Christmas Kisses (Romance on the Ranch Series #5) (3 page)

For Cecelia, the next two weeks passed quickly
while she learned everything about her business. Her employees taught her how
to make all the drinks on her menu and she jotted suggestions from patrons and
employees for new concoctions.

While in bed, she would often try to think of
cute names for beverages. The creative side of her nature thanked her. She had
so many ideas—from designing advertisements for the local paper to rearranging chairs
and tables in her shop. Shopping online for cute pictures having to do with
coffee became her favorite evening pastime, as well as contemplating and
surfing the net for ideas in decorating her shop for Christmas.

On the Wednesday of her third week, she felt
comfortable in her ability to manage her business. Her employees even said she
was great to work for. Her life in New York seemed light years in the past.

Justin said, "I got Mystery Man's order
ready. Cecelia, are you acting as barista while I'm gone?"

Cecelia said, "Hey, why don't I deliver his
coffee? I'd like to see where Mystery Man lives."

Justin replied, "Sure. That's a good idea
for future reference. Here's how you get to his house. You walk to First and
Main and turn right. The second street you come to is Maple. You turn right
again, and it's the fourth house on your left."

"Got it." Cecelia grabbed the pretty
sack with the coffee and Fluffy-Puffy inside, and headed out the door. She called
a few greetings to patrons as she left the shop, but didn't stop to chat. She
didn't want Mystery Man's coffee to get cold.

*

Connor peered through the privacy blind allowing
him to see out, but not allowing anyone to see inside his home. Usually, a
young, skinny, dark-haired man delivered his standing order, but not today.
Instead, a woman of average height with thick brunette hair that reached past
her shoulders walked the flagstone path of the property he'd rented for the
past six months. She wore a white, short-sleeve button down blouse and
knee-length tan skirt. With her curves, she definitely wasn't a teenager. He
decided she was probably in her mid to late thirties. She was intriguing, but
he wouldn't let his mind wander in that direction.

Anxious to start the day's painting, he was
already mixing colors in his mind. He dismissed the woman from his thoughts and
started to turn around when he saw the lady stumble. For an instant he thought
she might recover herself, but then she went down hard on her knees and her
elbow skidded against a flagstone. The bag she carried somersaulted into the
air and landed several feet from her.

"Shit!" he voiced into the empty room
and rushed toward the door. He hated meeting people, but there was no way he
would let an injured woman limp away from his house.

Grabbing the cane that he used when he had to
walk more than a few feet, he jerked the door open and stepped onto the porch.

The woman was sitting on the ground examining
her bleeding elbow and scraped knees. She glanced up and he could see pain in
her expression.

"I'm so sorry about your coffee," she
rasped.

He couldn't believe she was worried about a damn
cup of coffee. He descended the two steps of the porch and reached his good
hand toward her. "Here, let me help you up. You need to come inside so I
can see how badly you're hurt."

She didn't argue as she placed her hand in his
and a soft moan escaped her lips. Connor inwardly cursed. If he had been the
man he once was, whole and strong, he would have scooped her into his arms and
carried her inside the house.

He helped her hobble to the front door. She
paused. "I'll stay on the porch. I don't want to get blood inside your
house."

"Forget the damn house. The bathroom is down
the hall, last door on the left before the stairs."

She looked up at him with anxious eyes that made
him want to smooth a hand down her cheek to ease her pain. He mentally shook
his head.
Don't even go there.

Holding her hand over her elbow to keep blood
from dripping onto anything, she stepped inside the house. For a second she appeared
disoriented and Connor placed a hand on her back, urging her toward the
bathroom.

Both of them in the bathroom made for a tight
squeeze.

"Sit on the side of the tub," Connor
ordered. He reached for a cloth in the rack above the toilet. Turning on the
sink faucet to wet it, he said, "This will probably hurt."

The woman replied, "Okay." She held
her bleeding elbow over the tub. Connor sat tub side with her and began
blotting her arm. She winced but said nothing. After cleaning her arm, he
started on her knees. His bad arm was beginning to weaken and his right thigh
hurt. He ignored both.

With the wounds clean, he used his cane to push
up and walk the few steps to the medicine cabinet. He reached for peroxide and
bandages.

The woman started a conversation. "I'm
sorry about causing you so much trouble. I'm the new owner of Dixie's Cuppa Joe.
I wanted to be a hands-on owner, so I asked Justin to let me make your delivery
today."

Connor walked back and sat beside her again. He
reached for her arm. Rather than respond to her confession, he said, "This
is going to sting."

She laughed softly, a husky, sexy sound, and
said, "Bring it on."

