friend Frances for Christmas.”
“Ooh, maybe I could make two,” her sister said. “One for Natalie and one for Morgan. They’re my very best friends.”
“Can I make a pink one?” Tallie asked. “I love pink, and so does Frances.”
“Ooh, I would like purple,” her sister said. “Or maybe red.”
Emery shifted, wondering where in Hades their uncle had disappeared to and how the situation had suddenly spiraled out of her control. It must be the fatigue—or perhaps her complete lack of experience with young girls.
“I don’t even know if I’m staying here yet. Your uncle and I are still working out the details.”
The expression on both faces shifted from excitement to resignation in a blink and she wondered what in their young lives had contributed to their cynicism.
She hated sounding like such a grump, especially toward two girls who had lost their mother. “If I’m staying, we can see,” she amended.
That was apparently enough for them. For the next few moments the girls talked about colors and patterns until their uncle returned to the room.
“Your reservation wasn’t on the main calendar in the office, but I found it on a deleted copy of her files from the hard drive backup. I don’t know what happened. Everything is in such a mess.”
“Is the cabin I reserved available, then?”
He sighed. “Nobody else is staying there, so I suppose you could say it’s available. But Joanie basically ran the lodging side of things and I haven’t had time to replace her yet. I’m going to have to scramble just to find maid service. It might take me a few days, so you might want to reconsider and find a place in Jackson Hole. We’ll of course fully refund your deposit.”
“I don’t need maid service. I can take care of myself. I just need a quiet place where I can get some work done.”
He studied her for a long moment then finally shrugged. “I think you’re crazy, but what do I know? If you want to stay, I suppose it wouldn’t be fair of me to turn you away since you’ve had a reservation for several months. Let me grab my coat and I’ll take you down and open the cabin.”
“Yay! You’re staying.” Tallie beamed at her as Nate reached into a closet in the hallway and emerged with fleece-lined ranch coat. “Now you can show us how to make a hat.”
“She only said we could see,” the older girl warned her sister. “That usually means no.”
“Ms. Kendall is our guest,” their uncle said with what she was beginning to consider his characteristic frown. “You girls are not to pester her. You know the rules.”
Though Emery had been seeking a tactful way to discourage them, she had a sudden obstinate urge to do exactly the opposite.
“Give me a day or two to settle in. I brought my sewing machine and some fabric samples we could probably use.”
“Who packs a sewing machine for a holiday visit to the mountains?”
She forced a smile. “I’m not here to ski, Mr.…”
“Sorry. Cavazos. Nate Cavazos.”
“Mr. Cavazos. This is a working vacation for me. I just need peace and quiet to finish several projects awaiting my attention. The setting doesn’t really matter.”
That was an outright lie, but she decided it was none of Nate Cavavos’s business exactly why she had come to Cold Creek.
Damn tourists.
Nate grabbed the key to the biggest and best of the four small cabins his sister and her husband had built along Cold Creek.
If he had his way, he would send Miss Fancy Kendall back to Jackson Hole, just be blunt and tell her in no uncertain terms that there was no room at the inn.
What the hell did he know about running a guest ranch? He was a highly trained military specialist with a background in explosives. He knew about blowing things up and planning clandestine operations. Organized chaos was his specialty, not fluffing pillows and fetching tea for sleek city women who drove Lexus SUVs and looked as if they just stepped out of some aprés skiwear catalog.
Damn the woman and damn Joanie Reynolds for running off and leaving such a mess behind.
“If you’ll follow me, you can park your vehicle next to the cabin. I’ll unlock it for you and make sure the heat’s working, then help you with your bags.”
“That’s not necessary, really. Both of us don’t need to go out into the storm. I can take the key and let myself in if you’ll just point me in the right direction.”
He ignored her and opened the door. “Claire, keep an eye on Tallie for me, okay? I’ll be back in a minute. I’ve got my cell with me if you need me.”
“Okay.”
She was too agreeable, his oldest niece. He hadn’t seen her a great deal in her eleven years, just the occasional visit between deployments, but he remembered her as always being eager to please. In the three months since her parents died, she had become even more so, though she still tried to boss her younger sister around as if she were trying desperately to control that one little corner of a chaotic universe.
“When can we make the hats?” Tallie asked.
“What hats?”
Emery Kendall pointed to hers. “They were admiring my cloche. I told them I could perhaps help them sew one of their own.”
He didn’t know what the hell a cloche was. It sounded French and vaguely sexy, especially to a man who hadn’t been with a woman since before his last tour of duty.
“Girls, you’re not to bother our guests. You know that.”
“They weren’t bothering me,” she protested. “I told them we could see in a few days, once I settle in.”
His mouth tightened. That was the last thing he needed, for his grieving, emotionally hungry nieces to suddenly decide to latch onto this stranger who was only going to be here for a week or so.
They missed their mother and father terribly. The hell of it was, he had come to the conclusion he was far worse at parenting than he was at running a guest ranch.
“You don’t have