Christmas Kisses (Romance on the Ranch Series #5) (4 page)

Connor buttoned his shirt and waited for Doctor
Hillsborough to return to the examining room. The drive to Denver had been a
nice respite from his daily routine, but an idea for a new painting had recharged
his energy level. He couldn't wait to get back to Paxtonville.

The doctor reentered the room. "Connor, I'd
like to speak with you in my office."

That didn't sound promising and Connor frowned.
He sure hoped he wouldn't hear what he thought he was about to hear. His hopes
were soon dashed after Dr. Hillsborough settled behind his desk and Connor
lowered himself to a plastic chair. The man was the foremost in his field, but
the aesthetics of his office left much to be desired. His many degrees and
awards hung crookedly on the walls in cheap plastic frames, while piles of
papers and books covered every available surface.

Dr. Hillsborough looked concerned when he said,
"I looked at the x-rays and CT scan and I'll be frank; you can't forestall
the operation any longer. If you do, you run the risk of losing most of the
mobility of your right arm and hand."

Connor heaved a sigh and studied one of the
framed credentials without really seeing it. "But the operation is no
guarantee that the problem will be fixed, and it could have the same effect as
doing nothing—correct?"

"As we've discussed before, that's right.
But if you want to continue painting, it's a risk I think worth taking. Without
it, you have maybe a year or two before irreparable damage to your nerves. At
least with the operation there's a chance you can continue painting for many
years, maybe the rest of your life."

"So, what's the recovery timeframe and what
do I need to do?"

"You'll stay in the hospital for two to
three days after surgery and then be down for at least three months. At first
you'll be resting most of the time and doing light rehabilitation exercises.
The second month you can be up more and your exercises will intensify. The
third month you should be pretty much functional. But I'll be frank; it will
take six months to a year to completely recover. Do you have someone who can
live with you during, say, the first two months?"

Connor puffed a breath. "No; not
really."

"Then you need to hire someone."

Connor nodded. "Thanks for the truth, doc.
I'll let you know my decision by the end of the week."

Dr. Hillsborough's countenance changed from
doctor to friend. "Mac, I wish I had better news. If you want, I can
recommend some private nursing homes if you decide to take that route instead
of hiring someone in-house."

Connor winced. "I'd rather remain in my own
home."

"In Denver?"

"No, in Paxtonville."

In the month since falling and making a fool of
herself at Connor MacKenzie's home, Cecelia had refrained from making his daily
delivery—but she couldn't do so much longer. There was something about the man
that whispered to her heart.

In the evenings she researched him on the
internet and discovered he had been born in Denver to a teenage mother who had
raised him until he was sixteen, and then died in a car accident after leaving
a bar. She'd been intoxicated and swerved into a tree. After that, Connor had
spent the next two years before his eighteenth birthday being shuffled between
foster homes.

From the age of eighteen until twenty-five,
information was sketchy, but his first major showing had been in the gallery of
a well-known Dallas collector who'd touted him a genius after viewing his
paintings of daily life on the island of Santorini. The originals of the
collection had sold for a fabulous sum. Cecelia had reproductions of the famous
series in her New York penthouse.

As far as his personal life, he'd married before
the age of twenty and the few pictures of his wife, also from Denver, showed
her to be as tall as him, with reddish blonde hair, large expressive eyes, and
a sweet countenance. Her name was Rose. A lump formed in Cecelia's throat at
the happiness radiating from them in the first picture she discovered. A few
more inquiries on Google and she found a photo of them with their son. The boy
couldn't have been more than a month old. The picture had been taken by a
professional photographer and released to the public. Because the family was so
reclusive, Cecelia figured it had been released to keep the press at bay.

About a month after the family photo was taken, tragedy
had struck. Again, Cecelia wondered what had happened to the child. Did he
survive? Was he living with relatives? Her research had revealed no relatives
for Connor or his wife.

*

Connor pushed the speed dial to Dixie's Cuppa
Joe. He'd decided to go ahead with the operation and Dr. Hillsborough was okay
with him remaining in Paxtonville if he had proper care for two to three months
following surgery.

He'd lain awake two nights thinking of who he
could ask to assist him. Hiring a nurse, of course, was the most logical avenue,
and he'd almost decided to do that rather than ask a friend. It was while he
was drifting to sleep that he thought of Cecelia Brightman. The idea had brought
him instantly awake. It was crazy to think she might move into his house and
also run her coffee shop, but something about the idea just seemed right. He
knew he could trust her—no one had shown up at his door wanting to meet a
famous artist.

"Good morning! Dixie's Cuppa Joe. How may I
serve you?" said the male voice answering the phone.

"I'd like to speak with Ms. Brightman,
please."

"May I help you or can you hold for a short
time? She's with a customer."

"I'll hold."