It took several minutes for Connor to finish
tending her wounds and bandaging them.

When he finished, she said, "I guess I
should introduce myself." She held out her good hand for him to shake.
"Cecelia Brightman."

He gently grasped her palm with his good hand
while his gaze observed hazel eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across her pert
nose, and a pretty, heart-shaped mouth. "Just call me Mac." Her last
name was familiar. Connor knew that the famous author, Maxwell Henry, whose
real name was Miles Brightman, lived in the area. He asked, "Are you any
relation to Miles Brightman?"

She smiled. "Yes. He's my brother. Do you
know him?"

"No. I just heard he lives in the
area."

An awkward silence ensued and the bathroom seemed
to shrink even smaller. Connor said, "Why don't I call a cab or someone at
your shop to pick you up."

"Goodness, no. It's only a few blocks away
and I've already interrupted your day. After I get back, I'll send Justin with
your order. As a matter of fact, to make things up to you, the rest of the month
is on me—no charge."

"Not necessary. Accidents happen."
Reaching for his cane that was leaning against the back of the tub, he stiffly
stood. "Come back to the living room and I'll get you something to drink.
I have Pepsi, Seven-up, and sweet tea."

"Just a glass of water would be fine."

Connor looked at her bloody shirt. "I have
a T-shirt you can wear." With uncharacteristic joking he added, "If
you walk down the street like that, someone may call an ambulance."

She laughed her sexy laugh and followed him from
the bathroom. When he reached the end of the hall, he turned expecting her to
be right behind him, but she was standing in the doorway to his art room. Her
shocked expression as she turned from looking inside the room to him, told him everything
he needed to know. His identity was out of the bag.

Cursing his stupidity in not closing the door,
he waited for her to speak.

*

Cecelia stared at the man who had just doctored
her wounds. Surely this wasn't
the
Connor MacKenzie. She looked back at
a painting on one easel and another with the beginnings of a forest scene. At
first she had been drawn to them because of their likeness to one of her
favorite artists. When she'd glanced at the signature on the finished painting
and read
CONNOR
MACKENZIE,
her foot had frozen midstride.

No other plausible explanation presented itself so
she rasped, "You're the artist, Connor MacKenzie?"

He didn't answer, but his expression revealed
the truth. She had just been rescued by the art genius. Reaching her arm to
lean against the wall because her legs suddenly felt weak, she whispered to
herself. "I can't believe this."

Lifting her eyes back to his, she noted his
frown. He said, "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything to
anyone. Obviously, I like my privacy."

Cecelia nodded.

He continued, "Please come to the living
room and sit down so I can bring you some water. You're not looking strong
enough to leave yet. I really want to call someone to pick you up."

Cecelia pushed away from the wall and slowly
followed him back to the living room, noting his dependence on his cane and the
way he held one arm close to his body. She knew he had been in a car accident years
earlier that killed his wife, and that he had gone into seclusion after the
incident, but because he continued to paint, she had assumed he'd fully
recovered from his physical injuries. Obviously, he hadn't.

He motioned toward the couch and she almost fell
onto it her knees felt so weak. He left the room and returned minutes later
with a glass of water. She accepted it, sipped, and said, "I have five of
your originals and several prints."

He quirked an eyebrow and she could read his
thoughts. His paintings sold for five and six figures and he was wondering how
a coffee shop owner could afford them.

She took another sip and held her glass in both
hands. "Before I bought Dixie's Cuppa Joe and moved here, I worked for
Charity Disbursements in New York. I was the one who wrote asking for a
donation to our Christmas auction raising funds for Loving Arms Adoption Agency.
Before I left New York, your painting arrived." She gave a little chuckle,
"I told my assistant that if I hadn't been ineligible to bid, I would have
paid whatever price to own that painting."

*

Connor was shocked, but now remembered her name
as being on the letter. Even then, he'd wondered if she was related to Miles
Brightman. What were the chances of meeting this woman—a billion to one? But
that was neither here nor there. He didn't want his identity made known.
Tapping the fingers of his good hand on his knee, he said, "Like I said, I
would appreciate you keeping my identity a secret. I came here to paint in
privacy. When I'm at home in Denver, I'm bombarded by people and companies
wanting something from me."

Cecelia frowned.

He continued, "I usually don't respond to
requests for donations of paintings. I make charitable contributions through a
trust I've set up. But when your letter arrived, I decided to donate because of
the charity you were benefiting. I've supported that organization for years."

Connor waited for Cecelia's response by leaning
back against the couch cushions.

