Santa Viking (22 page)

Annie understood his bewilderment, even if he didn’t. For some reason, an odd heat—of an erotic nature, not the body temperature type—was generated when they were in each other’s presence. She empathized with his consternation. Clayton Jessup III was a gorgeous hunk
 . . .
when he wasn’t frowning, that is. He would find it unbelievable that he could be attracted to a tasteless caricature of the Virgin Mary.

“Can you turn down the heat?” he asked testily.

“There is no heat. The thermostat broke last winter.”

“Humph!” he commented as he rolled down the window on his side. “Pee-yew!” He immediately rolled it back up. “How can you stand that smell?”

“What smell? Oh, you mean the cows.” She shrugged. “You get used to it after a while. Actually, I like the scent. It spells good country living to me.”

“Humph! It spells cow crap to me.”

Clay’s condescending attitude was starting to irk Annie. She had liked him a whole lot better when he was under the influence.

“Am I being kidnapped?” he inquired hesitantly.

“Wha-at?”
Where did that insane idea come from? Oh, I see.
His gaze riveted now behind his head where Chet’s hunting rifle rested in the gun rack above the bench seat. “Of course not.”

“Where am I?”

“Don’t you remember? You fell outside the hotel. I took you to the hospital emergency room. Oh, don’t look so alarmed. You just have a sprained ankle and a goose egg on your head. The doctor said you need special care for a day or two because of the reaction you had to the Darvon, and I offered to bring you out to the farm. We’re about a half hour outside Memphis.”

“I agreed to stay on a
 . . .
farm
?” His eyes, which were really quite beautiful—a deep blue framed by thick black lashes—went wide with disbelief.

“Yes,” she said in a voice stiff with affront.

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

Yep, his superiority complex was annoying the heck out of her. “Maybe because you were under the influence of drugs.”

“I don’t take drugs.”

“You did today, buddy.”

“Take me back to the hotel.”

She let loose with a long sigh. “We’ve already been through this before. You need special care. Since you have no family, I volunteered
 . . .
out of the goodness of my heart, I might add
 . . .
and do I get any thanks? No, sirree.”

“Who said I have no family?”

“You did.”

“I
 . . .
did
 . . .
not!” His face flushed with embarrassment.

Geez, why would he be uncomfortable over revealing that he had no family? It only made him appear human. Hah! Maybe that was the key. He didn’t want to be human.

“I don’t discuss my personal life with
 . . .
strangers.”

Bingo!
“Well, you did this time.”

His eyelids fluttered with sleepiness even as he spoke. “What elsh did I saaaay?”

The little demons on the wrong side of Annie’s brain did a victory dance at Clay’s question. Here was the perfect opportunity for her to get even for his patronizing comments.

“Well, you did a lot of singing.”

His eyes shot open. “Me? In public?”

“Hmmm. Do you consider the emergency room a public place?”

“That’s impossible.”

“And, of course, there was your remark about haylofts
 . . . 
”

“Huh?”

Annie could see the poor guy was fighting sleep. Still, she couldn’t help herself from adding, “
.
 . .
and making love.”

“Making love in a hayloft? I said
that
?” Clay murmured skeptically. “With
you
? Humph! I couldn’t have been
that
much out of my mind.”

Before she could correct his misconception that he’d associated making love in a hayloft with her, his head fell back. Good thing, too, because Annie was about to give him a matching goose egg on the other side of his insulting noggin. “Did you say humbug?”

“No! Why does everyone think I’m a Scrooge?” he asked drowsily, followed by a lusty yawn.

“Maybe because you are.”

“I said humph,” he mumbled in his sleep. Then a small snore escaped from his parted lips

“Humph you, you egotistical bozo.”

Can
’
t help falling in love
 . . .

Clay awakened groggily from a deep sleep to find it was dark outside. He must have slept a good four hours or more.

For several moments, he didn’t move from his position on the high maple poster bed, where he lay on his stomach, presumably to protect the back of his aching head. He burrowed deeper beneath the warm cocoon of a homemade patchwork quilt and smiled to himself.
So, this is how it feels to be one of the Waltons.

By the light of a bedside hurricane lamp, he studied his surroundings. It was a cozy room, with its slanted, dormer ceiling
 . . .
hardly bigger than his walk-in closet at home. The only furniture, besides the bed, was a matching maple dresser and a blanket chest under the low double windows facing the front of the house. A well-worn easy chair of faded blue upholstery sat in one corner, flanked on one side by a floor lamp and on the other by a small side table on which sat a paperback book and a pile of magazines. A few photographs, which he couldn’t decipher from here, a high school pennant, and some cheaply framed prints of cows—
What else!
—adorned the pink rose-papered walls.

