Chapter 2
If she hadn’t had the bar to lean against, Miranda suspected she would have been knocked clear to the ground with the force of Randall Sinclair’s smile.
It brought about such a transformation on his handsome, weary face that she caught herself smiling too.
It took half a second for her to determine that there was no one else like this man in all of Mistletoe, maybe in all of Montana, although she couldn’t put her finger on whether it was his tailored coat, his high cheekbones and straight nose, or just the air he had about him.
Outside, the flurries were changing over to steadier snow, and it was the smack of the door flapping against the wall as another gust came through that startled the smile off of Mr. Sinclair’s face.
“I’m so sorry.” He rushed to put his trunk down and spun around to shut the door.
“Hold on a second there, sweetheart.” Starla pushed away from the bar with a knowing, teasing grin for Miranda. “I was just about to leave.” Before she did, she leaned closer to Miranda and said, “Just you remember what I said about loosening up and letting miracles happen.”
“He’s a man, not a miracle,” Miranda whispered in return.
Starla laughed. “Honey, in my experience, every man is some kind of miracle.” She ended her statement with a saucy wink and sashayed toward the door.
Mr. Sinclair was still in the entryway, and as Starla reached him, taking a light grey, wool coat from the row of hooks by the door and shrugging into it, he held the door for her with a slightly baffled, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
Starla sent a glance in Miranda’s direction, chuckled, and patted Mr. Sinclair’s slightly shadowed cheek as she marched out into the snow.
Mr. Sinclair watched her go, shook his head and shrugged, then closed the door behind her. When that was done, he put his smile back on and strode a few steps deeper into the room. “Like I said,” he began again, “my name is Randall Sinclair, and I come to you today from the…”
His smile vanished once more. His hands dropped to his sides as he looked around the big, empty saloon.
“Oh. You’re closed, aren’t you?”
“In fact, we are.” A hot flush filled Miranda’s face. She tried to shake it away. Why did she feel guilty for stating the obvious to this man?
“My apologies.” Mr. Sinclair sidestepped to his trunk. “I should have known, what with the storm that looks like it’s blowing in. I won’t bother you.”
“It’s all right.” Miranda jumped out from around the bar, throwing down the rag she’d been clutching and wiping her hands on her skirt.
“I was closing up early, but I don’t need to.
Especially since you look like you could stand to sit down for a minute.
” She blinked at the pun in her words, then giggled as her heart thumped hard against her ribs.
Mr. Sinclair looked confused for a moment, then laughed himself, cheeks a merry shade of red. “I get it. Stand to sit . You’re clever.”
A blossom of pleasure filled Miranda’s chest. Although she shouldn’t be so giddy about being called clever when Vicky was called beautiful every twelve minutes.
She shook that thought aside and moved a few steps closer to Mr. Sinclair, more like a hostess at a garden party than a saloonkeeper. “Why don’t you have a seat at one of these tables by the fire? I just added more wood not ten minutes ago, so it should warm you well.”
“That’s mighty generous of you, Miss…?”
“Clarke. Miranda Clarke. How do you do?” She crossed to meet him in the center of the saloon, hand outstretched.
Mr. Sinclair took her offered hand and not only shook it, he bowed over it. Miranda’s brow flew up. Obviously Mr. Sinclair was used to some degree of society. That wasn’t something she’d seen every day in the rugged little town of Mistletoe.
“Miss Clarke,” Mr. Sinclair said, letting her hand go. His smile grew, and a sort of manly mischief filled his eyes. “Say, with a name like Miranda, you don’t happen to have the nickname ‘Randi,’ do you?”
Miranda’s cheeks flushed hotter and her back went stiff. “Only at times when people wish to be nasty to me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mr. Sinclair blushed harder, his mischief switching to embarrassment near panic.
“It’s just that my closest friends call me Randy too, although with a “y” as opposed to an “i,” which I imagine is the female equivalent of the nickname.
I thought it was quaint, is all. Randy and Randi. ”
“Oh!” Miranda clapped a hand to her mouth. Not only did a burst of awkwardness threaten to knock her over, but she had suddenly never wanted to be called “Randi” so much in her life. She managed to swallow, pull herself together, and say, “That is an amusing coincidence, isn’t it?”
“It must be fate.” The smile came back to Mr. Sinclair’s eyes. “Of all the saloons in all the towns in Montana, I happened to step into yours for a bit of refreshment after a long, wearying day.”