"I promise your identity is secure with me."

He smiled. "Thank you."

She stood. "I guess I better head back to
the shop. I'll have Justin deliver your coffee and pastry."

"Are you sure I can't call someone to come and
get you?"

"Positive." She stepped toward the
door.

"Oh, let me get that T-shirt for you to
change into."

"No, it's not necessary. It's only a few
minutes to my home and the shop."

Leaning heavily on his cane, Connor followed her
outside.

There was an awkward silence, then she said,
"Well, goodbye, Mr. MacKenzie."

"Please call me Mac."

"Goodbye, Mac."

"Goodbye, Cecelia."

While Cecelia walked back to the coffee shop,
she berated herself for not accepting Connor MacKenzie's T-shirt. If she had,
she would have had reason to return to his home.

Entering the coffee shop through the back door,
Julie dropped the sleeve of paper cups she was retrieving and rushed toward
her. She exclaimed, "What on earth happened to you?"

Justin must have heard because he poked his head
around the corner. "Don't tell me you tripped and fell."

Cecelia looked sheepish.

Julie said, "You did! You fell. Oh, you
poor thing. You need to go home. We can cover for the rest of the day."

Tilly entered from the office and also started
clucking over Cecelia like a mother hen.

Justin halted all conversation when he said,
"OMG! Who bandaged you?"

Cecelia bit the inside of her jaw. Justin
exclaimed, "It was
him,
Mystery Man, wasn't it."

Again, her expression gave her away.

The bell tinkled when a customer entered the
shop. Justin said, "Rats," and returned to the front, followed by
Julie.

Still marveling that she had met Connor MacKenzie,
one of the foremost painters in the world, Cecelia slipped out the back door
and walked the short distance to her house so she could change her clothes.

After changing, she couldn't resist firing up
her computer to do a little research on Mr. MacKenzie. She finally located the
newspaper article describing his car accident.

Details are sketchy, but
in a head-on car accident near Denver International Airport, a drunk driver
crossed into the lane of artist Connor MacKenzie. His wife, Rose, was pronounced
dead at the scene. Mr. MacKenzie and his two month old son were flown by
helicopter to the University of Colorado Hospital in Aurora. The artist's injuries
are believed to be life threatening. His son's injuries are unknown at this
time.

Cecelia wanted to cry. The man had lost his wife.
Of course, she had known that, but meeting him in person brought reality to the
sad event. And what of his son? She read the date of the article—fifteen years
previous. So his boy would be fifteen. She had seen no evidence of a teenager
living with him, but that didn't mean there wasn't one. Had the child lived?

She found more articles written in rag magazines,
but nothing shedding additional understanding about Mr. MacKenzie and his son.
After his accident, he seemed to have dropped off the radar. Even before the
accident he had been reclusive. He did, however, have a current website that
showcased and sold his paintings, and she found another site where a journalist
had done a blog about trying to interview the elusive artist. He'd posted a statement
from Mr. MacKenzie's attorney reiterating the fact that the artist did not give
interviews and that he requested his privacy be respected.

Cecelia glanced at the clock. She had been gone
for over two hours. She needed to return to her shop. Wearing a long skirt and
loose blouse with three quarter sleeves to hide her injuries from customers,
she walked as swiftly as her sore knees would permit, back to her coffee shop. Business
always slowed down after the noon hour and as soon as she stepped through the
back door, her employees once again rushed her. After inquiring as to her
wellbeing, they didn't move away.

"Well," said Justin. "Are you
going to tell us about Mystery Man? Is he a hit man running from the CIA? Does
he look like Quasimodo?"

Cecelia puffed a breath, "No to all of the
above."

Everyone waited.

Justin said, "You're not going to tell us
anything, are you?"

Cecelia admitted, "That's true."

"Ooooh this is rich. I love a good
mystery."

Julie said, "Wow. I can't imagine why
you're being so secretive."

Tilly said, "Just like Dixie guessed, he's
an alien. Is he grey or reptilian?"

Everyone turned incredulous eyes on her.

"Hey, I watched
Aliens Among Us
last
night. It was on the history channel. They had me convinced."

Cecelia said, "The only thing I can say is that
Mystery Man is very nice. Other than that, my lips are sealed, so please don't
ask. And please don't say anything to anyone about this." Her voice took
on a pleading tone.

Justin said, "Damn, as much as I want to
gossip with my friends about Mystery Man, when you whine like that, my conscience
would kill me."

Julie said, "I promise I won't say
anything."

"Me either," Tilly gave Spock's finger
sign.

Cecelia laughed and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank you."