Ciara’s heart constricted. He’d said this flippantly—even though it was all deeply rooted in fact. But she knew that Scout took offense that his father had never motivated, inspired or encouraged his sons to greatness. From what Scout had said of Jeff Winchester—and it wasn’t a whole lot, because Scout didn’t typically speak of the man—the senior Winchester had always been more concerned about lining his own pockets than taking care of his family. Always had a new scam or scheme up his sleeve. Always angled for a deal that would benefit him. And him alone.
Ciara also knew that discussing Scout’s father was much too volatile a subject to broach, particularly when they were standing in the middle of the street.
So she merely told him, “I think your mother’s brilliant. I watch her show all the time—she’s carved quite a niche for herself. I order her gravy and plum sauce every year, to be delivered wherever I am. Personally, I can’t can for crap, but it’s fascinating how she keeps the process fresh and the topics relevant.”
“She’s always been fond of you as well. In fact, she’s mentioned a time or two that she, Marilyn and the others believe you ought to take over the society. Head it up in Tilda’s wake.”
Her mind suddenly reeled. It wasn’t anything Ciara had ever considered. “Those are big shoes to fill, Scout. And those ladies aren’t just active this time of year. They take a scaled-down version of the reenactment on the road all over the Southwest, to museums, libraries and elementary-grade history classes.”
“Well, you are the rightful heir to the society, since Tilda was the one to charter it. Something to think about.”
A huge something to think about!
But then Ciara mentally shook her head. It wasn’t even a notion she could ponder at the moment. Ciara didn’t live in Plymouth Rock. Ciara didn’t live anywhere. And her calling was travel writing and blogging.
Though, on the very realistic side of things, she had to remind herself that her career had recently, unexpectedly and involuntarily stalled out. At least with the documentary aspect, since the magazine she primarily wrote for, and which she hosted webcasts for, just folded. Totally out of the blue.
Which basically—if she allowed herself to face the facts—meant that Ciara was not only homeless, but also jobless.
There it was in a nutshell. More knots in her string of bad luck.
But none of it was anything she could reconcile this evening.
She told Scout, “We’re going to freeze if we stay out here any longer.” The snow had started to fall again. Fat, fluffy flakes.
He gave her a quick kiss—though she felt his restraint as he tried to keep it light between them. He asked, “You’ll be at the dedication tomorrow?”
“Catherine and I agreed that if we start early enough in the morning, we’ll both be able to make it to the rink on time. I’ll see you there, Winger.” She smiled at him. Climbed into the Rubicon and cranked on the ignition, the heater and the windshield wipers.
Scout closed her door and she drove off. Myriad thoughts swirled in her mind. Though mostly she was wrapped in the thrill of being with Scout. Even if only for a few days…
***
Scout woke to a biting cold morning. He peered out a window in his room at the B&B. It’d snowed all night. The town was blanketed in white and the pines on the mountain were laden with fresh powder; drifts rose and fell on the slopes.
While it was incredibly beautiful, he and his family had planned Thanksgiving dinner at Win Creek Cabin. He hoped they didn’t have any trouble getting up the mountain with all this new snow. It was avalanche country, after all.
And he, JT and Hamilton had quite a bit of work to do up there. The brothers owned the remote retreat now, divided equally amongst them, since Gramps had cut their father entirely out of his will. Lots of bad blood there. The three boys had always loved the cabin, but since they’d all gone their separate ways, no one had made it up the mountain in years. No one came home for the holidays anymore. Until now. But Thanksgiving wasn’t the true reason for the reunion.
Hamilton had approached Scout and JT recently about selling. It was a damn good deal. Almost impossible to pass up. Except that, first and foremost, Scout didn’t need the money. Secondly, in his heart, parting with something that had meant so much to their grandfather—and to the brothers, to be honest—didn’t sit right with him. Yet Hamilton was gung-ho about letting go of the cabin. No one used it and the upkeep was a bitch. Scout knew JT didn’t want to sell. But invariably, Scout wasn’t inclined to rain on Hamilton’s parade.
In Scout’s mind, he really didn’t have much say in the matter. He might be an equal owner, but he’d never been around enough to feel as though he were truly a part of the family. He certainly wasn’t in the position to say what would or wouldn’t be in everyone’s best interest. So he would agree to the sale if that was what his bros eventually decided, though no law had to be laid down until the end of the month. Still, there was a lot to do to clear the place out. The very reason they were all in town.
He released the lacy curtain he’d pulled back and it dropped into place. The frilly room had been the only one available when he’d belatedly made the reservation. Sure, Constance Carter, the proprietor, had offered to call ever
y guest currently booked and ask if they’d switch accommodations for the weekend, since Scout was a bit of a local celeb and she’d insisted he should have whichever room he wanted. But he wasn’t big in the head that way. Granted, he possessed the Winchester arrogance, but not in a belligerent way. That was his father’s forte.
So he’d politely accepted whatever room was open. And feared the wrath of the fields of daisies that had given their lives for the sake of the décor. Seriously, it looked like a greenhouse had hurled its guts in here. And the yards of lace… Jesus. The only thing lace was good for in Scout’s mind was to fill the pages of lingerie catalogs. Or for him to slowly peel away from Ciara St. James’s gorgeous body.
He grinned. Christ, she was something else. Not just drop-dead gorgeous. No, Ciara was so much more than that. She was warm and soft and sexy. Had a soul-stealing smile. Exuded the sort of quiet strength and perfect-timing humor that did a guy like him in. Completely.
She knew so much about him, but everything she didn’t know—like the extent of his accident and subsequent injuries, and how they gravely impacted his life—were things she mulled over anyway in an inquisitive, though not-so-invasive manner that would feel as though she were poking and prodding. He’d gotten enough of that from various other avenues, all wanting to know the exact course of his future in sports. It grated, especially while the wounds were still fresh.
Though Scout knew he had to tell her about the traumatic brain injury—TBI, his renowned neurosurgeon called it. It was pretty much a secret to the rest of the world, but Ciara wasn’t the rest of the world. She was… Ciara. His Ciara.
Yes, Scout also needed to come clean with his family.
Though he’d been cleared to play following the accident in Canada, once all the swelling had gone down, he hadn’t told a soul of the subsequent nasty side effect he suffered. Headaches that made migraines feel like a breezy walk in the park. The pain was excruciating. The pounding, pounding, pounding was so vicious, he couldn’t think straight. The agony would tear through him until he screamed at the top of his lungs. The headaches could be debilitating. And anything could trigger them, but mostly it was when he was constantly slammed into the boards, body-checked over and over, because that was how his opponents tried to stop him from scoring, weaken his attack.