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    Golden Christmas
    Golden Christmas
    Golden Christmas
    Ebook146 pages1 hour

    Golden Christmas

    By Helen Scott Taylor

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Two wounded hearts are brought together at Christmas by a trusty golden Labrador and an adorable golden retriever puppy.

    Every Christmas Vicky hides so she doesn’t have to celebrate the date she lost her husband and son. She doesn’t want to see anyone but when she finds a dog’s lost ball she meets Jon, a wounded ex-soldier who’s struggling with his own problems. This brave man touches Vicky’s shattered heart and makes her realize she can’t hide forever. With his support, can she find the strength to love again?

    Golden Christmas - Two wounded hearts brought together by an adorable golden retriever puppy.
    Silver Christmas - A sweet silver kitten helps a man win back the woman he loved and lost.
    Snowy Christmas - An abandoned Westie helps a desperate woman find her hero.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHelen Scott Taylor
    Release dateNov 6, 2015
    ISBN9781311137210
    Golden Christmas
    Author

    Helen Scott Taylor

    Helen Scott Taylor's first novel, The Magic Knot, won the American Title contest in 2008, was a Golden Heart® finalist, and was chosen as one of Booklist's top ten romances of 2009. Since then, she has published other novels, novellas, and short stories in both the UK and USA. Her published works have been finalists in a number of contests including the Holt Medallion, the Lories, the Prism Contest, the Write Touch Award and the Maggies. Helen lives in South West England near Plymouth in Devon between the windswept expanse of Dartmoor and the rocky Atlantic coast. As well as her wonderful long-suffering husband, she shares her home with a Westie and an aristocratic chocolate-shaded-silver-burmilla cat who rules the household with a velvet paw. She believes that deep within everyone there's a little magic. www.helenscotttaylor.com

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      Book preview

      Golden Christmas - Helen Scott Taylor

      Golden Christmas

      by

      Helen Scott Taylor

      *

      Copyright © 2015 Helen Taylor

      Cover design © Helen Taylor

      *

      The right of Helen Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988.

      This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner.

      Chapter One

      Music pounded in Vicky's head in time with the thud of her feet on the dirt path as she ran. She concentrated on the rhythm to fend off the memories that circled just below the surface, like demons trying to grab her ankles and drag her down.

      Cold nipped her cheeks, and her breath billowed in smoky plumes as she ran up the incline to the higher path. The thermometer outside her rental property had indicated it was around freezing, even though the sky was bright blue and the sun was on her face.

      As she reached the top of the ridge, the rolling English landscape of the North Cotswolds lay before her. Rosemoor Hall, a Jacobean manor house, presided majestically over its twelve acres of manicured gardens, the golden hues of its Cotswold stone walls shining in the sun.

      Every year she rented an isolated country property a week before Christmas, and this year she was staying in the manor's gatehouse. She stocked up on groceries and if she were lucky, could go for the whole time without seeing another living soul.

      Fifty acres of gardens, parkland, and farmland lay around the manor house, and she had access to all the land. Apparently the house was open to the public during the summer season, but at this time of year it was closed up, giving her miles of empty paths to run.

      Vicky surveyed the historic house and briefly imagined the interior—the huge fireplaces, the four-poster beds, and the antiques the house likely contained. Once she had a passion for old houses and loved visiting them. Her interest started at school when she did a history project on the Victorians. She'd even kept a journal of the visits she'd made to various historic houses around the country. But that felt like a lifetime ago now.

      Her feet slapped against the frozen ground, giving a satisfying jolt with each step, and Vicky tried to focus on her music again. She managed for a few minutes before her attention wandered back to the scenery. Giving up on the monotonous tune, she pulled out her earbuds. The sun was surprisingly warm for December. Where it touched the whitened grass by the house, streaks of green appeared as the ice melted.

      As she ran on, the front of the house came into view. A man with a golden Labrador stood on the half-acre rectangle of frosted grass outside the front door. Tall and lean, clad in jeans, a blue winter jacket, and a dark wool hat, the man drew back an arm and hurled a yellow tennis ball.

      Go on, girl. Fetch it. His voice rang out, deep and cultured, a note of enthusiasm and pleasure in his tone.

