Page 3 of A Texas Christmas Carol

What a horrifying prospect!

Evan widened the door enough to stick his head through the opening and glare at her. “I’ll not open this door again to you, Miss Wiggins. No matter how long you knock.”

Her eyes danced with mischief. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to find a window.”

two

THE LITTLE MINX PROVED AS GOOD as her word. The following day, Miss Wiggins appeared at Evan’s study window, squeezed between two hedges, and began tapping the end of a knitting needle, of all things, against the glass. No doubt she’d tested various objects to see which produced the most annoying pitch, for when he finally threw up the sash to demand she leave, he found no evidence of yarn, knitted or otherwise, on her person.

The day after that, she ambushed him after Sunday services. He always made a point to leave during the final hymn, having no desire to chat with other parishioners. This Sunday, however, his nemesis beat him to it, sneaking out halfway through the sermon. He’d harbored a brief flash of concern for her health only to be waylaid mere moments later by a woman demonstrating not the least sign of sickliness. God could not have made a more vibrant female.

Felicity Wiggins was his antithesis in every way. As warm in spirit as her copper curls were in coloring. Her sunny disposition and kind nature charmed everyone she met. Except him, of course. Ice water ran through his veins. A raging forest fire would fail to thaw him. Success in business required dispassionate calculation, so he’d rid himself of all sentiment from an early age and focused solely on what kept the ledger totals in the black. The Ice King, his partner used to call him, because of his cool demeanor and prematurely gray hair.

Like his father before him, Evan’s hair started turning gray after his twenty-third birthday. In the beginning, it needled his vanity to be mistaken for a much older man. Then he realized the power of leveraging that misperception to his advantage. Men of business were more apt to trust a man they believed to be experienced. Wise, even. And after a fall from his horse rendered Evan’s left knee unreliable, he started carrying a cane, which further enhanced the image. Now, at the age of two and thirty, most thought him in his fifties unless they took the time to notice the lack of lines on his face. Which most didn’t, since they were in too much of a hurry to escape his presence. Exactly as he preferred.

His business partner had thought it a lark to play up Evan’s “advanced” age with investors. Marlin Jacobson had been an associate of Evan’s father prior to the market crash, one who’d had the foresight not to invest solely in railroads, but in property as well. Hotels, dance halls, emporiums. Wherever people came to spend money. Property offered the stability that rail speculation did not. Evan modeled his business practices after Marlin, craving a secure bottom line more than a lucrative one. He would not be his father, cast into a poorhouse because of overconfident investing, leaving his wife and child to fend for themselves.

At first, old Marlin had pawned Evan off on men he had little liking for, no doubt expecting Evan’s scheme of running an inn that catered to the middle class an idiotic notion. Yet when Evan started turning a tidy profit for Marlin’s enemies, he changed his tune and started investing his own funds. Before he died last year, they’d successfully launched a dozen inns together.

Evan set thoughts of his former partner aside as he took his heavy coat off the hook by the back door and slid his arms inside. Morning rides in December were a brisk prospect, but he rarely skipped. Pounding the countryside on the back of a well-bred horse was one of the few things that brought him pleasure. With his walking pace hindered by injury, riding at full speed exhilarated him like nothing else. Made him feel alive. Young.

Leaving his cane behind, Evan crossed the yard to the stable, burrowing deeper into his coat as the wind blew down from the north. When he entered the barn, shivers continued to dance over his skin, but this warmer variety was brought on not by the wind but by the fetching interloper making cooing noises to his horse.

At the sound of the door banging shut, Felicity Wiggins startled and turned to face him. “Oh! Good morning, Mr. Beazer.”

Something similar to satisfaction sang through him at the sight of her. Had he actually been looking forward to her next visit? Bah! His satisfaction was due to being proved correct about her stubborn character, not because he’d hoped to see her today. She was a menace. Interested solely in his money.

Still, he had to admire her dogged determination to succeed in her mission. Apparently they had something in common, after all.

“Miss Wiggins,” he said, disapproval rife in his tone, “step away from my horse.”

She, of course, did no such thing. In fact, she turned back to the stall and rubbed the animal’s ears precisely where he most enjoyed it. “He’s a beauty.” Lightly cupping the beast’s cheeks, she placed a kiss on his nose. Both Evan and his mount were shocked into momentary immobility. “What’s his name?”

His quarter horse had been bred for speed and strength, not gentility. He was high-strung, ill-tempered, and opinionated, just like his master. Yet he was nuzzling Felicity like some kind of lovesick swain.

“Fred,” Evan ground out. “His name is Fred.”

“Fred?” She chuckled, the sound like winter sleet pinging off a wind chime. “Oh, he’s far too noble to be called Fred. Alfredo, perhaps, or Frederick. He’s worthy of at least three syllables, don’t you think?”

Fred lifted his head and aimed an accusing eye at Evan, as if disgusted his master had settled on such an ordinary name when finer ones were available.

“His name’s Fred,” Evan groused, grabbing a bridle off the tack wall and marching forward. He shook a finger at his horse. “I won’t have you putting on airs just because some attractive lady starts paying you compliments. She has no idea what a knave you are.”

Fred snorted at Evan, then turned back to Miss Wiggins, nudging her with his nose in a shameless bid for attention.

For once, the woman in question seemed uneasy. A blush rose to her cheeks, and she dodged away from his gaze, focusing on the horse. “Frederick’s not a knave. Are you?” The horse shook his head while letting out another snort, which elicited a tinkling laugh from the fair maiden. “You’re such a darling,” she cooed.

What kind of pitiful man found himself jealous of a horse? His kind, apparently. Evan’s frown carved a deeper line into his jaw.

He strode forward and inserted himself between woman and horse. “Kindly step aside, madam. I have a ride to take, and I won’t let you and your agenda interfere.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering.” She spread her skirt wide as if curtsying as she bowed out of the way. “Humbug and I will just wait for you to return.”

Evan glanced over his shoulder while fitting the bit into Fred’s mouth. “Humbug?”

Her eyes danced. Definitely a bad sign. “Mm-hmm.”

A sharp bark echoed from one of the empty stalls. A moment later, a brown-and-white beagle trotted into sight. The hound spied him and immediately padded over to investigate, sniffing Evan’s boots and legs with annoying thoroughness.