The phone clicked to music. Whitney Houston
sang,
I Will Always Love You.
The song bombarded him with memories of
Rose.

By the time Cecelia answered the call, he was an
instant away from hanging up.

*

Cecelia held the phone to her ear while Justin
placed his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, "I got a feeling it's
him—Mystery Man."

Turning until her back was to Justin, she said,
"Hello, this is Cecelia."

"Hello, Ms. Brightman." The deep voice
on the other end definitely belonged to Connor MacKenzie. Her heart thumped
like a steam locomotive. He hesitated a moment and then said, "This is Mac
MacKenzie." Cecelia stepped further from Justin. Mac continued, "I
was wondering if you could stop by my house today at your convenience. There's
something I'd like to discuss with you."

Connor MacKenzie wants to discuss something with
me!
Even
though she tried to keep breathlessness out of her voice, she wasn’t completely
successful. "Sure. I can stop by. I can make your daily delivery, if you
like."

"That's kind of what I was thinking. Great.
I'll expect you in half an hour. Oh, and bring coffee and a pastry for yourself
and charge it to my tab."

The phone clicked and Cecelia stared at it. Justin,
who was still hovering said, "Awesome! Mystery Man wants to see you."

She frowned, reached to place the receiver back
on the phone, and said, "You know I can't talk about it."

Justin grinned. "This just keeps getting
better and better." He turned to Julie, who was grinding coffee and
watching them. "She won't spill anything."

Julie grinned. "I love a good mystery, and
this one is over-the-top exceptional."

Justin responded, "As much as I like
secrecy, I like answers even more." He wagged his finger at Cecelia.
"One of these days you'll slip up and let the cat out of the bag."

Cecelia lifted a finger and made a zipping
motion across her lips as she mouthed the word, "Never."

Carefully, Cecelia maneuvered the uneven
flagstones to Connor's, or rather, Mac's porch. Nervousness tied her stomach in
knots and she didn't want to trip over her own feet in a repeat of her previous
accident.

Climbing the two steps of the porch she held the
carton with the coffees and pastries in one hand and knocked with the other.

The door opened immediately. "Please come
in, Ms. Brightman."

Cecelia entered the small living room. "You
should call me Cecelia. Where would you like me to set your coffee?"

Mac motioned to the coffee table. "There is
fine."

Cecelia's hand shook a little when she set the
carton down.

Her host sat on the couch. "Help
yourself." He had placed two plates with napkins on the coffee table.

Cecelia opened the bag and handed a drink to Mac.
Next, she unwrapped the pastries and set one on each plate.

Mac thanked her and she wondered what he would
say now that the formalities were over.

Looking steadily at her, he sipped his coffee,
and then said, "I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here."

She nodded.

"I'll get right to the point. As you may
have read in the tabloids, I was in an accident several years ago that damaged
my body extensively. It took two years before I was able to walk again, and I
still have to use a cane. As for my right arm—the one I paint with—I've been
losing nerve function for quite some time." He stopped speaking and tapped
his fingers on his knees.

Cecelia felt compassion swell her heart and she
wanted to reach her hand and caress his shoulder in an act of comfort. She
decided the act would not be welcomed by this proud man. Instead, she remained
silent and waited for him to finish what he wanted to say.

He continued, "Last week I had an
appointment with my doctor in Denver and he told me in no uncertain terms that
if I don't have an operation on my right shoulder, I'll eventually lose the use
of my arm and hand." He glanced past her and then back at her. "If
that happens, I'll lose the ability to paint." His gaze held hers. "Painting
is my life, Cecelia."

When he said her name, the compassion in Cecelia
overcame her and she reached to touch his hand. The contact only lasted an
instant, but it was electrical. "What is it you need from me, Mac?"

He glanced at the spot she had touched and then
back at her. "After the surgery, I need someone to live with me for at
least two months to help out. Of course, I could stay at my home in Denver and
hire someone, but…my heart is here. Something about being in this town allows
me to paint unhindered by emotional baggage. For a few hours each day, I forget
everything. I feel no pain—physical or emotional. In Denver, I never experience
that. In fact, my home there holds too many memories." He puffed a breath
out his cheeks. "I should sell the home, but…" He didn't finish his
sentence. "So, as you may have guessed, I'm asking if you would consider
moving into this house and assuming the care of my household for two months."

Cecelia's eyes widened.

He quickly added, "It would only involve
light housekeeping, meal preparation, and helping me to some degree. For the
first month, I'll be mostly limited to my recliner. The next month I'll only be
semi-laid up. I'm hoping by the third month I'll be functional again. I know
this is coming out of left field, but there's no one I trust to help, except
you. You've known my identity for over a month and no one has come knocking on
my door. That tells me you can be trusted." He puffed air again, "I
would pay you well."

