Christmas with the Cookes Read online

  Christmas with the Cookes

  A Time Travel Holiday Romance

  Kit Morgan

  Angel Creek Press

  Christmas with the Cookes

  (A Time Travel Holiday Romance)

  by Kit Morgan

  (With a little help from Geralyn Beauchamp)

  © 2019 Kit Morgan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher. All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or livestock are purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Angel Creek Press and EDH Designs

  Created with Vellum

  License Note

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  A Special Note to Readers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  A Special Note to Readers

  Okay, so Kit Morgan had a LOT of help from Geralyn Beauchamp in writing Christmas with the Cookes. This of course means that …

  For readers of Kit Morgan – the cat’s out of the bag concerning a couple of characters you’ve probably been wondering about for a long time.

  For readers of Geralyn Beauchamp – here’s a little something to whet your appetite until TM4 comes out. (Geralyn’s readers know what this means).

  And for those of you who haven’t read either author, this is a mash up story of two worlds by two different authors that write in two different genres. Kit Morgan – contemporary and historical western romance and Geralyn Beauchamp, who in reality is the alter ego of Kit Morgan, and who writes romantic science fiction time-travel with a lot of action adventure. Because of the bringing together of these two story worlds, some definitions are in order:

  Time Travel: The action of traveling through time, either into the past or the future, but you already knew that.

  Compatible: (Of two people) Able to have a harmonious relationship; well suited.

  Time Master: A Muiraran male (or Human in rare cases, such as the current Time Master) whose job is to bring balance and protect the Muiraran and Human races.

  Chaos: What happens when a Time Master isn’t around.

  The Time Master’s current job: Make sure there will be future Time Masters by matching compatible individuals (be they Muiraran or Human) to ensure a particular bloodline doesn’t die out. If that happens, no more Time Masters, folks, and everything’s toast!

  And because I know some of you are wondering …

  Muirarans: A race of elfin aliens who escaped some meaner, nastier aliens (who thought Muirarans made a tasty snack) by making a huge jump through time and space to Earth. They’ve been here ever since. You just don’t know it because you don’t know what to look for. Yet.

  That explains the time-travel component of our story, because hey, every time-travel story has to have one. As to the rest, well, let’s get to our story and find out …

  Chapter One

  Clear Creek, Oregon, present day

  Her heart in her throat, Lorelei Ingrid Carson signed on the dotted line.

  Mr. Plumb pointed at the lease agreement. “Initial here and here.”

  She swallowed hard, her hand shaking, and initialed where he’d indicated.

  “Nervous?”

  Lorelei looked at him. “I’ve never rented an apartment before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, young lady. Pay the rent on time, take care of the place and you’ll have no problem with the Cookes.”

  She swallowed again. The Cookes were the richest family in the area. Every girl from high school dreamed of dating one. For some, any Cooke would do as long as he came with a huge trust fund. But Lorelei was a realist – she knew she didn’t have a shot at a Cooke. What would a rich rancher want with someone like her?

  “One more signature, Miss Carson, and we’re done.”

  She signed where he pointed. “Have you worked for the Cookes long?”

  “About ten years. I handle their real estate and property management, including this old gal.” He glanced around the living room of the apartment. “This is a grand building. I used to play out back when I was a boy.”

  “You did?” she said in surprise as she handed him his pen.

  “Oh, yes. I love this part of town – Dunnigan’s Mercantile, Mulligan’s Bar & Grill, the old sheriff’s office, the bank, livery stable, and especially the hotel. I know ‘historic downtown districts’ are for the tourists these days, but that everything is so well preserved, it makes me proud. I remember when it was pretty run down about twenty years ago.”

  “I never saw it. I didn’t come to live with my current foster family until the sixth grade.”

  “It didn’t look like it does now, that’s for sure. Thanks to the town council and the Cookes, this whole area is on the nation’s list of historic places now.” He looked around. “Okay, some basics. Take care of the furniture.” He patted the antique sofa they were sitting on. “Some of it’s very old. If you don’t want the responsibility, I’ll have it moved into storage and you can move in your own furniture.”

  Lorelei smiled weakly. “I don’t have any furniture. It’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, well, then.” He gathered up the papers from the little coffee table. “Do you have dishes?”

  “I’m working on getting some.” She stared at the antique furniture in the room. She loved it and didn’t want to change a thing. To think the people that built this place used to live here. It made her feel like she’d be living in a museum of sorts, and she liked museums.

