Page 12 of Christmas With My Mountain Man Landlord
"Colt's your husband?" I ask.
"Yep. Married three months now." Her entire face softens when she mentions him. "He's a blacksmith and metalworker. Has a shop just outside town."
"The one with all the motorcycles parked outside?" I'd noticed it on the drive in from San Diego.
"That's the one." Pride fills her voice. "He's incredibly talented. Makes beautiful custom pieces."
Tom watches his daughter talk about her husband with a complicated expression. Not quite disapproval, but not entirely comfortable either. Another story there, clearly.
After Savannah leaves with promises to pick me up tomorrow evening, Tom and I find ourselves alone in the kitchen. The silence stretches between us, not exactly uncomfortable but charged with unspoken awareness.
"Your daughter is lovely," I say finally. "You must be very proud of her."
"She's the best thing I've ever done." The simple statement carries profound emotion. "Strong. Smart. Kind despite everything."
"Despite what?"
He hesitates, then shrugs slightly. "Growing up with just me. Missing her mother. Small town limitations."
"I'd say that speaks to excellent parenting," I counter softly. "Children don't become resilient by accident."
His eyes meet mine, surprise flickering across his features. "Savannah was always that way. Even as a little girl. Determined to see the bright side of things."
"Wonder where she got that from," I murmur, watching him closely.
He almost smiles. "Not from me."
"I don't know about that." I lean against the counter. "Beneath that stern sheriff exterior, I suspect there's considerably more optimism than you let on."
"You've been here four days," he points out. "Pretty quick character assessment."
"Writer," I remind him, tapping my temple. "People watching is my superpower."
This time he does smile, just a slight upward curve of his lips that transforms his face. I want to see more of that expression, to coax it out deliberately and often.
"So," I say, changing tactics, "any chance you could show me around town a bit more? The cabin fever is real, and I need to stretch my legs."
"I need to head back to the station," he says, checking his watch.
"I could walk you there," I suggest. "Maybe explore a bit on my own afterward. Get a feel for the place for my book."
He considers this for a moment. "Town's pretty quiet this time of day."
"Perfect for observation." I grab my coat from the hook by the door, not giving him time to formulate more objections. "I promise not to embarrass you in front of your deputies."
"Wasn't worried about that," he mutters, but reaches for his jacket nevertheless.
Outside, the afternoon sun glints off fresh snow that fell overnight. The air carries that distinctive winter crispness that makes each breath feel cleansing. We walk in companionable silence, our footsteps crunching on the snow covered path.
"How's the writing going?" he asks after a few minutes, surprising me with his interest.
"Really well, actually." I can't help the enthusiasm that creeps into my voice. "I've written more in four days than in the previous eight months combined."
"What changed?"
I consider the question seriously. "Everything, I suppose. New environment. Distance from old influences. Maybe just time."
"What's it about? Your book."
