A Critterful Christmas ~ Part 2 by Leah St. James

Layla locked up after the sexy police officer and set the alarm. Then she watched through the blinds while he secured his cat in the front seat of the police department’s vehicle before swiping his hands over the front and back windshields to clear the accumulated snow. That was a man used to the white stuff.

Predictions called for six to ten overnight on top of the six already on the ground. It would be a very white Christmas. Lord how she’d wished for that growing up in Texas. They got occasional winter frost, sometimes ice. Never anything that required knee-high boots to navigate, unless you counted waders for fishing. Neither had she ever had to stow an ice pick in her car to hack her way to the door lock. Had she realized how cold it had to be to snow, she might not have wished so hard. And she might have thought twice before moving to the middle of nowhere in Northeastern Pennsylvania where the average late spring temperatures mimicked the winter lows she was accustomed to.

A shiver worked its way from her shoulders down her spine, and she wrapped her arms more securely around her middle as she made her way toward the kennel area in the back to check on her charges.

Occupancy was light for a holiday, only four dogs. They might be small in number but were sure mighty in volume. Since taking over the veterinary practice a year and a half ago, she’d been full up only once, and that was during the fall, a perfect storm, she’d been told, of deer hunting and football season. People in these parts tended to have family nearby who would care for their pets when they traveled. 

It was a nice little area—big little area in square miles, she corrected herself, but with a friendly small-town feel. The main shopping area was a half mile to the west, home to a beauty salon, indy book store, state liquor store, grocery/pharmacy, as well as a couple convenience store/gas stations and restaurants of the mom-and-pop diner variety with one of the best bakeries she’d ever encountered. The area’s main industry came from the ski slopes ten miles to the north of town. Families flocked from the suburbs to ski the trails in the winter, and frolic in the water park/lakeside resort in the spring and summer. Most of the county’s residents worked there in one capacity or another. And in the past eighteen months, she’d met many of them and their pets. A few had become good friends even if they tended to stick by themselves, especially at holidays.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad life she’d made for herself—just solitary. 

Normally she could handle lonely, even preferred it after five long and excruciatingly boring years with her ex, a man who claimed to love her—and all her pets—to the moon, then demonstrated it by trying to get rid of her most senior cat while she was away at a conference. The creep. She’d gotten home early, just in time to discover he’d taken 15-year-old Charlie to the local shelter. She’d retrieved her cat and booted the man out on his backside, for good.

Figuring her heart had frozen with the temperature in these parts, she hadn’t thought of romance in too many moons to count. But seeing big, brawny Dmitri Jones talking baby talk to his cat had thawed something inside her, and whatever it was had gushed to the center of her heart and made her yearn for more. She’d shut her front door and locked it behind him, but a part of her had wanted to follow, to climb into the SUV with him and his tomcat.

It was a crazy thought, one that made her give herself a mental shake.

Despite that mental shake, an image of his earnestly worried blue eyes as he’d asked for help popped into her mind. Blue eyes, golden blond hair, a chiseled face and body that reminded her of a Viking warrior followed close behind. Sighing, she willed the image away, along with the tsunami of female interest it aroused.

Patting her chest in the region of her heart, she hurried toward the kennel and pushed through the double swinging doors to check on her Christmas Eve charges.

She’d just finished feeding the crew—the big German shepherd, a basset hound, a beagle and a yappie terrier—when the doorbell pealed, and pealed and pealed.

“What the…” she murmured. “Is nobody taught patience anymore?”

She flipped on the lights, hit the alarm code and pulled the door open. 

A man stood there, arms crossed over his chest and shaking like he was palsied. She peered closer. Not a man. A teen, probably 15 or 16. Still young and stupid enough to get himself into real trouble, old enough that it would count. He wore a camouflage jacket and pants, with a mud-colored cap covering muddy brown hair. 

His forehead glistened, and his eyes looked like she’d captured them in a flash—shocky. The dogs’ frenzied barking was probably giving him a massive headache to boot. 

“Ma’am? Is the vet here?” It was the voice of a kid. A scared kid.

