Page 4 of Merry Mended Hearts
Humor played at the cowboy’s attractive mouth. I was fascinated by him. My thoughts instantly scattered in all directions, sending the monkeys to the respective trees. His dark hair tumbled into his eyes—brown eyes that twinkled at the little girl—and his fingers gripped the crown of his hat.
“Rumor has it, this radio once belonged to Santa Claus.”
My brows lifted. That one sentence was enough to distract me from my current dilemma.
The little girl’s thoughts were along the same wavelength. Her face pinched, showing just how full her lower lip was.
“No, it didn’t!”
“It did,” the cowboy said. “My grandpa worked here when Miss Junie’s grandma turned this place into an inn. He told me the story.”
“What story?” the girl asked.
He crouched before the girl, rested a hand on the table, and braced one of his knees on the carpet. Delight flickered in his brown eyes, and his mouth took on a mischievous lilt. What was it about children that melted gruffness away from people?
Not that he was gruff. Was he?
“A hundred years ago, Santa forgot to stop by here Christmas Eve,” he said.
The girl’s mother stroked her dog, opening her mouth as if to interrupt.
The girl folded her arms. “Santa wouldn’t forget anyone.”
“Oh, but he did,” the cowboy said. “My grandpa told me his dad got no presents that year. And Santa, he just felt awful. Just after Christmas, Santa came by with this radio as a way to make up for the slip.”
Second by second, stardust fell into the little girl’s eyes. Her smile spread, revealing perfect tiny teeth, and excitement descended on her as though an egg filled with sparkles had cracked over her head.
“Really? This was really Santa’s?”
“Really.”
Stories were my life. I’d loved reading for as long as I could remember and often stayed up way too late caught up in whatever book I was immersed in. I was enthralled by this man’s ability to weave a tale in mere minutes that was captivating enough to enchant every woman in this room.
The little girl included.
“What a nice fairytale,” the mom said from behind her daughter, though she didn’t sound like it was nice at all.
Out in the lobby, I could hear the receptionist’s perky voice chiming to someone on the phone, and my heart picked up speed. Was she talking to my mom?
“It’s not a fairytale, ma’am,” the cowboy said, rising to his full height.
Hardness struck behind the mom’s eyes. Did she opt not to indulge in childhood fantasies like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy? If that was the case, whoever this cowboy was, he’d just made things a whole lot harder for her.
“And let me guess, it only plays Christmas carols.” She waved a hand toward the radio.
“Oh, no.” The cowboy returned the wide-brimmed hat to his head. “I’ve never heard a single tune come from it, and I’ve worked here for years.”
“Then why keep it?” the girl asked.
“Why not?” I asked.
The three of them turned to face me. Too late, I realized I’d just injected myself into their conversation. The question slipped out on its own.
The cowboy’s eyes raked over me, stealing all of the moisture from my mouth and making it pool in my armpits instead. A flash of irritation crossed his face—an abrupt change compared to the easy way he’d interacted with the young girl.
What was wrong? Did I track something other than snow into the room?
Brushing it aside, I decided to finish my thought, directing my question to the child. “If you had a radio that Santa himself brought for you, wouldn’t you keep it, too?”