Risking It All for Love (A Christmas in Snow Valley Romance) (3 page)

Within
moments,
a crowd surrounded me.

The stage hands gaped, the little girls with the flowers of
baskets blinked in wonder at me, the prima ballerina on the floor, rubbing my
ankle, my glittering crown askew. Except I wasn’t actually a prima ballerina.
Not by a long shot.

I closed my eyes, mortification washing over me like a tidal wave.
I was only a member of the ballet corps who’d finally received her first actual
pay raise two months ago. Secretly pleased to dance a solo at the small town
production of
The Nutcracker
. Although I’d never admit it.

Strong male hands gently wrapped around my ankle, gently pressing
my muscles and tendons to inspect any injury.

When my chin came up, I stared into broken glass blue eyes. The
guy from the cemetery was kneeling right next to me. He must have jumped over
the edge of the stage.

“What are
you
doing here?” I snapped. “You’re not allowed
backstage. Security!” I called,
forgetting that the most security we had in Snow
Valley was the janitor who was probably catching a nap before he had to clean
up after the show.

Even though the other dancers and stage hands had created a huge
circle around me, they suddenly stepped back as though the guy in the long wool
coat had magic powers.

“I’m a doctor,” he said with a simple shrug of his shoulders.
“Well, I should amend that. I
almost
became a doctor, but I quit after
my second year of medical school. Now I’m a—”

I put up a hand to interrupt. “Spare me the resume. But just for
your information, my falling is all your fault.”

He raised his eyebrows. “My fault?” he echoed.

“You—you distracted me.” Oh my gosh, would I just shut up? All
dancers had a cardinal rule—don’t get distracted by the audience—and
I was acting like an amateur. “Just go away, please. I’ll be fine. I’m fine.
See, no swelling? Probably just a bruise. I’ll go home, ice it and—”

“I’d recommend an x-ray just to be on the safe side. After all,
you
are
a dancer. You shouldn’t take risks with your health.”

“Let me decide how hurt I might be, and what risks I’ll take,
thank you very much, Mr—Mr—” My cheeks burned. I couldn’t remember
his name. Why couldn’t floors actually open and let you quietly disappear from
the world?

His mouth lifted in a soft smile, his perfect white teeth perfect
under the stage lights. “No Mr. Just James. James Douglas.” He glanced at my
lopsided crown. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head when you went down?”

I growled under my breath. “I’m positive!” I flapped my hands
around the stage. “Go, go. I’m walking off the stage, see? Get ready for the
final scene, everyone.”

The stage manager clapped her hands and the dancers scurried to
their positions for the finale.

I was grateful the curtains had been yanked down immediately. At
least the audience hadn’t been able to watch the entire production of Mr. James
Whatever-His-Name-Was do his “not-doctor” thing on my ankle.

A small cry sounded behind the black stage draperies to my left.
My parents. “Are you okay?” my mother hissed, darting around the prop boys
redoing the set.

I put up a sharp hand. “Stay there, Mom! I’m fine. Just go back to
your seats.”

My dad gave me a sheepish look, holding up a red sucker. One of
the many I’d seen over the years when I’d gone to his office to hang out in
between dance lessons since the studio was within walking distance of the
dentistry. When the kids were finished with their exams they received a
sugar-free sucker. Cherry-flavored was, of course, my favorite.

“My father’s probably more of a doctor than you are,” I said, my
voice laced with sarcasm as I threw a glance toward Mr. Stranger Dude, who was
still
kneeling next to me like he’d become my new best friend. “Dr. Mason. Snow
Valley General Practitioner of Dentistry. He’s quite adept at tending crying children
with Tender Loving Care, and anesthetizing hysterical patients.”

“I’m sure he is.” James Douglas said, lowering his face to hide a
grin.

I turned my head, purposely ignoring his amusement at my expense.
As soon as my parents returned to their seats, I tried to rise. My crown
toppled and James Douglas caught it in his hands. He placed a palm under my
elbow to steady me and a peculiar, fizzy jolt went through me.
No. No. No.
I did not feel that. I did not feel anything.

Gingerly, I maneuvered through the wings of the stage, my toe
shoes clopping across the polished wooden floor. I felt as graceful as a broken
swan.

James Douglas followed, his hand still on my arm. His fingers were
warm, and more gentle than any guy who had ever touched me. Even Michael, which
was disconcerting.

When I reached the stairs, I shook him off, and, abruptly turned
away—as fast as I could in tightly strapped toe shoes and a tutu that
held me together like a Band-Aid.

James Douglas bumped into my stiff tulle costume and I felt a
couple of pins strain. For some reason I was breathing hard. Good grief, what
was wrong with me?

“Excuse me,” I said, giving him a direct, meaningful stare. “I can
walk in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed plenty, believe me,” James said softly, laughter
in his voice. “But there are dangerous stairs up ahead.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Just noticing that you tend to slink away when you feel
uncomfortable.”

“I do
not
slink!”

“Hmm, personally, I think you have established a habit of it.
First the cemetery, and now the public stage.”

His comment did not merit a response.

Testing my ankle, I realized that there wasn’t much pain at all. I
was far more mortified than hurt. I’d wrap my foot tonight, keep it elevated
and iced, but I was probably perfectly fine.

Just to prove my good health, I swiftly turned, forcing James
Douglas to drop his hand from my arm. Lifting my arms in a circle over my head,
I executed a perfect 5
^th
position and rose to my toes on
pointe
.
“See? No slinking. And I can become someone else—the Sugar Plum Fairy, or
the Swan Princess, when I dance. I’m in perfect health.”

“You’ve proved your
pointe,
” he said with a chuckle.

I rolled my eyes, but I don’t think he saw.

