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Christmas In Mustang Creek
Maisey Yates
Linda Lael Miller
True love gets a second chance this Christmas in Mustang CreekGrowing up in Mustang Creek, Wyoming, Charlotte Morgan couldn't wait to escape to the big city. But with a job she doesn’t love and a sense of loneliness she can’t shake, life in New York is less fabulous than she'd like to admit—especially now that veterinarian Jaxon Locke has left town.Jax’s move to Idaho to fill in at his dad's practice ended things with Charlotte just as they were getting interesting. But he didn’t expect to miss her so much. So when Charlotte returns home to help care for the great-aunt who raised her, Jax is determined to get to Wyoming and do whatever it takes to win her back…and he’ll start by giving her the most magical Mustang Creek Christmas of all.
True love gets a second chance this Christmas in Mustang Creek
Growing up in Mustang Creek, Wyoming, Charlotte Morgan couldn’t wait to escape to the big city. But with a job she doesn’t love and a sense of loneliness she can’t shake, life in New York is less fabulous than she’d like to admit—especially now that veterinarian Jaxon Locke has left town.
Jax’s move to Idaho to fill in at his dad’s practice ended things with Charlotte just as they were getting interesting. But he didn’t expect to miss her so much. So when Charlotte returns home to help care for the great-aunt who raised her, Jax is determined to get to Wyoming and do whatever it takes to win her back...and he’ll start by giving her the most magical Mustang Creek Christmas of all.
BONUS NOVELLA! The town scrooge meets his perfect match in A Copper Ridge Christmas by New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates
Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller
“Miller tugs at the heartstrings as few authors can.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Miller’s name is synonymous with the finest in Western romance.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Linda Lael Miller creates vibrant characters and stories I defy you to forget.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber
“Miller is one of the finest American writers in the genre.”
—RT Book Reviews
Praise for New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates
“Fans of Robyn Carr and RaeAnne Thayne will enjoy [Yates’s] small-town romance.”
—Booklist on Part Time Cowboy
“Passionate, energetic and jam-packed with personality.”
—USA TODAY on Part Time Cowboy
“Wraps up nicely, leaving readers with a desire to read more about the feisty duo.”
—Publishers Weekly on Bad News Cowboy
Christmas in Mustang Creek & A Copper Ridge Christmas(Bonus)
Linda Lael Miller and Maisey Yates
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#ua72dbf84-77a3-59c3-89d6-d8fc9025c191)
Back Cover Text (#u5900cced-cc8b-540b-a807-9f8a7f011aee)
Praise (#uc2f07762-9178-5fdd-aa55-9caa7b3f8844)
Title Page (#u9b51dcfd-dbdd-5f19-9a69-fba0ef9a9527)
Dedication (#uc1df354d-1a29-546e-86c5-2f2169c2c913)
Christmas In Mustang Creek by Linda Lael Miller (#u73cab775-87d7-5853-b38c-f25b8469a41d)
A Copper Ridge Christmas by Maisey Yates (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
For all those who believe in magic.
Christmas in Mustang Creek (#u713c0345-75a6-5c28-8180-403880fe1e91)
Linda Lael Miller
Dear Reader (#u63110428-9117-5e8f-b2e4-2396290dfaeb),
It’s Christmas in Mustang Creek and you’re invited to join the celebration! You’ll catch glimpses of some of your favorite characters from The Marriage Pact, The Marriage Charm and The Marriage Season, and make some new book-friends, as well.
Charlotte Morgan, somewhat at loose ends after losing her high-paying, high-profile job in New York City, has come home to Mustang Creek to look after her aunt, Geneva, and the family home, a charming old Victorian in need of some TLC. Imagine her chagrin when the first person she runs into is Jaxon “Jax” Locke, the handsome veterinarian she used to love. When they wind up sharing a hotel room, due to a raging blizzard—separate beds, please—the adventure begins.
Christmas in Mustang Creek is a magical story in many ways—for instance, what about the mysterious Millicent Klozz, the white-haired cooking genius of a housekeeper nobody remembers hiring?
And then there are the animals, always a favorite element in my stories.
The tree is decorated and sparkling with a thousand points of light. There’s a fire crackling on the hearth, and snow is drifting past the windows. Sit right down, have one of Mrs. Klozz’s delicious cookies and get ready to share in the joys of Christmas, Mustang Creek style.
With love,
Contents
Dear Reader (#u2c5d3a86-863f-58a2-8789-cc380d4d18a9)
CHAPTER ONE (#ud1f15bfd-59c2-56a8-aa5e-4089b49f37fe)
CHAPTER TWO (#uab61bcb3-4adc-5458-92f5-fb9c8bdd343e)
CHAPTER THREE (#u6fb4c79d-a962-52db-aeee-167bf72c6eaf)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ue0cbe0e9-1cb2-5bf6-b821-264368160903)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u722cefb8-06f1-51bb-8569-6d2b5058588c)
CHAPTER SIX (#ub7213c35-2bda-5ac1-847e-46c66fdaf190)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u63110428-9117-5e8f-b2e4-2396290dfaeb)
CHARLOTTE MORGAN SHOULDN’T have checked her bag for the flight from New York to Wyoming. Her layover in Denver had already been far longer than planned because of a storm that was coming in from the West Coast, and now she was—finally—waiting by a luggage carousel at the Cheyenne airport. And waiting... As her friend Karin always said, there were two kinds of luggage—carry-on and lost. And hers appeared to be of the lost variety.
December 21 meant it was almost the festive season, but her spirits were definitely on the low side.
This airport mess was typical of the dismal way her luck had been running lately.
