Home For Christmas (A Copper Mountain Christmas) (2 page)

"There are guest ranches in Arizona." They'd had this discussion for the past seven years, but seeing this place, she didn't blame him for staying in Montana. But still she played her part. "You should move back. Better weather. Longer tourist season."

Ty unlocked then opened the door. "Get inside where it's warm and see your new kitchen."

Rachel entered a small room. Benches with cubbies underneath, some empty, some filled with shoes, lined the wall on each side of her. Tall cabinets covered the wall behind her. A few cowboy hats, wool beanies, jackets, insulated pants and jeans hung from rows of hooks on the far wall.

She removed her boots and tucked them into a cubby. "Socks okay?"

"Fine." Ty motioned to a basket of lined moccasin-type shoes. "Unless you want slippers."

Rachel shrugged off her coat, thankful for the forced air heating set at a comfy temperature. "I'll stick with socks."

Carrying the box, she followed Ty through a doorway. The tile floor gave way to gorgeous wide-plank hardwood.

She looked up. Stopped. Gasped.

The most beautiful, most clean, most perfect kitchen she'd ever seen was on display in front of her.

Her brother laughed. "Knew you'd like it."

"Ty knows best, except I don't like it. I love it." She'd baked in a variety of commercial workspaces—culinary school, restaurants, cafes, bakeries, and a television studio. None came close to what was now at her disposal. The hickory cabinets, butcher-block counter, wood floors and log walls and high ceiling gave the space a homey feel in spite of the top-of-the-line professional appliances and industrial stainless steel countertops. Her heart danced a jig. "I'm practically drooling."

He removed items from the grocery sacks. "As opposed to the crying in my kitchen."

"That crying wasn't about your apartment, and this will definitely cheer me up." Rachel set her box on the island's stainless steel top. Not one, but two professional ranges with so many burners she might have to try out a few fudge recipes. Maybe play with sugar. Warming drawers, two dishwashers, a wall-sized refrigerator, more than enough counter space to assemble the gingerbread houses and make do-it-yourself kits. She spun, giddy with excitement like a kid on Christmas morning. "This is a dream kitchen."

Ty's lopsided grin transported her back to sunny days of tubing on the Salt River, spring training baseball games, and late night swims in the apartment complex pool with the temperature still over a hundred. "Then you'd better put on your apron and get busy making your dream come true."

Talk about a nightmare.
Nate Vaughn cursed under his breath. The brisk morning air cleared his head, but did nothing to soothe his frustrations. He removed his duffel bag and a Christmas wreath from the back of his pickup. Yes, he should be over what happened twelve hours ago.

But he wasn't.

He slammed the shell's hatch against the back gate.

Last night had been a total waste of time. His date, a twenty-nine year old lawyer named Addison from Helena, was pretty, smart, and fit. Her profile seemed ideal, except she'd left off one critical piece of information—her addiction to texting.

Five minutes after being seated at the finest steak house in town, he wanted to toss her mobile phone off the top of Copper Mountain. The date spiraled downhill from there. If he'd wanted to eat dinner by himself, he could have stayed home and saved the money he'd spent on gas and a motel in Helena. If he hadn't drunk one beer too many at a dive bar after saying goodbye to Addison, he would have driven home last night.

No more online dating. No more high-priced matchmaking services. No more blind dates.

He trudged to the front porch.

This cowboy was going back to finding a woman the old-fashioned way. He wasn't talking mail order brides like his great grandfather, either.

Nate would find a date in person.

Somewhere in the state of Montana there had to be a woman he wanted to date more than once. Hell, he might propose on the second date if things ever got that far. All he had to do was find her…

Preferably before New Year's Eve.

He'd like someone special to kiss when the clock struck midnight and start the year off right.

Nate glanced at the house brightly lit. He'd left more lights on than he realized. At least the interior wouldn't be dark when he went inside. Empty and quiet though.

The off-season sucked. He'd take summer anytime, when the Bar V5 was full of staff and guests. No time to be bored… or lonely. He'd thought about staying open in the winter, running the ranch like a B&B, but Ty liked giving the horses time to rest. Maybe once the upgrades and remodeling projects were completed they should reconsider.

Nate set the wreath on the front porch, making a mental note to find the hanger, and headed to the mudroom. A silver pickup with an American flag decal in the back window caught his eye.

Ty Murphy—his best friend and partner, though Ty preferred to call himself the foreman—was here. Not surprising. Ty was the hardest worker Nate knew, the one person he could always count on.

He kicked the snow from his ostrich dress boots and opened the mudroom door.

The smell of ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon slammed into him like a stampeding steer. Only this didn't hurt.

Well, his stomach did. Hunger pains.

His mouth watered with anticipation. He had no idea what was baking or which of his employees had started the morning off in the kitchen, but he wanted a taste.

The scent of Christmas circled his head, tantalizing his nose and taste buds. If he could bottle and sell the scent, he would make a fortune. He glanced around to make sure he hadn't entered the wrong house.

Nope, this was the Bar V5, the place he'd grown up and, God willing, where he'd die and be buried when his time came.

He hoped that wasn't in the next five minutes, but if the Grim Reaper was on his way, Nate had better get into the kitchen so he could get a bite of whatever was cooking first. He placed the duffel bag strap on his shoulder then stepped through the doorway.