  “There are a few dishes in the kitchen cupboards and the hutch. I’m not sure where they’re from. Maybe Mr. Jensen took them from the store downstairs and put them here. Mind the porcelain wash basin and pitcher in the bedroom. The washstand is also antique.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “The original plan was to rope off the rooms so folks could see how the original owners lived. But someone thought there’d be more money in renting out.” He smiled. “I know I’ve asked this before, but it is affordable for you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. You don’t have to worry – I have three jobs and I’ve had all of them for a few years now. Including working downstairs for Mr. Jensen.”

  He smiled again. “Mr. Jensen tells me you’re his best worker. Since it looks like you aren’t attending college for a time, he’s mentioned hiring you on for more hours, especially with Christmas just around the corner. You know how busy it gets around Old Town. In fact, you can thank him for this place – it was on his recommendation that we chose you.”

  She blushed as tears stung her
eyes. “Thank you.”

  He stood and offered his hand. “Congratulations, Miss Carson. Enjoy your new place.”

  She rose with a smile, took his hand and shook it. “Thank you again, Mr. Plumb. I’ll take good care of everything, I promise.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he told her with a wink. “Besides, I know you will. The store and gift shop downstairs look wonderful. Mr. Jensen tells me you keep things nice and tidy.”

  Her cheeks grew hotter. “I try.”

  He smiled, nodded and headed for the door.

  She followed and stood on the landing as he headed downstairs. “Goodbye, and thanks again!”

  He turned when he reached the last step. “You’re welcome.” He stepped through the long gingham curtains that separated the front and back of the building instead of an actual door. She didn’t know why there wasn’t a door, but it did make the place look more authentic.

  Lorelei went back inside, closed the door and studied her new home. A settee a little bigger than a love seat graced one wall, a mahogany coffee table in front of it. A large oval frame hung on the wall above them, with a picture of an old man and woman. She’d always liked it, probably because everyone assumed it was the original owners. There was a name and date on the back – Dunnigan, 1889 – and nothing more. The old man looked kindly – he was even smiling, rare for photos of that era. The woman had a scrunched-up face and beady eyes.

  On the opposite wall was a bookcase with another oval frame on the wall beside it. This couple looked about the same age, the man with a long droopy mustache and hair parted down the middle, the woman matronly with a half-smile on her face. On the back was written Mulligan, 1889. The couples were probably proprietors of the mercantile and restaurant in the old days.

  Two antique chairs sat in front of the two windows facing the street and a lovely lamp (electric, definitely not original) on the table between them. There were lace curtains in the windows, and no television, which was fine. She never watched TV anyway. If not for the lamp, one could think one was transported to the Gay Nineties.

  She left the living room and went into the kitchen. It was as large as the living room, with a table and four ladder-back chairs, not too old but with an antique flavor. The stove and refrigerator were modern, but the porcelain sink and countertops looked like they were from the 1940s. So did the cabinetry – she liked the glass cupboard doors and open shelving on one wall. There was a cute corner hutch, also from the ‘40s if her guess was right, holding a few pieces of pretty blue and white china.

  Someone had put gingham curtains in the windows, the same as the curtains downstairs. She wondered if Mrs. Jensen made them. She was quite the seamstress and worked at the local fabric shop.

  She looked at the bathroom next, even though she’d seen it a dozen times. Ever since Mr. Jensen told her the owners were thinking of renting the upstairs out, she’d dreamed of living here. Now it was a reality, and all her hard work and suffering was over. She hoped.

  She went back to the living room, picked up her suitcase and carried it into the master bedroom. The apartment had two, but the other was too small – it had been divided in two to add the bathroom. She could use that one for a study – there was already a small desk and chair in there, so someone else had thought of that too.

  Lorelei began to unpack. There were no closets in the apartment, just an armoire and a small dresser in the main bedroom, along with a very old bed and the antique washstand. She liked the bed’s brass headboard, but hoped the mattress wasn’t as ancient. She sat on it, bounced a few times, and it squeaked loudly. “What a racket.” She stood and fingered the old but well-preserved quilt – had Mrs. Jensen made it too?

  With a shrug she went back to unpacking, hanging up a few things in the armoire (happy day, it had drawers too!) and putting the rest in the dresser. She checked her watch and found it was almost time to go to work.

  With a sigh she reached for her only towel (she’d have to get more) and went to wash her face. In the bathroom she stared at herself in the mirror. Her gray eyes looked tired, probably because she was. But that didn’t matter as much as the knowledge that she was free.

  Lorelei closed her eyes against tears. No more being yelled at for something she didn’t do. No more staying up all hours of the night doing unending chores for her foster parents. No more babysitting the other kids, no more going hungry …

  She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew not all foster homes were like hers – she had friends who were in fairly good ones. When Julie’s foster mom found out Lorelei had so few clothes, she bought her some … which she’d had to hide from the Browns. But that was behind her. She could now live her own life as she saw fit.