Such a shame that he was having a bad day. Was she having a trying day too? Miranda couldn’t even remember. She could only stand where she was, studying Mr. Sinclair’s pleasing, personable face, and smile.
Until she realized she’d been standing and smiling in silence for far too long.
She gasped and shook her head, pressing a hand to her chest. “Where are my manners? You need to sit and rest.” She moved to the table closest to the fire and pulled a chair out from the table.
“Can I fetch you a drink?” she asked, less enthusiastic.
“Yes, please.” He blew out a relieved breath as he sank into the chair. “Oh!” He twisted to face Miranda as she started over to the bar. “Is there any way that I could have tea instead of whiskey or beer?”
Another, powerful blossom of happiness exploded in Miranda’s chest. A man coming into her saloon to ask for something other than liquor? There was a miracle right there.
“I was just about to make a pot for myself,” she replied with a smile, continuing on to the bar. “I’d be happy to share, if you don’t mind waiting for the water to heat and the tea to brew.”
“I won’t mind at all.”
Miranda smiled at him one last time before hurrying to prepare tea.
It would have been easier to retire to the small apartment at the back of the saloon where she now lived to use the kitchen there, but she hated the thought of leaving Mr. Sinclair sitting by himself for so long.
The counter behind the bar had everything she needed to make a quick, if not particularly pretty, pot of tea.
She thanked her lucky stars for lighting the small stove behind the bar earlier, even if she wasn’t exactly grateful for the number of hot toddies she’d made on it in the last few weeks.
“Is it Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes that brings you to Mistletoe, Mr. Sinclair?” she asked as she worked.
Across the room, Mr. Sinclair was taking off his coat and hanging it over the back of the chair next to where he sat.
He wore a fine, if well-worn, suit underneath.
“It is.” He raised his voice enough to be heard across the distance but not enough to sound as though he was shouting.
“Well, the brushes have been carrying me all over the West these past three months.”
“Three months?” Miranda filled a copper pot with water from a barrel she kept stocked from the pump out back and set it on the stove to heat. “That seems like a long time to be traveling.”
Mr. Sinclair let out a wry laugh. “It is indeed, but as long as I still have brushes to sell, I have to keep moving.”
“How very taxing.” She sent him a sympathetic look before turning and searching the shelves behind the bar for the tin coffee pot she would have to use for tea and the spare tin of tea she kept there.
Now this was the kind of conversation and company she’d longed for since she set foot in Mistletoe.
“I’ve enjoyed seeing the sights,” Mr. Sinclair went on. “There’s quite a bit of beauty out here in the wilds of Montana.”
His comment tickled, and when she looked up, their eyes met. He smiled. Miranda’s cheeks burned bright pink, and she whipped away to continue with her work…and to grin. Heavens, what had come over her? He was just a man. A charming, handsome, well-mannered man.
“I would have liked to be home for Christmas,” Mr. Sinclair finished, “but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”
Miranda turned back to him, schooling her expression to politeness. “Where is home, Mr. Sinclair?”
“You can call me Randall, Miss Clarke.” Her heart jiggled at the modest cheer of that invitation.
“Then we shouldn’t stand on ceremony. You should call me Miranda.”
“Not Randi?” he teased.
“Don’t you think that would get a little confusing?” she teased him in return. “Randi and Randy?”
Good heavens, was she flirting?
“Home is Chicago, Miranda ,” he went on, stretching in the chair as though he was comfortable after a long time of discomfort. “And it doesn’t look like I’ll be there for Christmas this year.”
Miranda stepped away from the stove to lean against the bar. “No luck with the brushes, then? I’m sure you could find customers here in Mistletoe.”
Randell shrugged. “I tried. I was turned away. Apparently there’s a measles epidemic in town and not too many people are in the mood to hear a sales pitch for brushes.”
Miranda sobered and stood straighter. “Yes, I’ve heard about the epidemic. It’s terrible, really.”
“Heard about it?” Randall’s expression twitched to confusion. “I would think the sick people would be your friends and neighbors.”
A wistful twist pulled at the corner of Miranda’s mouth.
“I only just arrived in town on the first of the month,” she explained.
“And shortly after that, I took possession of this place.” She raised her arms and rolled her eyes up to the rafters.
“There hasn’t been much time for social calls, although some of the good people of this town have tried.
But to be honest, I’ve been hesitant to show my face in good society. ”
“Really?” He frowned, looking baffled. “Why?”