What the…

Silver mixing bowls, spoons and pans stacked haphazardly on top of each other in the sink like a culinary edition of Jenga. Pull one thing out and the entire pile would tumble down.

Cereal bowls, full of different colors of icing, sat in a cluster on the island. Pastry bags twisted like licorice between plastic containers full of sprinkles and candies.

Decorating cookies?

He took a closer look.

Not cookies. Gingerbread.

Like his mom used to make.

That explained the smell.

He rubbed his chin. Stubble pricked his fingers.

Someone had made themselves at home, but who? Ty grilled. He could smoke a mean brisket. But bake? Not likely. The other wranglers usually stuck to the bunkhouse. Maybe elves had decided to pay a visit.

Nate circled the island for a closer look.

White icing held together rectangular and square pieces of gingerbread in various stages of construction. Houses, cottages, even a barn.

On the far counter, miniature white lights illuminated the insides and hung along the eaves of three houses. Christmas trees made from star shaped cookies were strung with lights, too.

Charming and creative.

He wanted a taste.

A small piece of gingerbread, the size of a window cutout, and a few others sat on a paper towel. Scraps to be tossed? No one would miss one. He popped a square into his mouth.

Flavors exploded with just the right mixture of spices and sweetness. Oh, yeah. Whoever baked this knew what they were doing. Wanting more, he reached for another piece. His hand froze. He did a double take.

One of the gingerbread houses looked like the Crawford House. Same Victorian architecture. Similar gables and bay windows. A hint of the whimsical.

Cha-ching.

Mrs. Annabeth Collier, formerly Crawford, one of Marietta's First Families, would pay top dollar for a custom gingerbread house. Rather her daughter Chelsea's billionaire boyfriend Jasper Flint would. And not only them.

Nate wanted one of the Bar V5.

People around here went all out for the holidays. These houses would go over big. He didn't know how much one cost to make or the profit margin, but with the right marketing…

"Hello." The feminine voice wrapped around him, warm and welcoming as the scent of gingerbread baking. "Can I help you?"

He turned toward the sweet-as-molasses sound.

A twenty-something woman stood in the laundry room doorway. Blonde hair piled haphazardly on top of her head. Strands stuck out of the messy bun. A puzzled expression complete with two little creases above her nose made him want to see a smile on her pretty face. Clear complexion, straight nose, full lips and warm hazel eyes.

His pulse rate kicked up a notch, maybe two. Okay, five.

Nate recognized, but he couldn't quite place the color of her eyes. But the way the color changed from light brown to green to a golden hue captivated him.

She wore a simple purple long-sleeved turtleneck, but streaks of white across her chest—flour perhaps?—distracted him, made him want to volunteer for cleanup duty. Faded jeans hugged her hips and thighs until flaring slightly at her calves. Long legs and curvy in all the right places.

Cute candy cane striped sock-covered toes peeked out the bottom. The pattern amused and intrigued him. Part of an elf's costume or holiday attire?

Either way, Christmas had come early.

He'd been good this year and deserved a reward from Santa. Hot gingerbread baked by a hot woman was making him hot. The only improvement to his wonderful gift would be if she was naked and wearing a red ribbon. Though he could live without the ribbon.

His heart raced, as if trying to catch his horse Arrow when the stallion had escaped from the pasture. Sweat dampened the back of his neck. Had someone turned up the heat?

Her mouth twitched. She looked like she was waiting for something.

Oh, yeah. Him. "Hi."

Clever, Vaughn. Impressive show of eloquence with a two-letter word.
He would try again. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm good. I don't need any help."

His mouth twisted. He felt tongue-tied like a teenager talking to his first crush.

"Are you a ranch hand?" She studied him. "Or Nate?"

"Nate." She knew his name, but he didn't have a clue who she was or why she was walking around like she owned the place. He should probably care more than he did. But she was pretty and her cooking smelled delicious and most importantly, she wasn't holding a cell phone or pointing a gun or, he double-checked her left hand, wearing a wedding ring. "And you're…"

"I was rinsing out my apron in the laundry room," she said at the same time. A charming pink spread across her face. "Sorry, I'm Rachel."

"Rachel." A lovely name to go with a beautiful woman. A woman he wanted to get to know better. Intimately. Before New Year's Eve. "Nice to meet you."

"You, too." She walked toward him, a subtle sway to her hips he found mesmerizing. "Ty's told me so much about you."

"Ty?"

She nodded. "Thanks for letting me use your kitchen."

Yesterday's forgotten conversation rushed back, bunching Nate's muscles. He rubbed the back of his neck. He knew exactly why her hazel eyes looked familiar.

"You're Ty's sister." So much for an early Christmas present. Nate should have known finding a beautiful blonde cooking in his kitchen was too good to be true. "You're older than I thought you'd be."

The corners of Rachel's mouth curved upward in an almost smile. "Ty thinks I'm still a kid with ponytails crushing on boy bands."

I don't.
But Nate couldn't say about his friend's sister when said friend was as protective of her as a new foal's momma. "Ty's a good guy."

"The best."

Nate's gaze held hers a moment too long. He looked away so she wouldn't to think he might be interested in her.

Not going to cross that line, even if he were tempted. He was, but Ty meant too much to Nate for him to do something stupid like put a move on Rachel.