It had to belong to the Blessed Virgin Bimbo who’d brought him here. Unless the collection of Teddy Bears on the chest and the sweet-smelling toiletries on the bureau belonged to one of her brothers. Somehow, though, he didn’t think any of the virile young men he’d seen in that wacky Nativity scene were gay farmers.

Clay should have felt outrage at finding himself in this predicament. Instead, a strange sense of well-being filled him, as if he’d been running a marathon for a long, long time, and finally he’d reached the finish line.

Slowly he came fully awake as the sounds of the house, which had been deathly quiet before, seeped into his consciousness. The slamming of a door. The clomp, clomp, clomp of boots on hardwood floors. Laughter and male voices. Water running. The never-ending blare of Elvis music, “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog
 
. . .
 
”
Good Lord! People have the nerve to call that caterwauling music. Humph!

The cry of a baby emerged from down the hall
 . . .
from one of the other second floor bedrooms, he presumed—mixed with the soft crooning voice of an adult male, a mixture of lullaby and words of comfort. “Shhh, Jason. You’ve had a long day. What a good boy you were! Just let me finish with this diaper, then you can have your bottle. Aaah, I know, I know. You’re sleepy.” Gradually, the crying died down to a slow whimper, then silence, except for the creak, creak, creak of a rocker.

From the deep recesses of Clay’s memory, an image emerged
 . . .
flickering and ethereal. A woman sitting in a high-backed rocking chair, holding an infant in her tender embrace. He even imagined the scent of baby powder mixed with a flowery substance. Perfume? The woman was singing a sweet, silly song to the baby about a Sandman coming with his bag of magic sleepy-time dust.

A lump formed in Clay’s throat, and he could barely breathe.

Could it have been his mother
 . . .
and him? No! His mother had left when he was barely one year old
 . . .
and died not that long after. It was impossible that he could recall something from that age. Wasn’t it?

With a snort of disgust, Clay tossed the quilt aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. He gritted his teeth to fight off the wooziness that accompanied waves of pain assaulting him from the back of his head and his bandaged ankle. Once the worst of the pain passed, he took in the fact that he was clothed only in boxers. Had he undressed himself? No, it had been the woman, Annie Fallon, and her Aunt Liza, a wiry, ancient version of the grandma on the Waltons.
God, I
’
ve got a thing about the Waltons today.
They’d helped him remove his clothing, then encouraged him to take a half pill before tucking him into the big bed.

In fact, Clay had a distinct recollection of the old buzzard eyeballing his near nude body, cackling her appreciation, then telling Annie, “Not bad for a city slicker!”

He also had a distinct recollection of Annie’s response. “Don’t go there, Aunt Liza. He’s an egotistical bozo with ice in his veins and a Scrooge personality disorder.”

“Scrooge-smoodge. You could melt him down, sweetie. Might be a nifty idea for our Christmas good deed this year.”

Annie had giggled. “I can see it now. The Fallon Family Christmas Good Deed 2011: Bring a Scrooge Home for the Holidays.”

I am not a Scrooge. Not, not, not! I
’
m not icy, either. In fact, I
’
m hot, hot, hot
 . . .
at least when the Tennessee Tart is around. Furthermore, nobody
 . . .
especially not a bunch of hayseed farmers
 . . .
better make me their good deed. I am not a pity case.

Clay wanted nothing more than to be back home where his life was orderly and sane. He was going to sue the pants off these crackpots, but he had more important things on his mind right now. An empty stomach—which rumbled at the delicious scents wafting up from downstairs—and a full bladder.

First things first. Clay pulled on his suit pants, gingerly, and made his way into the hall, using one crutch as a prop to avoid putting full weight on his injured ankle. Across the corridor, a boy of about thirteen
 . . .
the one who’d been a shepherd in the Nativity scene
 . . .
was propped against the pillows on one of the twin beds in the room, reading a biology book and writing in a class notebook. He wore jeans and a tee shirt that proclaimed, “Farmers Have Long Hoes.” His hair was wet from a recent shower and no longer sported the high pouf on top or duck’s ass in the back. The stereo to the side of his bed blared out the Elvis music he’d heard earlier.