 “I’m Dr. Spencer.” She drew her lab coat around her once more, stepped into the frigid air and squinted into the night to look for the injured animal. “Who needs a vet?”

“My dog. We were out hiking and he took off after a rabbit then fell into a hole. I found him and pulled him out but I think he broke his leg. He can’t walk and is whining like he’s in pain.”

“Did you call your parents?”

“I dropped my cell phone somewhere when I was looking for him so started walking for help. Besides, they're out of town.” He gulped. “I need you to come with me. He’s too big for me to carry. Please.”

Something smelled fishy about this kid’s story, but then kids weren’t always the most rational beings. Layla gave him a good, long look. He didn’t look crazy, or high. Just scared…and feverish. She swung the door wide so he could enter. “What’s your name? Do you live around here? I’ll bet your parents don’t know about this, do they?”

His head wagged from side to side and grimaced. “My name is Christian Johnson and I live a mile down the road. Like I said, my parents went to some thing in Philly for the day and—” He lifted his shoulders in a can’t-be-helped gesture.

“Give me their number.”

“Ma’am?” He sniffed and ran a hand under his nose

“You’re obviously a minor and I’m not taking you anywhere without letting your parents know.”

He recited the ten digits, and she placed the call. “No answer.” 

“I told you, they’re not home.”

She held his gaze for a long count, looking for signs of a lie. Kids could be such good liars. “Where is your dog?” 

“I made a shelter for him about half a mile to the north. I tied him there and told him to stay, and now I’m scared he’ll freeze. Or that another animal will get him.” His wobbly voice spurred Layla to hurry to grab her medical bag, coat and boots. She hated to leave the dogs in their crates with no one in the building, but the thought of a wounded animal lying in the cold in the middle of a storm, that was a biggie.

Several minutes later they set off in the direction he pointed. Her little car’s heater pumped out cold air like A/C in the summer while she squinted through the wipers slapping crazily at the windshield. The snow had picked up its pace, and in the back of her mind was the worry they might not make it back. The kid sat next to her, his arms wrapped around himself, teeth chattering. He’d likely been out in the cold for too long. Nothing felt right about this.

After plowing along a bumpy, uphill road, through close to a half a foot of the fluffy white stuff, she pulled to a stop where he pointed at the edge of the lane. Ahead was a rustic lean-to shelter at the edge of a copse of trees. Inside the shelter, a dark shape lay on the ground, motionless.

The boy jerked his chin toward the shelter. “There he is. Please hurry.”

Every molecule begging to stay inside the relative warmth of the vehicle, she pulled up her hood, tied the laces under her chin and stepped into the swirling snow. If she’d thought it was cold on her front porch, this was arctic. Even taking a breath hurt, so she focused on marching one step at a time through the shin-high powder. As she approached, she fumbled with her cell phone to turn on the flash light and shined it toward the figure now ten feet away. It was a large black lab, lying on his side. 

She jogged to him, dropped to her knees and opened her kit. “What’s the dog’s name?” 

“Baxter. He’s ten years old. I’ve had him since—” The boy’s voice broke.

Relief gushed through Layla when she placed the stethoscope over the dog’s chest and picked up a faint heartbeat. “I need you to go to my car. Open the trunk. There are blankets in there. Bring a couple back. Quickly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

While the boy retrieved the blankets, she checked the lab for wounds or other signs of injury. The one leg was swollen, no protruding bones, but the boy could be right. “Come on, Baxter boy, hang in there. We’ve got you now. It’s Christmas Eve. Let’s make this a happy memory, okay?”

After they’d bundled the dog in the blankets, Layla grabbed her phone from her pocket and caught the boy’s gaze. “You’re not in trouble, but I’m calling the police.”

His eyes widened and he gulped. “Why?”

“Like I said, you’re a minor and I need to let them know what’s going on. I should have done this back at the clinic.”

After another gulp, he nodded. Layla hit 9-1-1, but nothing happened. She peered at the phone’s tiny icons. “Crud. No service.”

“Yeah, I could have told you that, Dr. Spencer. We’re at the edge of a wildlife area.” The boy had dropped to his knees and had cradled his dog who’d roused enough to lick his tongue over the tears sliding down the boy’s face.