Let’s see. She’d had to arrange for her aunt Geneva to move into assisted living. Dealing with that, mostly by email and over the phone, hadn’t been easy. Then there was the fact that a stranger was staying at Geneva’s house, the house Charlotte had grown up in. Of course, she’d questioned her aunt about Mrs. Klozz, asking how she and the mysterious visitor had met, but Geneva’s answers had been consistently vague, even evasive.
Worried, Charlotte had called Spencer Hogan, an old friend and Mustang Creek’s chief of police, to request a background check. He’d chuckled and said that wouldn’t be necessary; Mrs. Klozz was, as he’d put it, “all right.”
Finally, Charlotte had decided to drop the subject. She’d meet the woman soon enough and form her own opinion.
Despite all this, she felt uneasy.
Then—just when she’d thought things couldn’t get any worse—she’d been laid off.
Merry, merry Christmas.
Oh, the company, an advertising firm, had given her a generous enough severance package. Her boss had explained that budget cuts were taking a toll on everyone.
Not on him, apparently. His job seemed to be safe, unlike her own. It had taken some effort to not say something to that effect, but in truth, she just wanted to go home.
As she watched everyone retrieving luggage while hers was, predictably, nowhere in sight, she realized how ironic it was—as a teenager, she’d been convinced that all she wanted was to leave the small town of Mustang Creek, become successful, meet the right man and never look back. She’d done it. She’d left. She’d gotten a great job. She’d met the right man.
But she sure had looked back.
There was one other hopeful passenger waiting, and they exchanged a shrug of commiseration. The carousel was still moving, so maybe...
Yep, she’d left the small town. Got the dream job—and lost it. Met one Dr. Jaxon Locke, fell in love, and that hadn’t worked, either.
The other passenger won the lottery and his case slid down.
“Happy holidays,” he said in sympathy as he hurried away.
Then...a Christmas miracle! Her suitcase actually bumped out—no more than two seconds before she was going to head over to the airline counter to fill in the claim form—and began the journey toward her. Yay! Clean underwear for Christmas.
Aunt Geneva would tell her to count her blessings, and as she heaved her bag off the carousel and wheeled it toward the rental car area, Charlotte actually smiled. Things were already looking up. Oh, she still had to make the drive home with a giant storm roaring in, coasting a clipper from the Arctic, but at least she had her clothing. She’d need to make arrangements to have everything else sold or shipped home but would deal with that headache later. Her ridiculously expensive apartment had been sublet and all the rest of it was in storage.
The snow was coming in sideways when she finally reached her rental car. Nothing like driving an unfamiliar rig in bad weather, she thought, as she climbed into the midsize sedan and turned the key in the ignition.
She was on her way home.
After seven years in New York City.
Back in the day, she’d craved the city life, but now she simply wanted to get back to that big old drafty house, that comfortable house, where she’d grown up. Mustang Creek was the kind of small town where, if you sneezed, people were concerned you might be coming down with something and offered you their grandmother’s favorite remedy. She wanted the fragrance of grass in the summer, the view of the Tetons, the old grape arbor in the backyard.
She wanted home.
Geneva needed her, Charlotte mused as she tried to figure out how to turn on the windshield wipers. But she might need this change even more. Losing her job wasn’t a financial catastrophe since her aunt had taught her a lot about saving her money. She hated that the vibrant woman she remembered was slowly fading. Still, Charlotte viewed her own changed circumstances as a positive in some ways. They’d be able to spend time together. Quality time. Not just the fly-in, fly-out visits of the past few years. She could take care of the house, maybe use some of her savings to fix it up. The place had needed a new roof for at least ten years. She’d offered to pay for it more than once, but Aunt Geneva, her only living relative, had declined.
* * *
STUBBORN PRIDE WAS a family trait, no question about that. She came by hers honestly.
She should’ve looked more closely at the forecast, she decided when whirls of snow, like errant ghosts, circled her car. Almost no one else was traveling, which was just as well, since she could barely see enough to stay in her own lane. Other than the dim lights of one car some distance behind her, she had the road to herself.
She was happy that she’d grabbed coffee and a sandwich in the Denver airport, although—exhausted as she was—she could’ve used another coffee right now. She slowed her speed even more as she squinted at the increasing whiteout conditions. There was one other immediate problem she hadn’t considered. She didn’t have keys to the house. Aunt Geneva had been a seamstress, working at home; she was a wizard with her machine and had probably made most of the wedding dresses in Bliss County for the past half century. So Charlotte had never really needed one.
To be honest, she wasn’t even sure there were keys. The doors with their beautiful faceted glass panels were original, and to her knowledge the locks had never been replaced. Maybe Aunt Geneva had given keys to the friend who was watching her house and taking care of her beloved cat and dog, but it was already after ten, and she wasn’t going to get to Mustang Creek anytime soon at this speed.
It seemed wrong to go pounding on the door at midnight when she didn’t even know this Millicent Klozz. She certainly didn’t want to wake the poor woman from a sound sleep.
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” came on the radio, and Charlotte turned up the volume. She loved the song, which brought back memories of getting tucked into bed on Christmas Eve, Geneva reading her a story and forbidding her to go downstairs until daybreak.
She’d always heeded this admonition—except for the year she was seven. She’d gone downstairs in the middle of the night—not all the way down that creaky staircase because she’d known she’d get caught—and seen the packages under the tree. When she’d heard Aunt Geneva get up—for a drink of water, judging by the running tap—Charlotte had taken a small liberty and peeked at the gifts. Most of them had her name on them.
Then she’d climbed into her aunt’s bed and nestled there, eyes wide. When Geneva had rolled over, she’d given a small scream, obviously not expecting a small face right next to hers, dimly visible in the glow of the hallway night-light.
