Mail-Order Millionaire (6 page)

     Miranda drove as fast as she dared across New Hampshire, past white fields and snow-covered farmhouses. Her eyes were heavy and her throat was dry, but she didn’t dare stop for coffee. She had to get back to feed the horses and check the buckets before she went to work. Her mind was spinning with thoughts of what she’d done and how she’d keep it a secret at work. It was a crazy idea to bring the boots up there, three feet of snow or not. It was even crazier to spend the night, although she’d had no choice.

Her face burned as she relived the moment Maxwell Carter had realized she wasn’t Fred. The shock on his face, and his surprise, haunted her. Do I look like I’m starving? he’d asked. She had to admit, she’d seen no evidence of starvation. He was the most well-built man she’d ever seen.

He couldn’t believe she’d taken the Sno-Cat and driven it up by herself without asking anybody. Neither could she. What did he think of her for barging in on him that way and staying overnight? Not that he’d tried anything. Underneath his layers of winter clothing he really was a Southern gentleman. Or maybe he just didn’t find her attractive. It didn’t matter.

She left the engine of the truck running in the driveway while she emptied the hay into bins for the broad-backed horses, then squished her way to the nearest tree to check the bucket. To her surprise sap was dripping steadily into the bucket, which was already half-full. She let out a whoop of joy that startled the crows overhead. The sapping season had started. She emptied all the buckets into a twenty-gallon copper washtub and replaced them. Then with no time to change clothes, she jumped back into the truck and headed for town.

She was only ten minutes late, but her luck had run out. Old Mr. Northwood was standing at the employee entrance. “Feeling better, Miranda?” he asked dryly.

Better? What did that mean? What had her friends told him? That she’d come down with the flu? Broken her leg? Trust them to make up a good story, but what was it? “Much better,” she said firmly, walking past him in her muddy boots. He followed her into the deserted lunchroom, where she filled her coffee cup while he watched.

“Have you ever thought of selling your farm?” he asked, fingering his gold watch chain. “It’s such a long drive into town.”

Miranda pressed her lips together. She got the message. If she lived in town she could get to work on time. “Not really,” she said. “I grew up on the farm. It feels like home. And I usually enjoy the drive. It would be nice if they’d fix the potholes, though.”

He nodded absently. “If you change your mind, I hope you’ll come to me first. We’ve always wanted a little place in the country.”

Miranda blinked back her surprise. She’d never call the sprawling acreage a little place in the country. Right now it was a big, unkempt, overgrown place in the mud. It had possibilities, but she thought she was the only one who could see them. It had the maple trees, it had an orchard and it had the brook running through, but they all needed a big dose of tender loving care. And that took time. Right now she needed to spend her time at Green Mountain Merchants just to pay the taxes, never mind a new engine for the tractor or tiny fir seedlings that could be the start of a Christmas tree farm on the back forty.

“I’ll do that,” she told Mr. Northwood, then backed out of the room and went straight to her desk. The others were all there, speaking in soothing tones to disgruntled customers, and four heads swiveled in her direction when she slid into her chair and put on her headset.

Donna finished her call and turned her attention to Miranda. “What happened?” she asked in a stage whisper. “Mr. Northwood has been breathing down our necks. Your sister is frantic and that man’s called twice.”

Miranda’s pulse quickened. “Nothing happened. I delivered the boots. What does he want now?”

“I don’t know, but you’d better call him. I promised you would. I’ll call your sister and tell her you’re back safe.”

Miranda found Max’s file and dialed his number. After only one sip of her coffee she’d developed a bad case of coffee nerves.

“Mount Henry Observation Tower.”

“This is Miranda of Green Mountain Merchants. How may I help you?”

“You may help me by being there when I call. You should have been there an hour ago. I didn’t know if you’d gone off the road in the Sno-Cat or...”

“I appreciate your concern. I left the Sno-Cat where I found it, and then I drove straight back here.”

“What took you so long?”

She turned away from Donna’s curious eyes and lowered her voice. “I went home first to check the buckets. The sap is running and I should be there right now, but I can’t leave. I was caught coming in late and there are calls waiting, so if there’s nothing else...”

“What happened to the other boots?” he asked as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted, “but I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. Let’s say the case is closed. You have your boots and I still have my job, so far. But I really have to...”

“I just wanted to thank you,” he said with a note of sincerity she hadn’t heard before.

“You’re welcome,” she said and hung up.

She forced herself to concentrate on the incoming calls, not allowing herself to wonder about the weather on top of Mount Henry or the weatherman, a strange blend of rugged outdoorsman and Southern gentility. She made it until lunchtime, when they closed the complaint department for an hour and all went to eat at the steak house as they did every Friday.

They piled into Miranda’s truck and peppered her with questions about the mysterious man she’d spent the night with, but she put than off until she’d driven into Chuck’s parking lot and parked the truck. They squeezed into a wooden booth and all five ordered the special steak sandwich. After that there was no escaping their questions.

“Start at the beginning and tell us everything,” Mavis demanded, unfolding her napkin. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Miranda’s tone was so emphatic that they all laughed. She sighed. “All right. I delivered the boots to the customer because something went wrong with the mail and I got snowed in and had to spend the night. Now he has his boots, I’m home safe and we can all get back to normal.” She took a drink of water and wondered if it was normal to think so much about one customer, when there were others with problems just as serious—camera cases that wouldn’t snap shut, sleeping bags with jammed zippers. But there was only one Max Carter, and even though his case was closed, she couldn’t get him off her mind.