“It’s obvious but I kind of like the real you—when you
forget about the hurt persona you put on.”

“Who made you Snow Valley’s psychiatrist?”

“Pastor John.”

“You lie,” I accused him.

He shook his head. “I took an oath of honesty.”

“As a doctor? I thought it was the Hippocratic Oath.”

“No. As a pastor.”

I blinked. “Pardon me, I thought you said “pastor,” as in
minister, preacher, reverend, etc.”

He laughed, and his voice was rich and deep, sending chills down
my legs and into my toes.
Don’t look at me like that with those gorgeous
crystal blue eyes
.

His head inclined toward mine. He was broad shouldered, but slim,
and tall. Taller than Michael. Taller than any other guy in the ballet troupe,
or any guy who’d tried to take me out—and then disappeared when I ignored
their phone calls. I refused to be interested in a guy who was so tall.
So
built.
Oh my gosh, where were these traitorous thoughts coming from? Maybe
I did bump my head when I fell, and now I was having memory loss.

He ran a hand through thick, dark brown hair, curling a bit over
his ears. In the cemetery his hair was dusted with flakes of snow. Why did I
remember that?

“Actually, I
am
a pastor.”

“You’re—you’re—you don’t look
anything
like a
pastor, or even a church-going guy.”

He choked down a grin. “And what do church-going guys look like?”

I blushed a furious red. “Um, you know, pompous, spiritual, self-righteous.
Not with—” I bit off the words and dug my fingernails into my palms as a
distraction from sticking my toe shoe in my mouth.

Was I actually going to say I’d never seen a pastor with biceps
and a rugged tan? A guy who looked more like he should be climbing a mountain
or playing rugby?

He lifted those wide shoulders and shrugged. “We’re just lost
sheep like everyone else, trying to find the way back to God, and helping
anyone we can along the path.”

“You probably memorized that from pastor school.”

He laughed. “I probably did. Subconsciously.”

“But I thought you said you were a doctor.”

“I got half way through medical school and wasn’t feeling the
pull—or the love—for medicine, any longer. But I wanted to feel
useful. To have my life mean something. And then my Uncle John said he was
going to retire in a few years and that’s when I knew what I truly wanted to do
with my life.”

“You mean life in a small town where
nothing
happens, and
it’s as boring as a stick?” I heard the outrage in my own voice.

“I’ve discovered that Snow Valley has a pretty mean Sugar Plum
Fairy.”

“Don’t change the subject,” I said flippantly.

“Well, I don’t exactly look at small towns as boring as a stick.”

“Okay, boring as toothpaste. Or watching a snail move to a new
shell. After high school I couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

“I heard that. But I don’t think you left town because you were
bored.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And what gossipy old biddies did you hear
that from?”

He shook his head, but his eyebrows lifted in a teasing gesture.
“Not revealing my sources. But the initials are P.J.”

I growled in my throat. The Finale was past time to start and I
still hadn’t decided if I was going to show up for the very end at my cue. The
tall, dark and much-too handsome for his own good doctor-turned-pastor stuck a
hand under my elbow and helped me limp down the narrow, dark staircase. I spent
that minute focusing superbly hard on ignoring the tingles shooting through me
from his warm fingers.

As we reached the door in the dark recesses of the stairwell, he
asked, “Where did you go when you left town? I’m curious.”

“Somewhere completely different from Montana. And ranchers. New
Orleans.”

“Aah, good choice. I did my undergrad at LSU in Lafayette,
Louisiana.”

“I think you’re trying to suck up to me now.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You could always ask my sister. Third Row,
Seat 11.”

“Wait just a minute. You said Uncle John. You mean Pastor John?”

“The one and only.”

I sucked in my breath. “No. Way.” Then I chewed on my lower lip,
wanting to run away again. Except I was in toe shoes. And a crunchy tutu with
sparkling sequins.

“Sh! Sh!” the urgent whispers came from the back stage corners and
the director’s assistant darted forward, silently waving her hands for everyone
to be silent.

The curtains began to rise again on the final act.

“You know,” I said slowly. “If I can do three turns on
pointe
then I should go back up for the Finale.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

I nodded, holding a finger to my lips to tell him to be quiet. The
curtains were rising again.

Pastor John’s nephew found me a chair and, using hand signals,
forced me to sit in it while we watched Clara in her sleigh and the other dancers.

I was painfully aware of his presence as I perched on the edge of
the seat. I could smell his cologne: woodsy and musky. Feel the touch of his
wool coat when it brushed my arm. I closed my eyes as I massaged my ankle and
tried not to let the man distract me. He was too tall. He was too young to be a
pastor and too old for me. For crying out loud, he was a
pastor
—and
I’d given up religion for Lent two years ago.

When it came time for the Sugar Plum Fairy curtain call, I stood
and lightly danced to the lights at center stage. The other dancers were a sea
of costumes and blurred faces. A reprise of the tinkling Sugar Plum Fairy music
blasted across the auditorium. Instantly, I shot straight up on one toe, neck
erect, smile plastered, and performed a small series of pirouettes. Then I curtsied
to the applause, seeing the audience rise to their feet.

It was certainly not a standing ovation performance, but for Snow
Valley I guess it was. My lips began to hurt from smiling. I suddenly spotted
Michael’s parents and younger sister in the audience. Michael was so obviously
missing from their side it made my throat burn.
You will not get sick, or
cry, or run off this stage,
I told myself sternly.

The performance was finished. I’d done my town duty. My obligation
to my parents, my local ballet teachers—over.

The deep green curtains fell for the last time, and I suddenly
realized I was holding a bouquet of flowers, standing next to Clara with her
bouquet. Traditional gifts for the stars at the end of a performance.