Page 12 of A Texas Christmas Carol

“Miss Wiggins. I see you’re making yourself at home.”

Felicity snatched her hand away from the hem of the Holland cloth roller shade hanging at half-mast and spun to face her host, guilt warming her cheeks.

“Mr. Beazer.” She stepped away from the window and smiled, hoping those piercing eyes of his couldn’t see her presumptuous thoughts. Goodness. How mortifying would it be if he somehow deduced her mental remodeling of his home to suit her preferences? “You’re looking in fine health today,” she blurted.

“Is that an unusual occurrence?” he asked in a dry tone. “I hate to think I normally roam about looking sallow.”

A laugh bubbled past Felicity’s lips, cleansing away her awkwardness and leaving her feeling much more herself. “Hardly.” She grinned and crossed the room to stand before him. “Fierce, perhaps, but never sallow.”

A strange glittering entered his pale eyes. At her words or her nearness? Either way, her pulse reacted by jumping around with all the grace of a drunken rabbit.

First he revealed a keen wit she hadn’t realized he possessed, and now this . . . this . . . heat? Where was Grandma Claire’s hand fan when she needed it?

Moving to his left side, since he carried his cane in his right, Felicity slipped her hand into his elbow and gestured to the front door. “Your adventure awaits.”

Evan stiffened at her touch, and the housekeeper’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline at Felicity’s familiarity, but she didn’t let that dissuade her. She wasn’t doing anything improper, after all. Gentlemen escorted ladies thusly all the time. Of course, the gentleman usually offered his arm before the lady made free with it herself, but after several years of observing Evan Beazer, Felicity knew he was a master at keeping his distance from others, both physically and emotionally. If she had any hope of breaking through that crusty shell of his by Christmas, she needed to give her affectionate nature free rein instead of worrying about offending him. He wasn’t the type to hold back his displeasure. He’d let her know if she crossed a line. Like a wild animal who had to learn a person’s scent before trusting enough to draw near, Evan would acclimate to her affection little by little until he either rejected her overtures or began seeking them out. If she were truly fortunate, he might even offer a few overtures of his own.

Taking charge, Evan escorted her to the front door and opened it, stepping aside so she could pass through. “Where are we off to today, madam?”

“A farm about five miles outside of town,” she said as she stepped out onto the porch and waited for him to close the door behind him. Once he had, she slipped her hand right back into the nook she’d vacated, pleased when his flinch was smaller this time. “I thought we’d take advantage of the fine day and visit the Littles this afternoon. One never knows what the weather in Texas will do this time of year. Best not to waste fair skies.”

Evan pulled up short at the top of the porch steps. “What is that?”

She grinned sheepishly. “A buckboard.” And a rather dilapidated one at that. But the team was sturdy. The rustic wagon wasn’t fancy, but it would do. “I hoped to use the buggy, but Mr. Woodrow at the livery had already rented it out to another customer.” She patted his arm. “I know it’s not what you are accustomed to, but that’s part of the adventure.”

“And you consider me the adventuring type?”

“Of course,” she said with a wink. “I’ve seen you ride.”

He was utterly fearless on horseback. Not only had she witnessed this on the day he’d rescued her, but she’d been known to take the occasional early morning walk through the countryside near his home. No one who saw him ride would ever mistake him for anything other than a man in his prime.

“Something tells me that spending time in your company will be far more adventure than I ever get up to while in the saddle,” he muttered as he led her down the steps.

Choosing to take his words as a compliment, she grinned. “I endeavor to live up to your expectations.”

“Heaven help me.”

That was precisely what Felicity was counting on.

Evan couldn’t recall a time he’d ever been touched with such alarming frequency. Her hand on his arm. The brush of her shoulder against his as the woebegone buckboard rattled down the road. The bump of her knee against his leg. The squeeze of her fingertips against his wrist as she excitedly pointed out a white-tailed deer bounding through the brush in front of them.

There was nothing pandering or manipulative about her touch. Felicity Wiggins was not the type to use feminine wiles to seduce money or cooperation from a man. She was just . . . well, Felicity. Innocent, genuine, and affectionate. He’d witnessed her natural ebullience as she interacted with her family last night, and now, amazingly, he was experiencing the effects of being the recipient of her abundantly warm manner. Those effects being a severe distraction and a dangerous craving for more.

Thankfully, they arrived at their destination before he could do anything foolish, like initiate contact himself. Though he did derive a great deal of pleasure from placing his hands at her waist and lifting her down from the wagon seat. He released her immediately, of course, but his brain could not release the feel of her so efficiently. His fingers ached for an excuse to touch her again. Instead, he wrapped the unruly digits almost viciously around the top of his cane before following his companion up to the house.

A small, weatherworn house that seemed to list to one side.

“Felicity!” A hearty woman of middle years with a babe propped on one hip rushed out of the front door, a wide smile on her face. The smile died the moment she spied him.

Ah. Now that was the reaction he was accustomed to provoking in women. Nice to know he hadn’t metamorphosed into some kind of winged fairy creature over the last hour but remained his disagreeable, caterpillarish self.

Miss Wiggins acted as if nothing were amiss, however, continuing to beam at Mrs. Little. “Darlene! So good to see you.” She turned to gesture to him. “This is Evan Beazer. He’s agreed to assist me with the Christmas baskets this year. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Mrs. Little’s tiny nod and doubt-laden gaze made it clear precisely how unwonderful she found the situation. “Children?” she called, her voice loud enough to carry a country mile. “Come greet our guests.”

A girl who looked to be around fifteen came out first, followed by a parade of three more girls of various ages. Then a boy of about twelve emerged from behind a shed, two younger, dirtier lads dashing past him as one chased the other full speed into the yard.

Good heavens. Eight children? How did they even fit inside the house?