  She went downstairs to a smiling Mr. Jensen. “Hello, Lorelei,” he called happily. “Off to your other job?”

  She smiled back. Mr. Jensen was middle-aged, short, pudgy and balding with a white Santa Claus beard and mustache. Little kids that came into the store often called him Santa, especially at this time of year. “Yes, though I’d rather be working here this afternoon and evening.”

  “I can fix that. Business is starting to pick up. With Christmas just a few weeks away I’ll need the help.”

  “Mr. Plumb said the same thing when he brought me the lease agreement.”

  “So you’re official?”

  “I am.” She glanced at the ceiling. “I love it.”

  “It’s nice to know you’ll always be around.”

  The bell over the door rang, drawing their attention. Lorelei’s jaw dropped. The man coming in was huge, well over six feet, broad and handsome. He held the door open for a woman as pretty as he was handsome, though much shorter. She didn’t look much older than Lorelei, with long auburn hair and bright green eyes. His eyes were the same color. They wore matching jeans, hiking boots and blue ski jackets.

  “Welcome to Dunnigan’s,” Mr. Jensen said. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  The man stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Aye, my wife fancies a few ornaments for the tree,” he replied in a thick Scottish burr.

  Mr. Jensen’s eyebrows rose. “Well, I have plenty of those around the shop.” He waved them toward the Christmas displays on the left. “Right over here.”

  The woman smiled at him. “Do you have any lights?”

  “I’m afraid not. You’ll have to go to either the hardware store or Branson’s Variety.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking disappointed. They began to browse the ornaments.

  “You folks visiting?” Mr. Jensen asked.

  The couple exchanged a quick look. “Nay, not exactly,” the man said.

  “We bought a cabin off Powers Road,” the woman offered. “We’re fixing it up.”

  “Oh? The old Cotter place?”

  “Aye,” the man said.

  Lorelei watched them, fascinated. They were both so striking, it was almost as if they weren’t real.

  “Scotland?” Mr. Jensen stated.

  The big man smiled. “Aye.”

  Mr. Jensen beamed. “My wife’s Scottish. What clan?”

  The man’s smile broadened. “MacDonald.”

  “Wonderful – so is my wife! Her maiden name’s MacIain!”

  The behemoth’s green eyes twinkled. “Is it now?”

  “Yes, yes. We go to all the Highland and Celtic games in the state,” Mr. Jensen continued. “We hope to visit Scotland one day.”

  Lorelei glanced at her watch. “I’d better be going,” she said to no one in particular.

  Mr. Jensen turned to her, about to say something, when the bell over the door rang again. And in walked trouble. “Welcome, girls,” Mr. Jensen said. “Shopping for Christmas?”

  Cindy Crankshaw, Melanie Dickle and Heather Reeves each looked Lorelei up and down as they sauntered into the shop.

  She swallowed and headed for the door. “I have to be going, Mr. Jensen.”

  “Heading to work?” Cindy teased as she
spied the big Scotsman. She looked him up and down too.

  “Yes.” Though why she bothered to ask was beyond Lorelei.

  “Laundromat or Daisy’s Café?” Melanie scoffed.

  Oh, that’s why …

  “It’s Thursday – it’s the laundromat,” Heather said. She grabbed Lorelei’s hand. “Sheesh. See how old her hands look?”

  Lorelei yanked it away.

  “If you’d been able to go to college, you wouldn’t have to work there,” Melanie said.

  Cindy wrinkled her nose. “She’ll never go to college.”

  The woman with Mr. MacDonald turned to Mr. Jensen. “We’re having a big Christmas party. Do you have any big, fresh Christmas wreaths?”

  “Only what you see,” he said. “If you want fresh ones you’ll have to go to either Stone’s Tree Farm or a tree lot. Most folks go to Stone’s.”

  Lorelei took the opportunity to head for the door again.

  “Oh, miss, where is the laundromat?” the woman called after her.

  Lorelei turned around. “It’s across town – 451 Smith Street. I’m sorry, but I have to go, or I’ll be late.”

  “Maybe you should be,” Cindy said. “That way you’ll get fired and can go work someplace else.” Melanie and Heather giggled at the taunt.

  Lorelei rolled her eyes. She was tired of the mean girl’s baiting. Unfortunately, Cindy and her cronies never tired of doing it.

  “Dallan, we could wash the quilts this afternoon,” she said. “I want to be home in time for Titus’ visit.”