Her heart melting, she still gave him an eye-roll. “Wise guy.” She repacked her bag. “Let’s get this big boy back to the clinic. I’m calling the police and you’re calling your parents from there. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

By the time they made it back to the car, another inch or so of snow had fallen. She used her arm to swipe it off, as she’d seen Dmitri Jones do, then slid behind the wheel. In front of her was nothing but white, no signs of the road itself. Praying the boy didn’t realize what deep doo-doo they were in, she flexed her hands to ease her death grip on the wheel and eased into the storm. 

“Dr. Spencer, you might want to put it in a lower gear going down the hill.”

“What hill?” Layla afforded herself a quick glance to the rear. Christian was pointing straight ahead.

“It’s a pretty steep pitch, and with Baxter, we’re a good 75 pounds heavier than we were heading up.”

“Right.” Long-forgotten equations involving force, mass and acceleration snarled in her head. “We’ll pick up speed faster.”

“That’s right!” The kid’s tone was half shock and half pride, and she had to smile as she eased off the gas and levered the gear from drive to second. 

For whatever reason, though, her little car didn’t seem to recognize the command. The engine revved a few times and the car jolted forward down the incline that was, indeed, pretty steep. 

Moving to first gear didn’t help. Neither did gently tapping on the brakes. Neither did a full-on foot-slam. The car picked up speed, bumping down the mountain that these people called a hill at an ever-increasing rate. “Crap! Hold on!” Layla yelled as she battled the wheel.

She’d navigated a particularly sinister curve when the car hit bottom with a crunching thud. The force catapulted them sideways, and they started to slide down another steep incline. After executing a tilt-a-whirl move, the car careened into a mountain of white.


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If you missed Part 1 of A Critterful Christmas, you can find it here. I hope you'll come back tomorrow for the story's conclusion.

Leah writes stories of mystery and romance, good and evil, and the power of love. Learn more at her website, or visit her Facebook page where she occasionally posts about writing, her life, her son's cat and more.

A Critterful Christmas ~ Part 1 by Leah St. James

He peered through the snow-spattered windshield at the neon sign and hoped like hell there was room at the inn.

Dmitri Jones turned off the car’s ignition, sighed, then turned to the creature caged in the passenger seat at his side.

“It’s okay, buddy. We’ll get you fixed up good as new. I promise.” He inserted a finger tentatively through the peek-hole in the carrying case, only to snap it back a nanosecond later. 

Sucking on his finger to soothe the scratch that hadn’t quite broken the skin, he swung the SUV’s door open and pushed to his feet. Despite the sign that advertised 24-hour care, the veterinary clinic was dark as a graveyard. A single floodlight at the corner of the roof was the only sign of life, if you could ascribe that word to the dim beam that looked like it could crap out at any moment. The only thing it was lighting was the snow falling at a rate of an inch an hour on top of a single compact car at the end of the parking lot.

It was Christmas Eve in Serenity, Pennsylvania, and not a creature was stirring. That’s what he got for moving from the lively comforts of urban Philly to the boonies. And this was the booniest of the boonies, way out on the county’s rural route. Had a closer clinic been open, he wouldn’t have slipped and slid the several miles over the mountain roads. Another pitiful mewl from inside the carrier reminded him he probably would have crawled here to get care for Apollo.  

He slammed his door shut, and somewhere in the not-too-far distance, a cacophony of barking erupted.

Ice-packed snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the car to the passenger door. After another sigh, and a deep breath that was half prayer, he opened the door and lifted the pet carrier.

His action was met with frantic mrowling, some hissing, and a lot of scrambling inside the confined space, making the carrier pitch and yaw as if possessed. 


“Apollo, settle down before you hurt yourself worse.” 

With a few mutters about damn cats and their propensity for finding trouble, he marched toward the front door to the clinic. A Please Ring sign on the front had him leaning on the doorbell.

