The Christmas Ranch

Her voice trailed off. He didn’t care about that. She cleared her throat. “Right. My window. It was a very dangerous thing you did, young man. Tell your friend Samantha it’s a bad idea to throw snowballs at cars, whether the snowballs have rocks in them or not. You could distract the driver and someone could easily get hurt—maybe even you.”

The boy gave her a pugnacious sort of look but said nothing until his uncle nudged him.

“Tell the nice lady you’re sorry.”

“I don’t think she’s very nice,” he grumbled.

Again, Hope almost smiled, until she met the man’s gaze and found him looking extremely unamused by the entire situation.

Humorless jerk.

“Too bad.” The boy’s uncle—Rafe, was it?—frowned at him. “Tell her you’re sorry anyway.”

Joey looked down at the snow-covered ground again and then finally met her gaze. “I’m sorry I hit your window and not your hubcap. We don’t get any points for hitting windows.”

As apologies went, it was a little weak but she would still take it. She was suddenly weary of the whole situation and wanted to continue on toward the Star N and her family.

“In your defense, that window had a crack in it anyway. It probably wouldn’t have shattered if it hadn’t been for that.”

“You’re not going to be throwing any snowballs at cars again,” the boy’s uncle said sternly. “And you’re going to tell Samantha not to do it either, right?”

“But I was winning the contest! She was gonna give me her new Darth Vader LEGO minifig if I won and I was gonna give her my Green Ninja minifig if she won.”

“Too bad. The lady is right. It’s dangerous. Look at the trouble you’ve already caused!”

The boy didn’t look happy about it but he finally shrugged. “Fine.”

“We’ll pay for the window replacement, of course. If you get an estimate, you can have them send the bill to me here. Rafe Santiago. I’ll warn you that I’m only going to be in town for another few weeks, though.”

The name seemed to strike a chord deep in her subconscious. Had they met before? Something about his hazel eyes—striking against his burnished skin—reminded her of someone but she couldn’t seem to pin down who or where.

She didn’t remember any Santiagos living in this little house before. From what she remembered of Hope’s Crossing, this had always been a rental house, often used short-term for seasonal workers and such.

“I will do that.” She held out her hand, deciding there was no reason they couldn’t leave on good terms. “I’m Hope Nichols. You can find me at The Christmas Ranch, in Cold Creek Canyon.”

At her words, something sparked in those hazel eyes but she couldn’t identify it.

“Nichols?” he said sharply.

“Yes.”

Perhaps he knew her sisters, though Faith went by her married name now, Dustin, and she couldn’t imagine quiet, introverted Celeste having much to do with a rough and tumble man like him. Maybe Joey had caused trouble at the library where Celeste worked. She could believe that—though, okay, that might be a snap judgment.

“Can I go inside?” Joey asked. “Snow got in my boots and now my feet are freezing. I need to dump it out.”

“Yeah. Go ahead. Dump the snow off on the porch, not inside.”

Joey raced off and after a moment, Rafe Santiago—why was that name so familiar?—turned back to her.

“I’m sorry about my nephew,” he said, rather stiffly. “He’s had a...rough time of it the past few weeks.”

She wondered what had happened, but when he didn’t volunteer any further details, she accepted it was none of her business. “I’m sorry if I came down too hard.”

“I didn’t say you did. Whatever he’s been through isn’t an excuse anyway. I’ll talk to him about this stupid contest and make sure he and his friend both realize it’s not a good idea.”

He gave her another searching look and she had the strangest feeling he wanted to say something else. When the silence stretched between them, a little too long to be comfortable, she decided she couldn’t wait around for him to speak.

“I should go. My family is waiting for me. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Santiago.”

“Rafe,” he said gruffly. Was that his normal speaking voice or did she just bring out the rough edges? she wondered.

“Rafe. Nice to meet you, even under the circumstances.”

She hurried back to her pickup truck and continued on toward home, though she couldn’t shake the odd feeling that something momentous had just happened.

* * *

Rafe watched the taillights recede into the early evening gloom until she turned a corner and disappeared. Even then, he couldn’t seem to make himself move, still reeling from the random encounter.

Hope Nichols.

Son of a bi...gun.

He checked the epithet. He was trying not to swear, even in his head. Joey didn’t need any more bad habits. If Rafe didn’t think the words, he wouldn’t speak them. It was a logical theory but after twenty years in the navy, seventeen of those as a SEAL, cleaning up his language for the sake of a seven-year-old boy with an enormous chip on his shoulder was harder than he ever would have imagined.

He didn’t have a choice. Like it or not—and he sure as he—er, heck, didn’t—Joey was his responsibility now.

Hope Nichols. What were the odds?

He knew she and her sisters had come to live in Pine Gulch, Idaho, after. He might have been a green-as-alfalfa rookie who had never been on an actual mission before that tense December day seventeen years ago, but keeping track of the Nichols girls had been a point of honor.

They had an aunt and uncle here who had taken them in. He remembered being grateful for that, at least that they had someone. He had received a letter from the oldest, he remembered, a few months afterward...

The girl couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen but she had written to him like a polite old lady.

He had memorized the damn—er, darn—thing.

Dear Special Warfare Operator Santiago,

Thank you for participating in rescuing us from Juan Pablo and his rebel group. You and the other men in your navy SEAL platoon risked your lives to save us. If not for you, we might still be in that awful camp. You are true American heroes. My sisters and I will never forget what you have done for us.

Sincerely, Faith Marie Nichols

PS: It is nobody’s fault that our father died. We don’t blame anyone and know you tried your best to save us all.

The carefully written letter had been sweetly horrible and he had carried it around in his wallet for years to remind him that navy SEALs couldn’t afford even the smallest error in judgment.

Hope—the annoying grammarian with the ancient pickup truck—had been the middle daughter, he remembered, all tangled blond hair and big, frightened blue eyes. She had screamed when her father had been shot, and the echo of that terrified, despairing scream had haunted him for a long, long time.