Page 2 of A Texas Christmas Carol

“Bah! Give her five minutes. She’ll weary of the game.”

His housekeeper raised a brow. “I’ve given her twenty. She’s still at it.”

Still at it? After twenty minutes?

“She’s taken to beating out song rhythms on the door. At least I think they’re song rhythms. Hard to tell with no melody. But either way, they’re driving me batty.”

“Not a far drive,” Evan muttered under his breath.

Mrs. Bell narrowed her eyes, both hands now resting firmly on her hips. “I hope you’re in the mood for raw bread dough and half-cooked chicken for supper, then, ’cause I’ve reached my limit. If that dreadful knocking doesn’t stop in the next two minutes, I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

Evan rose from his chair, a glower crunching his brows down over his eyes. “I’ll dock your pay.”

Her hands fell away from her hips and slid to hide beneath her apron, but her chin lifted. “My sanity’s worth a day’s wage.”

Of all the frustrating . . . imbecilic . . .

“Fine.”

He charged around the corner of his desk, his limp barely slowing him at all with such irritation fueling his stride. Raw bread dough indeed. Mrs. Bell was lucky she was a better cook than she was a doorman, or he’d sack her this instant. She scuttled out of his way as he charged forward. Most people did. Hopefully the infernal knocking witch at his door would do the same so he could get back to work. Without further interruption.

Evan snatched his cane from where it rested near his office doorway even though it was more of an insurance policy than an actual need. His trick knee hadn’t gone out on him in several months, but one never knew when disaster might strike, and he refused to be humiliated in front of strangers or staff by falling on his face. Besides, the cane made a grand weapon to wave around in a threatening fashion, should his unwanted visitor prove stubborn.

As he neared the front door, the tapping grew louder. His temper heated in equal increments. When he finally grasped the handle, he jerked the door inward. “Cease that infernal knocking!”

The unsuspecting percussionist lurched forward but thankfully caught herself before tumbling on top of him.

The moment Evan recognized Felicity Wiggins, his relief over the near miss turned to a momentary flicker of regret. One he banished immediately. He’d spent the last two years studiously avoiding personal contact with the fair Miss Wiggins, and he wasn’t about to let his guard down now, no matter how her eyes lit at the sight of him.

Such a look had to be a pretense. No one actually enjoyed his company. A fact of which he was perfectly aware. And not the least bit sorry.

“Mr. Beazer!” she said, her voice ringing with a delight that sounded almost genuine.

He hadn’t thought her such an accomplished actress, but then, she no doubt wanted something from him, and women were at their most cunning when they wanted something.

“Good afternoon to you, sir. Hasn’t the Lord blessed us with a lovely day?”

Evan didn’t bother to look at the sky to which she gestured. “It’s December, Miss Wiggins. It’s cold and dreary.”

Her smile only brightened, ornery thing. “Nonsense. It’s a beautiful day. The cloud cover protects me from squinting, and the wind is gentle as a lamb. A rare gift at this time of year.”

Evan scowled down at her, doing his best to quell his fascination with the way the cloud-filtered light brought out the fire in the dark copper hair coiled atop her head. “Surely you didn’t seek me out to compare theories on the weather.”

“Of course not. I came to enlist your help. I’m in charge of the community Christmas baskets this year, and I—”

“Not a cent. Now leave,” he groused.

It shouldn’t surprise him that she wanted money. Everyone did. Nothing else could motivate them to beard the lion in his den. Nevertheless, a twinge of disappointment caught him by surprise. Until today, he hadn’t thought Miss Wiggins was like everyone else. But why wouldn’t she be?

“There are children in need, Mr. Beazer,” she insisted, her smile finally dimming as a flush of passion colored her cheeks. “It is our Christian duty to help them.”

“No one’s Christian duty helped me when I was a boy. I was destitute and living off my wits after the Panic of ’73 destroyed my family. Hard work and frugal living is what saved me, Miss Wiggins, not a Christmas basket filled with a week’s worth of food and secondhand clothes. Now, leave me be.”

As he stepped back and started closing the door, she followed him, her smile restored and her green eyes sparkling. “If you don’t wish to contribute money, then I’ll gladly accept a donation of your time.”

“Absolutely not. My time is far too precious to be frittered away on fluff and nonsense. Unlike you, I work for a living. Good day, madam.”

Her smile wobbled a bit but bravely held position. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” she said, bending her neck so she could peer around the closing door. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”