The shrill pealing did nothing to quiet the canine residents, whose barks had turned from inquisitive to frenzied, but it made him feel like he was doing something. Because if anything happened to Apollo…

The cat had only been with him for a couple months, but in that short time, he’d grown attached to the little brat. More, he’d made him forget how damned lonely he’d been for the past couple years. 

His mother had known. She’d practically forced the cat on him. A rescue, she’d told him…or a rescue to be. If Dmitri didn’t take him, he’d go to a shelter, and no one wanted that. Especially for a big, strong bruiser of a tom cat like Apollo who could clear a cluttered table with one swipe of his paw, then pounce on the detritus until it was shredded to his satisfaction.

And since Dmitri had decorated for Christmas the past weekend, the cat was in tinsel heaven.

He’d cat-proofed as much as he could before leaving for his 12-hour shift that morning, hoping for the best, but when he’d dragged his weary ass through the door that evening, it was like walking straight into a scene out of Twister. Lights securely strung at his windows just a few weeks ago now looped lazily to the floor. Garland he’d twisted up and around the banister lay shredded along the stairs like a swath of evergreen road kill. And the Christmas tree—that hurt. The 7-foot Douglas Fir lay on its side, the feet of the 18-inch tree holder braced at a 90-degree angle to the floor. Bulbs had fallen and rolled every which way, littering his brand-new hardwood flooring with splinters of gleaming gold, red and blue glass. And underneath it all, a spreading stream of water. 

It’s not like the stuff was irreplaceable, but the decorations reminded him of quiet holiday mornings with his mom, dad and sister, before he’d joined the Army—where holidays were a whole different challenge—then moved half a state away to take this job. 

He’d stood there, stunned, wondering what to do first, when a low growling caught his attention. It took him a minute, following the tortured sound, to locate the damn cat who had wedged himself in the corner behind the fallen tree. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crept forward through the puddle and across broken bulbs and ornaments to grab him. 

“What’s the matter, buddy?” Another low growl answered.

That Apollo was hunkered down instead of running was Dmitri’s second hint that all was not well with his new pet. The third was the bite he got when he lifted him and Apollo turned into a hissing, spitting, scratching, biting demon. It was only sheer strength that enabled Dmitri to keep the cat from going for his jugular.

His musings were cut short when the clinic door flung open, bounced against the interior wall and boomeranged back toward the woman who stood there, glowering. 

“Holy moly,” she yelped, wrapping a white lab coat more securely around her shivering body. “Where’s the fire?”

“Uh…” Words escaped Dmitri because standing before him was an angel. A dark angel for sure, with blue-black hair caught away from her face and eyes that, despite their scowling expression, reminded him of the richest hot fudge.

“Can I help you? Or are we going to stand here all night while I freeze to death?” 

Her southwestern twang was a rarity in this part of Pennsylvania. This angel was not from these parts.

“Sorry, I uh… are you open? My cat. I think he broke his tail. It won’t straighten. Just kind of--” He made a floppy motion with his wrist, then hefted the still fidgeting carrier and turned it so she could peer into the mesh front.

Her face softened. “Don’t tell me. Your Christmas tree is toast, right?” She  stepped back, waving him forward.

“Yeah, well. I think it’s fixable. I’m not so sure about Apollo here.”

The sudden thickness in his voice was unexpected. Truth be told, his mom was right. He had been lonely, and the cat an unexpected pleasure. He was fun. And simple, like himself. Apollo ate. He drank. He used his litter box. He even perched himself in front of the 65-inch TV screen when football was on.

“Come on back. Let’s take a look.” Walking backwards, she extended her hand. “Dr. Spencer. Layla Spencer.” 

He introduced himself and his cat as they shook hands—hers soft, silky and warm. Dmitri followed her into an examination room with lighting so bright, he wished he’d brought in his ball cap to shade his eyes.

Squinting, he set the carrier on the table and opened it, prepared for Apollo to bolt. But Dr. Spencer—Layla—had crouched down and was talking to the scared and hurting animal in some sort of language that he apparently understood. After crooning “poor baby” a few times and promising she wouldn’t hurt him, she reached into the carrier and eased Apollo onto the table. Instead of running for his life, he lay there, blinking, and staring at her as if he’d taken a couple shots from Cupid’s bow. 