“So it was no big deal to spend the night with a customer,” Donna said with a touch of disbelief. “I’ve never done it, have you?” She looked around the table and the others solemnly shook their heads.

“Wait a minute,” Penny interjected. “Is this the guy with the Southern drawl? I wouldn’t mind being stuck overnight with him. Even when he was complaining he was sooo charmin… .”

Miranda shook her head. “This is not the same person. Southern accent, yes, but not ‘charmin’,’ not at all.” She felt a small pang of guilt. Wasn’t it charming of him to make her dinner, to offer her his bed and call just to thank her? Never mind, she wasn’t under oath here; she was only trying to get off the subject. “Did I tell you the sap is running?” she asked brightly.

There was a brief pause while they all shifted gears. Lianne was the first to recover. “When’s the sugaring off party?”

“This Friday,” Miranda decided. “Pray for snow.”

Snow wasn’t all Miranda ended up praying for. She prayed for more hours in the day. Hours to process the sap that was running, no, flowing from the maple trees all day while she’d been stuck at work. The minute she got home she put on her oldest overalls over her long underwear, then a heavy plaid jacket and shoved her feet into her old rubber boots. With her hands full of pots and buckets she stumbled in the mud. She didn’t even take time to hitch the horses because the sap fermented so quickly. So she hauled buckets back and forth to the sugar shack where she had a fire going. Hovering over the vats, watching the steam rise from the thin sweet sap, she felt light-headed and dizzy. When the sap had boiled down, she strained it through muslin into jars and bottles, sealed it and stored it in the root cellar where her grandmother had kept her jams and jellies.

It was close to midnight when she staggered back to the house, showered and went to bed. She knew her sister would want to talk to her, but it was too late to call, and she didn’t have the energy to give her the complete account of her stay with the weatherman that she knew she’d demand. Ariel wasn’t as easy to put off as her friends in Complaints. She’d want to know everything. She’d ask questions Miranda couldn’t answer. How do you know he isn’t married? What’s he like? Does he want to see you again?

In her dreams she saw sap bubbling up over the top of the vats, running down the sides and out the door, covering the fields with sticky syrup that stuck to her boots when she walked until she couldn’t move, couldn’t get to work so she was late, late again. And the phones were ringing, ringing, so loudly that they woke her up. Then she realized that it was her own phone ringing, her own sister on the other end of the line, asking the questions she’d expected.

“What happened?” Ariel asked.

“Nothing,” Miranda said automatically. “The sap’s running. I just went to bed.” She squinted at the clock on her bedside table: 7:00 a.m. “I can’t talk. I have to go to work,” she croaked.

“It’s Saturday.”

“I know it’s Saturday. I have to get out and empty the buckets.” She ran her hands through her tangled hair.

“I’ll come out and help you and we’ll talk. About you know who.”

“I know who, but there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, of course not. You made a delivery to a mysterious stranger, then you spent the night with him and you’re telling me there’s nothing to talk about? Give me a break.”

Miranda wiggled her toes and grinned at the sarcasm in her sister’s voice. “I’ll give you more than a break. I’ll load you down with maple syrup if you come out and help me, but if you’re looking for some hot gossip you’re in for a disappointment.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Max faced his week off with mixed feelings. For the first time since he’d arrived at the observatory a little more than a year ago, he was eager to leave. He’d been restless and edgy for the past few days, exhibiting all the symptoms of cabin fever he’d thought he was immune to. When he came to Mount Henry over a year ago, he was looking for a place to escape to. The solitude, the awesome views of the white mountains and the howling winds helped him focus on the forces outside instead of the demons inside himself.

He stood at the window waiting for Jake, his replacement, to arrive, and watching it snow. The weather never let up, or if it did, it came back with a fury he couldn’t ignore. His job was to observe the clouds, clock the winds and measure the snow, then phone in his observations to the Office of the Weather Bureau in Portland. They depended on him and he depended on nobody, and that’s the way he liked it.

Except for the occasional stranded hiker he rescued and Fred and Jake who alternated shifts with him, he didn’t see much of anyone. He didn’t miss people, except for having a chess partner. That was one thing he liked about Miranda Morrison.

He couldn’t figure her out. Was she a terrible player who got lucky? Or was she a good player who pretended to be terrible? And that wasn’t the only puzzling thing about her. She was beautiful, but she didn’t seem to know it. Even the baggy sweater couldn’t hide the curves underneath, and her straight, flyaway hair only emphasized her classic features.

He’d probably never see her again. Even if he ordered from Green Mountain, it would probably get here. And if it didn’t, he wouldn’t call and complain, not again. He’d go there in person and make the exchange himself. It would save time and trouble. Doing business over the phone was frustrating since the invention of voice mail.

Jake finally arrived in the Sno-Cat, driven by Fred, and Max told him about the broken barometer and the crack in the altimeter before he left with the extra-large, long underwear in a paper bag. Miranda was right, extra large was too big. He might just drive over to Vermont and get the right size. He wasn’t going to complain. It was his fault for ordering the wrong size. And if he didn’t complain, he wouldn’t see Miranda. So he got in his car, which was always left parked at the ranger station, and drove past snow-covered fields and white-frame farmhouses until he arrived in the small town of Northwood.