Page 10 of Rocky Mountain Cowboy Christmas
At the checkout, she set the box on the floor next to the counter. The person working the register looked to be in his early or midteens, with short, black hair and eyes almost as dark, mile-long lashes, and brown skin. He cocked his head slightly to the left and smiled at her, his nose wrinkling just a bit in a way that was achingly familiar.
“You’re one of Steve’s kids,” she said without thinking, wondering if Steve’s wife had been Native American. The boy hadn’t gotten Steve’s light-brown hair or his hazel eyes, although he looked like he’d be as tall as his dad once he finished growing.
The teen blinked, his welcoming expression changing to a look of surprise. “How’d you know?”
“Your mannerisms are identical,” she said, nodding at the hand that was rubbing the back of his neck. “Your coloring’s different, but your smile and the way you move are all Steve.”
“He’s not my bio-dad,” the boy blurted, looking almost guilty, as if she’d accused him of being an imposter.
Camille gave a small shrug. “Matching DNA or not, you’re still a mini Steve—well, not that mini.” He was half a foot taller than she was. “I could’ve picked you out as Steve’s from a crowd of blond kids.”
“Thanks.” He looked pleased even as red darkened his cheekbones. “I’m Will. You know my dad, then?”
“Uh…” She took a moment to hunt for the right descriptor. It didn’t seem right to claim that they were friends, but calling him an acquaintance seemed wrong, too. Her pause made curiosity light Will’s eyes, and she hurried to speak before he misinterpreted things. “I grew up in Borne with him. I’m three years younger though, so he didn’t notice me much.”
Will sucked in his cheeks, looking as if he was holding back a smile, yet again reminding Camille of Steve. “You noticed him, though?”
“Sure.” She tried to play it off in a casual sort of way, as if she hadn’t had such a monster crush. From the way Will’s grin widened, she didn’t think she’d managed. With a mental shrug, she gave up trying to sound blasé. “How could I not? He was my favorite of the Springfield brothers.”
“Really?” Will leaned toward her, clearly fascinated by the potential for old stories about his father. “From what Dad says, Uncle Ryan and Uncle Nate were the popular ones.” His attention moved to a woman holding a tree stand who was hovering behind Camille, and he turned his charismatic, Steve-like smile on her. “Don’t leave yet,” he said in an aside to Camille. “I want to hear about teen Dad.”
With a nod, she stepped out of the way so Will could ring the woman up. This visit to the ranch was going much more smoothly—and more enjoyably—than Camille had expected. Will was easy to talk to, sharing Steve’s sweetness and good-heartedness but not his reserve. With that infectious smile and his striking features, Camille knew Will had to be even more popular than any of the previous generation of Springfield guys. Their easy rapport made her wonder what would’ve happened if she’d drummed up the courage to talk to Steve in high school. Once she’d gotten past his quiet stoicism, would he have been just as comfortable to be around as his son was now?
“Camille.” Ryan’s voice made her stiffen. She turned to see him making his way through the small store. His cheeks were red from the cold, and he seemed a little out of breath as he approached the counter. “I thought that was your car. There aren’t many others like it around here…or anywhere nowadays.”
“Hey, Ryan. Yeah, that’s Bess. My car, I mean. I, um, named her Bess. Bess the Boat, actually, but I shortened it to just…Bess.” Feeling awkward about their last encounter, she gave him a small wave she knew was ultra-dorky, even before Will dissolved in a fit of teen-boy giggles that was equal parts annoying and adorable. She shot him a quelling glance, which didn’t seem to cow him at all. In fact, he leaned on the counter as if getting comfortable to watch the show. The customer was clearly finished checking out, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she also turned to watch. In a town as small as Borne, you had to learn to make your own entertainment…which was part of why Camille kept so much to herself.
This trip to the ranch was quickly taking a nosedive.
“Would you like to see what I made?” she blurted, not even giving Ryan a chance to respond before bending down and pulling out one of the smaller boxes. The only way to get through this with the least amount of humiliation was to keep the interaction as short as possible. No more chitchat with Steve’s kid, or his brother, or anyone else with the last name of Springfield. Just get the business taken care of and then leave her sculptures and this little piece of Christmas paradise behind.
Placing the box on the counter, she untied the twine holding it closed and opened the flap.
“Nice presentation,” Ryan said, and Camille gave him a small, pleased smile. It’d taken some experimenting before she’d settled on her current packaging, and she was proud of it.
“Thank you.” She picked the cloth drawstring bag containing the sculpture out of its nest of colorful shredded paper. “This keeps bits of the packing material from sticking to the metal.” She slid the piece out and set it on the counter. It was her favorite—an abstract of Mary and Joseph, their bodies curving as they leaned over the baby in the manger. To her, protectiveness and love were obvious in every line of the sculpture.
A little anxious about the Springfields’ reactions, she immediately bent to retrieve another box, trying to ignore the heavy silence.
“How much is that?” The woman was the first to speak. “I want to buy it.”
“Give us fifteen minutes,” Ryan said in what was obviously his jovial customer-handling tone. “We’ll need to prepare these for sale first, but I promise that you’ll have first dibs if you decide you want to purchase it.” When the woman nodded grudgingly, he turned his smile up a notch. “Have you picked out your tree yet?”
“My husband’s doing that now.” The woman craned her neck, as if trying to see what else was in the box, and Camille ducked her head to hide a smile. The woman’s enthusiasm was good for her ego, especially since neither Ryan nor Will had commented on the first piece yet. As much as she tried to tell herself that not everyone would like her art, it was still painful to expose her sculptures to potential criticism.
“There they are,” Ryan said as he turned to look out the window. When Camille followed his gaze, she saw Nate Springfield and another man she didn’t know tying a blue spruce to the top of one of the cars. “Looks like he picked a good one.” He paused, his forehead wrinkling with obvious concern. “Hmm.”
“What?” the woman asked, looking from the view outside to Ryan and back again. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing.” He didn’t sound convincing. “I just have a different method of securing the tree. It’ll be fine, though.”
The woman’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “I’d better go supervise.”
She rushed toward the door, and Ryan turned back to Camille with a self-satisfied grin. “That’ll give us a few minutes. Will, grab the price tags, would you? Camille, this is incredible, and it’s obviously in a higher price bracket than the animals. How much?”
She blinked, taken off guard by the question. She’d been so involved in the process of making them that she hadn’t considered the price, but Ryan was right. The nativity pieces were larger, more intricate, and had taken almost twice as long as the whimsical animals he had initially asked for. To give herself time to think, she unboxed the other five sculptures—two more nativity scenes, a horse, an angel, and a lamb—and placed them on the counter.
“Whoa,” Will said, lightly running his finger over the back of the metal draft mare that was touching her nose to her foal. “Wait until Micah sees this. He’s going to flip.”