Giving the cat long, soothing strokes halfway down his pelt of jet black fur with one hand, while holding him in place with the other, she turned her attention to Dmitri.

“Chances are you’re right about Apollo’s tail, but tell me about him. How old is he? Could he have eaten anything? Are there other animals in the home? Does he go outside?”

“He’s two years old. I just got him actually. He belonged to a friend of my mom’s who couldn’t keep him. I don’t know too much about his history other than he’s been healthy, has all his shots and has been fixed.” He made air quotes around that last gruesome euphemism for taking the poor cat’s manhood. 

“He eats well. Plays a lot.” An image of his trashed house flicked through his mind, and he filled her in on what had happened. She listened intently, then she leaned down to whisper a few more words to Apollo. The cat answered by purring, loudly, with squeaking punctuation marks every few seconds.

"Aren’t you a good boy?” she crooned while motioning for Dmitri to hold the cat. After gently probing the length of the tail, she finished examining him, including his eyes and mouth, heart and lungs with a tiny stethoscope hooked around her neck. 

“He’s healthy. I don’t feel a break, and I don’t see any evidence of an abscess or wound of any kind. I think it’s sprained. My guess is he  got it stuck in something when he upended the tree, then yanked to pull himself free. That could do it.”

“What’s the treatment?”

“Just rest. He should be fine in a few days. I could X-ray, but I’m pretty confident it’s not broken judging by the way the end is twitching. He just can’t lift it.” She washed her hands at the sink and turned to give him a smile over her shoulder. “No need to go to the expense just yet. Unless you insist.”

He didn’t insist, although he wouldn’t mind hanging out a bit longer. The remoteness of the place had his cop’s senses on edge, but if he were honest, he’d admit his other, more manly senses were taking more notice of the doctor herself. 

Pushing the thoughts aside, he managed to maneuver Apollo into his cage, despite more angry chatter from the cat, and followed the vet to the front desk.

“That will be $100. I take cash, check or card.”

He offered her his plastic and finally blurted the first thing on his mind. “You here all by yourself? On Christmas Eve?”

The look she gave him was bland, but her eyes were dead serious. “You here to make trouble for me? On Christmas Eve? If you are, you should know I have a loaded Colt Cobra .38 Special under this counter and I know how to use it.”

His eyebrows shot to his forehead. “Hell, no. I’m with the Serenity PD, for crying out loud. Just making sure you’ll be safe.” His eyebrows drew together. “You got a license for that .38?”

“Yes, Officer…” Her eyes dropped to his credit card. “…Jones.” A hint of humor flashed across her face as she handed it back, along with her business card. “Call me first thing tomorrow and let me know how Apollo is doing.”

“On Christmas day? No day off for you?”

“They’re my patients, my responsibility and my priority.”

“Well…thanks.” He lifted the case and headed for the door, still reluctant to head from the warmth of the clinic, and the beautiful vet. He ran his gaze around the reception area one more time, then gave her a final smile. 

“Make sure you lock up after me, Doc. Thanks for being here on Christmas Eve instead of with your family.” 

She tilted her head, a smile ghosting at her lips. “My critters are my family, Officer. Merry Christmas.”

The thought of no family sat like a lump in his gut. No one should be alone on Christmas. An idea began to germinate.

Back out in the SUV's frigid interior, Apollo gave a single mighty wail.

“I’m with you, buddy,” he said, “I don’t want to leave her either. But don’t worry, I have a plan.”


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I hope you enjoyed Part 1 of my holiday story. Please come back tomorrow for Part 2. 

Those of you who follow this blog might recognize Apollo as a ringer for my older son's cat Hercules. (Yeah, I kept with the mythological god naming convention.) :-)

Hercules hasn't broken or sprained his tail (yet), but he's wreaked havoc on our trees for three years straight now. (The lopsided, de-decorated tree pictured below was the aftermath of his leaping attacks in year one. I think that's him peeking from behind our TV on the lower left, preparing for another leap.)

Leah writes stories of mystery and romance, good and evil, and the power of love. Learn more at her website, or visit her Facebook page where she occasionally posts about writing, her life, her son's cat and more.

