Page 92 of Snowbound Surrender

“You can call me Randall, Miss Clarke.” Her heart jiggled at the modest cheer of that invitation.

“Then we shouldn’t stand on ceremony. You should call me Miranda.”

“Not Randi?” he teased.

“Don’t you think that would get a little confusing?” she teased him in return. “Randi and Randy?”

Good heavens, was she flirting?

“Home is Chicago,Miranda,” he went on, stretching in the chair as though he was comfortable after a long time of discomfort. “And it doesn’t look like I’ll be there for Christmas this year.”

Miranda stepped away from the stove to lean against the bar. “No luck with the brushes, then? I’m sure you could find customers here in Mistletoe.”

Randell shrugged. “I tried. I was turned away. Apparently there’s a measles epidemic in town and not too many people are in the mood to hear a sales pitch for brushes.”

Miranda sobered and stood straighter. “Yes, I’ve heard about the epidemic. It’s terrible, really.”

“Heard about it?” Randall’s expression twitched to confusion. “I would think the sick people would be your friends and neighbors.”

A wistful twist pulled at the corner of Miranda’s mouth. “I only just arrived in town on the first of the month,” she explained. “And shortly after that, I took possession of this place.” She raised her arms and rolled her eyes up to the rafters. “There hasn’t been much time for social calls, although some of the good people of this town have tried. But to be honest, I’ve been hesitant to show my face in good society.”

“Really?” He frowned, looking baffled. “Why?”

She studied him for a moment and sighed. She shouldn’t go telling all her problems to a total stranger. They were her burdens to bear. But something about Randall invitedconfidence. “I’m not certain a saloon owner would fit in polite society.”

Randall seemed to chew over that statement for a minute. A bubbling from behind Miranda told her the water was boiling. She turned to wrap a cloth around the handle of the copper pot, pouring the water over the tea leaves in the tin coffee pot. It certainly wasn’t how she ever would have envisioned herself entertaining polite company. For the thousandth time in the last few weeks, she tried not to feel bitter about the odd hand life—or rather her Uncle Buford—had dealt her. Instead she found a spare tray, put the coffee pot, two tin mugs, a small jar of sugar, and a pitcher of milk she hoped was still fresh onto it, then carried it over to the table.

Randall was still lost in thought, but his expression brightened as Miranda said, “All we have to do now is wait for the tea to brew.”

“That sounds fine to me.”

She returned his smile, helping herself to one of the seats at the table. “I’m sorry your efforts to sell brushes in Mistletoe haven’t gone well so far. Maybe in a few days.”

“Is that how long it takes for an epidemic to be over?”

“I’m not sure.”

She paused, scrambling for some way to sound intelligent and personable as they waited for the tea to brew. Easy conversation had never been her strong suit. That was more Vicky’s talent. Which probably explained why Vicky had waltzed off with the prize, leaving Miranda cold and alone.

“Why don’t you do your brush presentation for me?” she suggested in a hurry. Somehow thoughts of the debacle of Micah didn’t seem right while sitting with Randall.

“Do you mean it?” He sat taller.

Miranda smiled, his flash of excitement contagious. “Absolutely.”

“You’re on.” Randall nodded and leapt up from the table. He fetched his trunk, lifting it in both hands, and carrying it closer to the table. “I just need some place to set up.”

“Why, the stage, of course.” Miranda gestured to the small dais at the front of the saloon. “I can’t wait to see what you can do.”

The last timeRandall had looked forward to doing his brush presentation for someone was… Actually, he had never looked forward to doing it.

“The stage is perfect.” He switched directions, carrying his trunk to the front of the saloon. “I’ll need a couple of chairs, though.”

“Let me help.” Miranda jumped up and dodged between the tables to reach the front of the room. She lifted one chair onto the stage as he lifted the other. Together, they positioned them as Randall directed, close enough that he could rest his trunk on them and open the lid.

“Now just you sit back, Miranda, and prepare to be bowled over by the selection and quality of Mendel’s Marvelous Brushes.” He repeated the words that had been drilled into him during training sessions, even though he knew he sounded like a fourth-rate actor in a bad play.

Miranda hopped off the stage and scurried to take a seat at one of the tables near the front. There was something about the woman that was a breath of fresh air in an endless string of towns and faces and audiences. She seemed so out of place in the saloon. Her dress was a smidgen too high-brow, not to mention conservative, and her soft, brown hair was tucked into a simple bun. She was pretty, though, but not in the sort of way women in saloons were usually pretty. To top it all off, Randall could sense a certain, nameless energy pulsing right under hersurface. He would have called it frustration, yearning, even, if she didn’t have such a delightful smile.