      The dog streaked off across the icy grass and grabbed the yellow tennis ball in its mouth, then loped back to the man, sat, and dropped the ball obediently into his outstretched hand.

      Good girl. The man bent and smoothed the dog's head, talking more softly so Vicky couldn't make out the words. Then she realized her feet had stopped moving and she was standing still, watching.

      She blew out a breath of irritation with herself. She didn't want contact with anyone who might be happy and celebrating Christmas. She just wanted to be alone to mourn.

      Pulling her attention away from the scene below, she continued, focusing instead on the distant trees dotted across the acres of parkland, huge old oaks and sweet chestnuts, their bare branches skeletal against the blue sky.

      Yet the strange attraction of the man drew her attention again. In her peripheral vision, she saw him toss the ball a couple more times and pet his dog, but she made sure she kept running.

      When she reached a fork in the path, she decided to take the right turn, away from the house and the unwanted distraction. Yet her feet went the other way, carrying her along the route that circled the house, keeping the man and dog in view.

      She was closer to them now, only fifty yards away. Elevated on the bank in her bright pink-and-blue running gear as she was, he must have noticed her, but he didn't look her way. He drew back his arm and tossed with incredible power. The tennis ball arced through the air, bounced on the chest-high stone wall surrounding the lawn, and hit a tree.

      The Labrador took off after it, jumped up at the wall a few times, then stood with its front paws against the interlocking rocks and barked.

      Get the ball, Honey. The man stared after the dog, but he didn't move to retrieve the ball. Couldn't he see he'd thrown it too hard and it was lost outside the wall?

      Vicky halted and stepped off the path to get a better view. From up here, she could see the yellow ball was stuck in a tree, wedged between a branch and the trunk.

      Should she say something? She didn't want to get involved and have to talk to anyone, but the dog was frantically jumping up at the wall now. It had obviously seen the ball but couldn't reach it.

      Go on, girl. Fetch it, Honey. The guy bent and held out his hand to receive the ball.

      What was he, some kind of idiot?

      Vicky sucked in a chilly breath and shook her head. She should have taken the other path. The ball's in a tree, she shouted.

      The man's head jerked up as if he hadn't seen her. Oh, thanks. I didn't know.

      He reached behind him and grabbed something resting against the wall at his back—a white cane.

      Vicky pressed a hand over her mouth with a burn of shamed surprise as he held the cane in front of him and walked forward slowly.

      No wonder he hadn't seen her. No wonder he hadn't noticed the ball was out of his dog's reach. She felt bad now for thinking he was an idiot.

      I know where the ball is, she shouted. I'll get it for you.

      Vicky ran down some lichen-encrusted stone steps to the lower level and jogged across the crisp grass to where the dog was standing up against the wall, whining.

      Hey there, girl. She pulled off her gloves and patted the dog's silky head. Then getting a firm hold on top of the wall, she pushed her toe in a gap between the rocks, climbed up, and worked the ball loose from the tree before dropping it to the eager dog.

      She jumped down and turned to face the man as he reached her. He was a good-looking guy, his lips curved in a friendly smile. His eyes were dark brown and looked perfectly all right, except they didn't move normally. It was strange to be standing here in front of him and know he couldn't see her.

      Thanks. I let rip a bit with that last throw. Usually when I do that, it bounces back off the wall. I must have aimed too high. He pulled off a glove and held out his hand. Jonathan Bramwell. He nodded back over his shoulder. I have an apartment in the house. I assume you're staying in one of the estate cottages over Christmas.

      The word Christmas stung Vicky as she slipped her hand into his strong, warm grip. Yes. I'm staying in the gatehouse. To avoid Christmas, she added silently.

      This is Honey, who's very grateful to have her ball back. Jonathan's smile widened as he stroked behind the dog's ears. Say thank you to… His head came up, almost as if he were looking at her. You didn't tell me your name.

      Vicky Jones.

      Say thank you to Vicky, girl.

      Honey nuzzled Vicky's hand, her tail wagging and her intelligent brown eyes warm and friendly.

      It was my pleasure, Honey. Vicky stroked the dog's velvet ears and realized it really was a pleasure to pet this sweet dog. Not much touched her these days. She was surprised such a simple thing affected her so much.

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