A Beary Merry Christmas by Vonnie Davis

Chapter Two of Three

After struggling to open both doors, Danner accepted she’d have to crawl out of the car’s window to go for help. She struggled and wiggled to make her escape, falling face first into the snow. When she landed, she cut the edge of her hand on a jagged rock buried beneath. 

The unscheduled snow gymnastics caused her knit cap to blow away before she could snatch it. She grabbed for a pine branch to keep from sliding down the side of the mountain and gasped when the rough needles upbraided the inflamed skin around the cut. Scarlet drops colored the snow. Needing to move higher, Danner reached for a boulder and used it to aid in her climb upward. It made the most sense to head where she’d been. There was a road there and an inn where she could ask for help—in the warm.

Wind whipped the snowflakes around her. Snow fell down the back of her coat and her sneakers were caked with it. 

Good Lord, my teeth are chattering.

A bare branch was a foot beyond her reach, and she toed her way toward it--inch by frigid inch. She stretched and strained to grab it. The dead wood gave way and she tumbled down the steep hill, crying out in pain as her back hit the demolished car with a thud. She took a couple of deep breaths to see if she’d cracked any ribs.

When no pain caused her to gasp, she brushed snow from her face and wished again she’d gotten gloves yesterday at the little shop where she’d bought a scarf. 

She’d been so pleased to find her ancestors’ tartan—a pretty sky blue, celery green, and a marine blue weave. There were no matching gloves in stock. Today her hands were paying for the exposure. Her toes were stiff. Yeah, she could use a pair of those fur-lined boots so many women wore in the Highlands.

She rose to her hands and knees—and came face-to-face with a bear.

Oh, dear God!

She froze. So did her heart. It was no use to scream. Who would hear her out here?

The bear plopped onto its bottom as if to get a better view of her. She gaped. The beast had a wedding band on one of its digits just behind its long, black claw. Had it belonged to a previous victim? 

To her astonishment, the beast’s dark eyes bore kindness as it tilted its head to study her. That’s when she noticed a small gold hoop in its ear.

This was beyond bizarre. She had to be hallucinating. Really, what kind of bear wore jewelry? What did the carnivoran mammal do? Lumber into Zales and pick out some golden adornments? Where would he keep his credit card--in its fat folds? 

In the face of certain death, her mind must have slipped into the realm of insanity. Just as well; maybe she wouldn’t feel the pain when the bear tore her apart. She stood to face the inevitable and prayed it would be quick.

In like manner, the bear stood on its hind legs, towering over her. With gentle movements it brushed the snow from her coat. She trembled at its touch waiting for his claws to rip her to shreds. 

Instead, it picked her up and held her to him like a baby.

She screamed and its dark brown eyes glowed golden. Its muzzle lowered to her face and damned if she didn’t smell whisky on its breath as it made a jaw popping noise.

Yep, I have truly lost my mind.

The bear walked on its hind legs as it held her close. A deer dashed over and the bear loosened its hold on her as if to show off his trophy to the other animal.

Oh hell, why not? I am clearly crazy. The accident and exposure to the cold elements have taken away my ability to reason.

The furry beast carried her around a large group of pines, waded through a gurgling stream, and trod toward a log cabin in a small valley nestled between high ridges. He set her on the steps and growled while motioning toward the door. She had to be delirious.

Since when do bears live in cabins? He should be in his own habitat, hibernating.

Her vision blurred and everything Danner had learned over her lifetime fell into question. The bear before her changed into a man.

A naked man.

He stood in the full-moonlight and her ladybits broke into a stanza of “Santa Baby.” Good Lord, he had broad shoulders. His heavily muscled chest and biceps were decorated with tattoos. A narrow treasure trial of dark hair took her eyes on a journey to a fantasy kingdom.

First the caring, bejeweled bear and now a fine measure of the male species—all from one body. How could this be? Her over-stimulated mind shutdown at the incredulity of it all—and darkness overtook her.

~ * ~ * ~

Hughen stared at the slender woman passed out on his front steps. Bear! Why?

