Summary:
After a year of tragedy, forty-four-year-old Gunter Zuniga is leaving heartbreak behind and moving to the peaceful and picturesque town of Hartbridge, Montana. He buys an old house in need of some work, which he naively thinks he can manage now that he’s single and retired—he has nothing but time.
Clay Henderson runs the local sawmill with his dad, and it’s the busiest time of year. Firewood and Christmas trees are in high demand, and a delivery of firewood to the old house on Cedar Bark Road leaves him curious about the new man in town.
Clay has never had time for romance and Gunter certainly isn’t looking, but Hartbridge has a way of working its Christmas magic; the jingle of Christmas bells, snow, and love are ringing in the air. And Gunter and Clay are about to get the best Christmas gift they never asked for.
Summary:
Englishman Braithe Branson arrives in Hartbridge, Montana, to take on a brief substitute kindergarten teacher position. His introduction to the sleepy town is being pulled over for speeding. Not an ideal start, but at least the deputy was cute.
Colson Price takes being a deputy very seriously. After all, his job is all he has. Disowned by his family ten years ago, he's vowed to stay closeted so it won't cost him everything all over again.
But the holidays are tough for Colson, and the new guy in town is far too tempting. With a promise of some very private no-strings encounters on the downlow, he can't resist.
Braithe is charmed by the handsome deputy, the gorgeous town, and the great group of friends he meets. But as the countdown to leaving gets closer, the more tangled the 'no strings' becomes.
Merry Christmas Cupid #3
CHAPTER ONE
GUNTER
I pulled the car up beside the house, not deterred by the snow already sticking to the ground. I looked up at the front porch and grinned. The house was a folk Victorian style, with a cute awning, double-hung windows, and intricate wood-carved trims. It was gorgeous.
Well, it would be.
If it weren’t in such disrepair.
Ridiculously excited, I climbed the steps, took out the keys I’d just collected from the realtor, and unlocked the front door. Letting the door swing inward, I stepped inside.
The front living room was small and cozy. The original fireplace hadn’t seen a lick of warmth in years. The wooden floorboards were blanketed in dust, but sunlight cracked in through the bare windows, making dust motes spin like allergy galaxies through the empty room.
The tall ceilings made the room feel bigger but the house had a chill in its bones. Being empty and unloved for a few years would do that.
I knew exactly how it felt.
Walking through the arch to the kitchen and running my hand across the countertop, I then had to wipe my hand on my jeans. I didn’t care. In fact, it made me smile.
Maybe I hadn’t stopped smiling yet.
My new house. My new life.
In Hartbridge, Montana.
The tiny, little town where Dad and I’d stopped last Christmas, the bed and breakfast having been kind enough to give us a room at the last minute. The tiny, little town I’d come back to in June, very much alone instead of with my husband who’d decided the day after my father’s funeral was the perfect time to announce he was leaving and wanted a divorce.
“Life’s too short to be unhappy,” he’d said.
So I’d arrived to spend the weekend in Hartbridge feeling all kinds of lost, and I left having found a new sense of purpose.
A charming town full of friendly faces, smiles, and warm hellos. The perfect place for me to start again.
I found a house—a very rundown house—on the outskirts of town. I’m sure the realtor thought I was crazy, but I wanted it. Given I was no longer employed, no longer married, I had nothing but time to fix it up.
To make it really mine.
I turned on the kitchen faucet. A pipe somewhere clunked and whined, a puff of resistance coughed into the sink, followed by a trickle of water, but after a few moments, a decent stream poured out.
I wasn’t game to try the hot water faucet. I hadn’t even turned on the power on yet. I wanted a plumber and electrician to look at it first. They were scheduled to come out the next day, so I wasn’t in any hurry to burst a pipe or start an electrical fire.
Old houses, especially those left unlived in for a time, were known for such things.
Apparently.
Not that I had any clue.
I could barely change a light bulb.
Had I bitten off more than I could chew? Absolutely.
I was way in over my head . . . I was so out of my depth, not even the coast guard could find me.
But what I was, more than overwhelmed or scared, was determined.
I was going to make this place mine.
Before I’d even had another look at the bathroom, a loud rumbling noise got closer and closer, and I realized it was a truck approaching.
I guess I had new house sounds to learn now.