Cecelia found her voice. "I have a business
to run–"

He interrupted, "You could still work your
business. I would be fine by myself during the day."

Cecelia folded her hands in her lap and looked
at them. Although she appeared calm on the exterior, her mind screamed,
Two months
living with this multifaceted and brilliant painter. You can't say no.

Before she could respond, Mac said with a hint
of humor, "Of course, people will speculate about you living with the
recluse. If you want, you can tell them you became friends with an oddball and
are helping out while he recovers from surgery. You can describe me however you
want, except for revealing my identity."

Cecelia glanced up, held Mac's gaze, and said,
"I would never say anything derogatory about you or reveal your identity.
You are a brilliant painter and the world
needs
your artwork. You make
ordinary scenes extraordinary. The painting you donated for the Christmas
auction evoked such a yearning in me to experience that scene that I know others
are similarly affected by your artistry."

Mac's startled expression at her heartfelt words
did not surprise Cecelia. She believed him to be a lonely and somewhat
embittered man. And she would guess he received fan mail expressing her same reaction.
Fan mail that he never read. She was glad her words shocked him.

He responded, "I appreciate your kind
words, but I don't deserve them. I paint for selfish reasons, not for any
altruistic purpose."

Cecelia smiled. "I'll help you. When do you
want me to move in?"

The day before Mac's surgery, Cecelia moved into
his house with a suitcase of clothing and necessities. As needed, she would
bring other items from her house.

She offered to drive him to the hospital in
Denver, but he adamantly refused. "My car is specially adapted for my use
and my doctor is a friend. He's already arranged for me to leave my vehicle at
his house. He'll drive me to the hospital. I should be home in a week."

"Okay, but if you need
anything,
please let me know. I have competent staff running the coffee shop, so leaving
it in their hands is not a problem."

"Thanks for the offer." He smiled
slightly. "I suppose they're dying of curiosity as to why you're moving in
with the recluse."

Cecelia laughed. "Actually, your
longstanding name is Mystery Man. But you're right. After being bombarded with
questions, I told them in no uncertain terms that they'll get nothing out of
me, so stop asking."

Mac's smile widened. "You are a remarkable
woman, Cecelia."

"How so?"

"You leave a lucrative job in New York to
buy a small coffee shop in a nowhere town and then you agree to help an
eccentric you hardly know keep his identity secret because he can't bear the
idea of publicity messing up his solitary life."

"I don't consider that remarkable. I just
consider it helping a friend."

The pensive look Mac assessed her with started
her heart hammering. For the rest of the evening, they spoke about subjects of
generality, never venturing into personal topics.

By the time Cecelia woke and dressed the next
morning, Mac was already gone. There was a note on the table.

Cecelia, please make
yourself at home. As they say in Mexico, "Mi casa es su casa." You
may roam the house at will. I started a new painting about a week ago. Feel
free to go into my art room. Let me know what you think.

Cecelia's breath caught in her throat. He
trusted her enough to allow her entrance into his art room. Before doing
anything else, she walked to Mac's hideaway across from her bedroom and slowly
turned the knob. She was about to enter the room of a master, and as far as she
knew, a room only she was permitted to visit. The magnitude of that overwhelmed
her. Connor MacKenzie—Mac— trusted her enough to allow her into his life.

Stepping into the darkened room, she reached and
flipped the light switch. The first thing she noticed was the wall of windows
with drapes drawn. She knew that when they were pulled back, the east facing
wall would fill the room with sunlight. An easel was placed before the curtains
and Cecelia walked to the windows, drawing the drapes aside. She wanted to see
the painting the way Mac would see it. Slowly she turned.

The first color that jumped from the canvas was steel
gray. It arose as mist from an ethereal lake. Slightly bluer, the lake
reflected tall pines and a solitary mountain. It was beyond stunning.

Cecelia wondered if his trademark figures of a
male and female had been painted yet. It took a couple of minutes, but she
finally located them beyond tree branches—two ethereal shapes. Who were they?
Why had Mac started painting them into his artwork after the accident? The child
was not in this picture, which made Cecelia believe he had added a child to the
other painting solely because it was donated for Christmas. As Charles had
pointed out, the piece would bring a fabulous sum for its uniqueness. Mac was
surely aware of that.

After basking in the beautiful artistry, she
glanced around the room. It was both orderly and cluttered—a typical painter's
paradise. The fact that Mac chose to create his fabulous works in a small room
in a nondescript house in a nowhere town, boggled her mind. He could afford a
home on cliffs overlooking the sea, or a majestic cabin with views of
snow-capped mountains, or a fabulous mansion on a tropical island. Why here?

Glancing at her wristwatch, Cecelia gasped. She
had a coffee shop to run. Perhaps over the next two months, some of her
questions would be answered.