She’s yer new mate, Hugh. I carried her to ye while I was at the forefront.

He backed up a step, then two while Jack Frost nipped at his frosted arse. Nay. Och nay. I dinna need a mate. Me mate’s passed on.

Aye, and this is yer new one. She’s perfect fer ye. Take her inside and warm her. She was knocked around in a car wreck and then slid down part of Dendrick Ridge. Ye need to take care of her.

The red-haired woman did have a large knot on her forehead. Dried blood, too, where her hand was sliced. He scooped her lithe form into his arms and carried her up the wooden steps. Once inside, he laid her on the sofa, removed soaked sneakers and stockings before covering her with a wool blanket made of his tartan. The navy and forest green plaid would help warm her while he got dressed.

When he bent in front of the fireplace to scrunch his heavy stockings and tie his shoelaces, a feminine moan sounded behind him. Before he turned to check on his injured visitor, he grabbed his kilt and wrapped it around his naked hips. Faint alto lyrics filled the place with soft singing. “Chestnuts roasting by an open fire," made him smile.

An enticing sight met him when he glanced over his shoulder. An unusual sight, really—violet eyes like Highland heather stared at him. His heart thundered for a few beats before righting itself.  She was a true beauty even with her long ginger hair hanging in wet, tangled tresses.

“How are ye faring? Do ye need more blankets? Are ye in pain?” He tugged on his sweater and knelt beside the sofa, taking her hand to examine her palm.

She jerked it from his grasp, her violet eyes wary.

“Easy, lass. Ye’ve got a nasty cut. I’ll get me first aid kit. I’m Hughen Matheson, by the way, and this is me cabin. I’ll nay harm ye.” He stood and put some distance between them to ease her discomfort.

“How did I get here?” Her gaze darted around the large room. “How … how did I get here?” her voice rose with a tinge of fear.

“Warm up first and then we’ll talk.” In the kitchen, he removed the first aid kit from the pantry. He looked at the remaining drink in the pot. “Would ye like a cuppa hot chocolate to warm yer insides?”

She stared at him with those mesmerizing eyes. Poor thing was petrified.

He folded his arms over the counter between the living and kitchen areas of the big room. In an effort to calm her, he smiled. “I willna harm ye in any way. I ken ye must be feart, alone in a strange man’s house with nae recollection how ye got here. Once I’ve given ye some nourishment, fixed yer cut hand, and gotten ye warmed up by the fire, I promise we’ll talk. “Tis Christmas Eve. I never murder innocent women on Christmas Eve.”

The corners of her mouth twitched as if she fought a smile. “I’ll take that hot chocolate. Thank you for looking after me. I’m Danner MacKay.” Her voice was low and sultry like the summer winds over Loch Moray. She shifted under his plaid. “I’m grateful for the warmth although I have no clue how I got inside your cabin. I know I keep saying that, but this is all so strange. I need a lot of answers.”

“Fair enough.” He leaned to gauge the height of the gas flame beneath the pan, then stirred the contents while it heated. How could he explain her presence here without scaring her to death? The truth was always the best. As much as he could share with her, anyhow. “Ye were in a car accident. Ye have some minor injuries. Do ye recall what happened?”

She straightened into a sitting position and wrapped his plaid around her. “Some. Bits and pieces.” Her fingers ran through her wet hair. “I remember the car falling and thinking I was going to die. A bear came.” Her forehead wrinkled as if she were in deep thought. Her hand went to the darkened knot above her eyebrows. “Its … its eyes glowed a bright yellow. Golden.”

Och, she would remember that. “A bear, ye say?” Hughen reached for a mug and poured it nearly full of hot chocolate and shook a can of whipped cream to top it off. She was pale and that worried him. To help revive her, he added whisky to the sweet concoction.

A steaming cup in one hand and the first aid kit in the other, he returned to sit on the coffee table near her. He extended the warm mug and she wrapped her uninjured hand around it.

“This feels so good. I don’t know if I should drink it or bathe in it. I was almost an ice cycle out there.”

His mind had snagged on the vision of her bathing in hot chocolate … or a fragrant bubble bath … or in the stream near the cabin in the warm moonlight of summer. 