An old red dump truck with Henderson’s Sawmill written in cracked yellow on the side panel came slowly down the drive, and I checked my watch. A little early, but I’d take that over being late.
I walked out onto the porch, and the driver’s window rolled down. “Morning,” I said cheerfully.
All I could see in the darkened cab of the truck was a brown beard and a wide smile. “Where would you like it?” he said over the rumble of the engine.
Looking at the load of chopped firewood in the back of the truck, which I assumed he was referring to, I pointed past my car, down the side of the house. “Uh, there’s a shelter . . . thing . . .” I yelled over the sound of the truck. “I think that’s for firewood?”
Well, it was now.
He gave a wave and the truck rumbled louder and chugged down the side of my house. He turned the truck away, backed it up, cut the engine, and tipped the bed up.
I stood back and watched the load of firewood tumble to the ground, and when it was done, the bed went back down, the cab door opened, and the man got out.
He was a giant.
Well, not literally.
At about six-foot-four, he was also at least three feet wide. His shoulders and arms . . . He had Popeye arms. He had short brown thick, woolly hair and a scruffy brown beard. He wore denim overalls over a red plaid shirt as if he’d stepped right out of an old Mountain Lumberjack magazine.
As stereotypical as it could get, but somehow . . . perfect.
His smile was wide and warm, and his greeny-blue eyes were bright and friendly. He offered me his huge hand, which I shook.
Without knowing why, I liked him immediately.
“Clayton Henderson,” he said, his voice deep. “Folks around here call me Clay.”
“Gunter Zuniga. Nice to meet you, Clay.”
He looked back at the load of firewood. “You’ll be okay to stack this? You coulda got the smaller bundles already wrapped, but you wanted a full load?”
“I did,” I said. It would probably take me half a day to stack it, but it was what I was here for. It was crazy how excited I was to get this place into shape. “And it’ll be fine. I’ll get it done.”
He looked at the side of the house and up to the roof. “Rumor has it you’re the new owner,” he said. Then he shrugged apologetically. “Small town. People gonna talk.”
I turned to the side of the house—at the peeled paint, the falling-down fascia, the broken skirting boards—and put my hands on my hips and sighed. “Yep. Just got the keys today. I have a lot of work to do.”
Clay looked at me, then at the house, then back at me. “Did you clean out the chimney flue yet? If you’re gonna use that firewood—she’s been sitting empty awhile now, and you gotta be careful—”
“Oh no, I’m not staying here,” I said. Was he concerned for me? I wasn’t used to strangers caring so much. I wasn’t used to even not-strangers caring, to be honest. “Not yet, anyway. I’m staying at the bed and breakfast for a few weeks. Until I can get the place cleaned up and livable.”
He seemed genuinely relieved. “Oh, okay. Did you want me to take a look at your flue for ya? Won’t take a second.”
Oh.
It’s a small town, Gunter. Get used to friendly people doing friendly things. Don’t upset the locals on day one.
“Oh. If it’s no bother, that’d be great.”
With a nod, he followed me to the front porch and up the steps. I was very aware of how he looked at the disrepair: at the cracked paint, the few boards in the porch that had seen better days.
“Leave your boots on,” I offered. “The floor is a mess.”
As soon as we were inside, I turned to see him smiling at the old beams that ran across the ceiling. “She’s a classic,” he said. There was no mocking, no hint of sarcasm. “Can I ask what kind of work you’ll be doing?”
“Uh.”
“Cosmetic or structural?”
“Oh. Cosmetic only. I bought it because it was old and full of character. I’d like to keep as much of that as I can.”
He seemed to sigh with relief, happy to hear that. “I was just going to say, if you’re ripping out posts or beams, I’ll come take them away for ya.” Then he added, “She’s old-school. Bet the frame and trusses are hand-hewn. Beautiful work.”
It took me a second to remember he was from a sawmill, which explained his excitement. “I’m afraid structural changes are out of my realm of expertise. I had a building inspection before I bought it. They said it was sound, aside from a few cosmetic changes. The plumbing was updated in the seventies, I think. The electrical was rewired around the same time, so it’s not as bad as it could be. I mean, it’s not new by any stretch. I have a lot of work ahead of me. And I’m short on time because the bed and breakfast will be busy with Christmas and I told them I’d be out by then. Admittedly, it’s not the best time of year. So I have about three to four weeks to make it livable.”
I looked around the room toward the kitchen through the arch. “Well, the kitchen will need updating. And the bathroom. I have a plumber coming to look at it tomorrow, and the hot water. I mean, the tiles they chose in the seventies were a crime.”
Clay smiled at me. “You said the inspector said there was no water damage, so the tiling and plumbing must be good. Just paint the tiles, change the fixtures, and you got yourself a new bathroom. Well, a usable bathroom for a coupla years, till you get settled.” He shrugged again. “If you’re short on time.”
That was a good idea. It really would save a lot of time.
“Stop in and see Ren at the hardware store,” he said with a nod. “He’ll getcha everything you need.”
“Oh, perfect. I actually have a list. Mostly cleaning stuff. Sandpaper. Paint. That kind of stuff. I was going there first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You got yourself a big job. Not afraid of hard work then.”
I grinned at him. “I’m so excited to get started. I was literally waiting outside the realtors before they opened.”
“Where are you coming from? You’re not a local.”
“Mossley. Down the mountain.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Hartbridge called to you, huh?”
I was still smiling. “Something like that.”
He stood there staring at me for a beat too long and then jolted away. “Right. Your fireplace . . .” He went to it and kneeled down.
“The floor’s all dusty,” I said apologetically.
He didn’t seem to care. “Don’t suppose you got a mirror and a flashlight here anywhere?”
“Uh . . . no. The only thing I have here is the load of wood you dropped off and my luggage in the car . . .” I tried to think if I had a mirror in my bags. I shook my head. “I have a flashlight on my phone, if that helps.”
“Nah. Old fashioned way it is then.” He ran his huge hand over the bricks in the bottom of the firebox. “Well, there’s no creosote. Looks like it was cleaned pretty good. No critter poop either, which is a good sign.” Then he lay down on his back, his head in the fireplace so he could look up the chimney. He really was a very big man. “The damper looks decent. Can’t see any blockages, but I can’t see the lining properly without any gear.” Then he shuffled out, the inspection over, and got to his feet. “No birds nests, so that’s good. Unless you like smoked pigeon.”
I made a face. “No.”
He laughed, a deep rumbly sound. “I can swing past tomorrow with some gear to have a better look. You’re gonna need a grate though.” He gestured to the empty fireplace. When I didn’t say anything, he added, “To put the wood on in the fire.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
He met my gaze and held it for a long moment. “Right, then,” he said, dusting his hands off and heading toward the door. “Work to do.”
I followed him out. “Thank you so much.”
He was down the steps and rounding the corner of the house toward his truck. “My pleasure. Tomorrow, yeah?”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
A second later, the truck rumbled loudly to life, and with a wave, he drove out. I stood there smiling until the red truck had disappeared through the trees.
I think I’d just made my first friend in Hartbridge.
Many hours later, I pulled my car up to the bed and breakfast and was met by Jayden. He was wiping his hands on his apron, smiling widely as he came down the steps to greet me.
I groaned as I got out of my car; the knot in my back was in dire need of a hot shower.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.
I waved him off. “Oh yes. I spent all day moving and stacking a truckload of firewood at the house.”
“Oh, you got the keys already?”
“This morning.”
“You’re technically a local now.”
“Isn’t there some twenty-year waiting period for being called a local in a small town?”
He grinned at that. “Probably. But it’s real good to see you again. I’m glad you’re here. Let me help you with your bags.”
Once we had my things in my room, Jayden left me to it. “Tacos for dinner. And maybe a margarita or two.”
“Perfect.” So, so perfect.
“And you can tell me all about your house and show me all the photos. I want to know everything.”
“Sounds great.”
I really liked Jayden. And Cass, his partner. Jayden had been so kind to me the first time I’d come here with my father, and then the second time when it was just me. I’d told him about the funeral, about the separation from my husband, and Jayden had taken it upon himself to be my merrymaker, always there with a wide smile, with food, and with something to make me laugh.
When I’d hinted that I could see myself moving to Hartbridge, he’d even helped me with some real estate searches and advice. He’d taken me into town, shown me around, introduced me to a few new faces. I knew he didn’t do that for all their bed and breakfast clientele . . .