Steady, man, ye need ta think on something else a'fore yer kilt tents.

“Are ye hurt anywhere else, Danner? Do ye need some ibuprofen?”

“That might help my headache. I’m sure I’ll be a mass of bruises tomorrow but for now the only pain I feel are in my head and hand.”

“Be right back with the pills.” He retrieved a bottle of extra-strength pain relievers and a class of water. On impulse, he poured himself a squat tumbler of whisky. Her appearance at his place had shaken him more than he cared to admit. What had possessed Bear to bring him a woman?

Once she took the pills, he sat on the coffee table again and sipped the whisky, its burn traveling down his chest to extinguish his own discomfort. Setting it aside, he opened the first aid kit. “Now, let’s get that hand taken care of. Is there anyone ye want to call to let them ken ye’re okay? I have a cell if ye have need of it.”

“No. There’s no one I need to call.”

He examined the depth of the cut. “Nae husband, Danner?”

“Not anymore. I’m divorced.”

Her confession pleased him and he stilled for a few seconds to absorb the feeling. She had the softest skin; it was almost pearlescent, glowing in the firelight. Peroxide bubbled when he poured it over the open wound. He wiped it off with gauze and squeezed antibiotic cream over the gash. Three butterflies held the swollen edges of her hand together before he wrapped a bandage around her hand.

Just because he could, he brought it to his lips and kissed the pressure point at her wrist. Her heartbeat fluttered against his lips.

“There. A kiss for yer boo-boo. Do ye use that term in America?” He feathered a second kiss to her wrist before he lifted his head to gauge her reaction. Her perfect lips were shaped into an “O” and a beautiful blush fanned across her cheeks.

She cleared her throat. “Y … yes, we do kiss boo-boos, although it’s been years since I’ve been the beneficiary of such tenderness.”

A burst of protectiveness and, aye, anger surged through him. “What kind of milksop were ye married to, Danner? Didna he treasure ye? Protect ye?”

“No.” She brought the mug to her lips and gulped her drink. Then, flog him blind, she slowly licked the whipped cream off her upper lip.

He watched the movement of her tongue and damn near groaned. There was a wee mole next to her upper lip that fascinated him. His own tongue brushed against the back of his two front teeth as it mimicked what he’d like to do to that small mole and her luscious looking lips.

“What about you, Hughen? Are you married?”

 “I lost me wife nearly two years ago.” To his surprise no pang of pain seized his heart at the mention of his loss. He’d mourned with every cell in his dual persona for his childhood sweetheart. Some claimed he’d mourned to excess, but he was a man who loved hard.

See? Yer new mate is healing ye already. ‘Tis time ye moved on, Hugh. Ye need someone to love.

He was a jumble of emotions. Unexpected desire for this strange woman warred with the memory of the only love he’d ever ken.

“So you live here alone?” Danner glanced around the great room.

“Aye, I do. Me two brothers and their families live on the other side of the hill. After Kaylee died, I sold our house in Mathe Bay and threw me energies into building this cabin. I wasna fit for civilization for a year after a sudden, murderous brain embolism took her. She was on her way home with a pregnancy test tucked in her purse.”

“Oh, how sad. I’m sorry for your loss. That must have been devastating.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I can’t imagine that kind of deep pain.” Her tender heart was evident. “I went through a lot of pain, too, but nothing compared to yours. I lost both my husband and a close friend thanks to their affair. They’re getting married tonight. A romantic Christmas Eve wedding.”

Her voice carried a lot of pain and he understood. “Is that why ye came to Scotland from the States? Ye’re American, right?” A bloody beautiful American.

“Yes. I’m from Las Vegas. I teach biology at the University of Nevada.”

He laughed and she scowled at his behavior. “Danner, ye’ll never believe this. I’m a chemistry professor at Highlands College. How bizarre is that? Statistically, what are the chances?”

See, Hugh? I told ye she was perfect for ye. Now, claim her and show her what chemistry a Scot can ignite..

Come back tomorrow for the final chapter of "A Beary Merry Christmas."