So maybe I had two friends in Hartbridge already.
It was a nice feeling.
One steaming-hot shower later and dressed in comfier clothes, I found Jayden in the kitchen. He was, true to his word, making margaritas.
“Figured you’d want an early dinner if you’ve been working hard all day,” he said.
I showed him my hands, how red they were. Thankfully not blistered, but still sore. “Wore the wrong gloves.”
“Ouch.”
“I’ll have to go to the hardware store in the morning.”
Just then, Cass came inside from the back. Handsome as ever, his smile wide, he shook my hand. “Glad you made it.”
“He has the keys to his house already,” Jayden volunteered. “And I was just about to tell him that I can help him out tomorrow. We can have breakfast here, then hit up the hardware store for whatever you need, then I can go see your new place. I’m good with cleaning and organizing.”
“Oh.” I was not expecting that. “You don’t have to—”
Cass laughed and kissed the side of Jayden’s head. “Gunter, I hope you like being organized and bossed around. He will have a list or two.”
Jayden grinned at me, and it made me laugh. “The company would be great.”
He handed me a margarita. “Awesome!”
I sipped the drink. It was delicious. “Oh, I met Clay Henderson today,” I said. “He seems nice.”
Cass nodded. “He is a nice guy.”
Jayden frowned. “Do I know him?”
“Yes. Cliff’s son. At the sawmill. Cliff delivered the Christmas trees, but you met Clay at the spring festival. He did the sapling giveaway.”
Jayden’s face lit up with recognition. “Oh yes. He was cute! In a total teddy-bear, garden-gnome kind of way.”
Cass’ eyes went wide in a you-can’t-say-that way. “Jayden!”
But it made me laugh. “He totally does look like a teddy-bear garden gnome.”
Big and cute.
I didn’t say it out loud, but apparently I didn’t have to.
“Oh?” Jayden quirked an eyebrow at me. “And just how do you find teddy-bear garden gnomes?”
I shook my head and sipped my margarita. “I’m definitely not looking. He was just kind enough to check my chimney.”
Jayden snorted. “Oh really?”
I ignored the innuendo, but . . . “And he offered to come back tomorrow.” I cleared my throat. “To give it a better look.”
Cass pressed his lips into a line so he didn’t smile too big, but Jayden’s smile was so huge, not even his drink could hide it. “Sounds like you don’t even have to be looking,” he said, “when he’s already looking at you.”
“Jay,” Cass murmured, a gentle warning.
“What?” he said, unbothered. He winked at me without shame. “Christmastime in Hartbridge is known for its romance magic.”
Holiday Heart Strings #4
CHAPTER ONE
Braithe
The drive from Helena to Hartbridge was beautiful. The mountains were glorious shades of autumn, like quilts of orange and browns and yellows. The sky was a perfect blue for late November; the air was clean and fresh.
A truly beautiful part of the world.
Also a far cry from the gloomy grey of my London home. Which was also beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But this part of Montana was postcard perfect. Better than a postcard. No postcard could do it justice.
I made a detour to take some photos of Flathead Lake and have some lunch, taking my time to see the sights and experience everything I could.
The best part of my two-year working visa was experiencing the real America; not some whirlwind touristy trip but living as a local.
I was four months in and loving it.
With not much more than a suitcase, my laptop bag, and a crate of work supplies in my car, I uploaded my photos to Instagram, finished my lunch, and got back into my car for the final leg back down I-90 and into Hartbridge.
I was excited about this new town. What I’d read and seen on the internet had been idyllic and quaint, and I was especially excited to be spending the holiday period in a true American mountain town.
Turning off Montana Sky Highway, the road to Hartbridge snaked through the mountains, and the further I went, the prettier it got. Tall trees skirted the roads, there was hardly any traffic, and I had my music up loud, singing along, having a merry old time . . .
Until some flashing red and blue lights came up behind me.
Oh my days.
I might have screamed.
I checked my speed, and . . . Oh no, I was speeding!
Trying not to panic, I slowed to a stop, pulling off the road the best I could.
I’d never been pulled over by the police before. Not in England and certainly not in America. Did I put my window down? Did I get out? Did I reach for my wallet?
What was I supposed to do?
Oh, gosh, he’s getting out . . . He’s walking toward me . . . In his little brown outfit with his big hat and his black boots.
He knocked on my window and I let out a yelp, stabbing at every button on my door to get the window to come down, trying not to panic even more, which of course made me panic even more.
Finally, I got the window down.
“Hello, officer,” I said with a smile. Maybe if he thought I was a dumb-blond tourist he’d go easy on me.
“Sir, licence and registration please.”
His voice was gruff and no-nonsense. His shirt was decidedly tight, which was something I should not have noticed.
“Ah, yes, of course.” I grabbed my bag on the passenger seat, and he reacted immediately.
His hand went to the gun on his hip. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel.”
Oh my word!
I put my hands on that steering wheel so fast and made a high-pitched strangled sound that rang in my ears. I sat there, wondering if I was actually about to pee myself, breathing as if I’d just done a fifty-metre sprint. “Uh, how . . . how can I get my licence with my hands on the steering wheel?”
“You’re not from around here, are you,” he said. It wasn’t a question. More a statement of gruff annoyance.
“No. I’m not.”
“Where are your licence and registration?”
Oh my days.
My fingers were starting to hurt from gripping the steering wheel so tight.
“Uh, my licence is in my wallet. Which is in my bag. I stopped at Flathead Lake and grabbed some lunch and left it in my bag. The registration papers are in the glove compartment.”
“Get them out, driver’s licence first,” he said. “Slowly.”
I did as he asked and noticed his hand was still on his gun. Holy hell, I was terrified, trying to remember what else I’d stashed in my bag . . . Nothing illegal, of course. But incriminatory, maybe.
No, your lube and condoms are in your suitcase.
I found my wallet and held it so he could see what it was, opened it slowly, and pulled my licence out. I handed it over, then reached in the glovebox for my registration, and then passed that through the window, my hands shaking. Only then did he take his hand off his gun.
“London, England?”
“Ah, yes,” I said, my mouth almost too dry to speak. “The good old motherland, except you guys claimed independence, which is understandable, honestly. I get it. I mean . . .”
Stop talking. Stop talking now.
He was quiet for a moment, and I risked looking up at his face for the first time. I couldn’t see much, given his hat and the glaring sun behind him, but I think he smiled.
“Sorry, your gun makes me nervous.”
Yep. It was a smile. “What brings you to these parts?” He read my licence again. “Braithe Branson.”
“Oh, I’m, uh, I’m a teacher. I’m the replacement at Hartbridge Elementary. Maternity replacement.” I put my hand to my stomach. “Not my maternity, obviously.”
Oh my days, Braithe, stop talking.
He smiled again, this time enough to show his teeth. “Obviously.”
I swallowed, my mouth now even drier than before. “Sorry. Nervous. Gun.”
He tapped my licence. “Did you have a reason for speeding today, Mr Branson? An emergency?”
“Uh, unfortunately, no. Unless I can claim Kylie Minogue’s Greatest Hits and the sunshine as an emergency?”
He was still smiling. Until he reined it in. “Ah, no. You cannot.”
“I must have got a little heavy-footed. I have no legitimate excuse, sorry.”
He looked up the road with a sigh. There wasn’t any other traffic and I wondered what he was stalling for. He handed my licence back through my window. “I’ll let you off with a verbal warning today, Mr Branson. But I won’t be so generous next time.”
“There won’t be a next time, officer.”
His eyes met mine. Brown like burned honey, his cheeks a little pink, a shadow of stubble on his jaw.
Oh, wow. He was really handsome.
He tipped his hat. “Drive careful now.”
I shook my head to focus. “Uh, yes. Yes, thank you, officer. I will. You too.” He smiled again, and I realised I’d just told him to drive careful.
Awesome.
But he didn’t give me a ticket, so I counted my blessings and watched him walk back to his cruiser. In those brown trousers and his too-tight shirt.
Damn.
I drove five miles under the speed limit the whole way into Hartbridge. Not because I was mindful of speeding or because I was driving carefully . . . but because a cruiser with Sheriff written across the hood followed me all the way into town.
Saturday Series Spotlight
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn't have it any other way.
She is many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who she gives them life with words.
She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things...but likes it even more when they fall in love. She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.
She’s been writing ever since...
Merry Christmas Cupid #3
Holiday Heart Strings #4
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