Page 40 of One Hundred Humbugs

CHAPTER TWENTY

The pale winter sun had only just risen when Becket stirred, the familiar sounds of bleating goats rousing him from sleep. He glanced over at Ruby, still peacefully slumbering, her hair splayed across the pillow. He allowed himself to imagine waking up like this every morning, in this house, with Ruby by his side.

Shaking off the thought, Becket quietly slipped out of bed and made his way to the garage. Inside, he found Daisy where they’d left her the night before, nestled comfortably in her corner on a bed of hay.

“Morning, mama,” he said, kneeling beside her. Daisy lifted her head, acknowledging him with a gentle bleat. Becket ran his hand along her side, feeling the slight movements of the kid within. “Not today, huh? Well, that’s okay. You take your time.”

He spent the next hour tending to the goats, his mind wandering to the day ahead. The Christmas cookie festival and tree lighting loomed large in Becket’s mind. He was excited about experiencing it for the first time alongsideRuby. Maybe they could both find a sense of home in this town.

By the time he returned to the house, the smell of coffee filled the air. He found Ruby in the kitchen, hair tousled from sleep, clutching a steaming mug.

“There you are,” she said, smiling as she handed him a cup. “How’s our mama-to-be?”

Becket accepted the coffee gratefully. “Content as can be. I don’t think we’ll be seeing any kids today, but you never know with goats. They like to keep you on your toes.”

Ruby’s laugh was warm, heating Becket more than the coffee ever could. “Kind of like a certain goat herder I know,” she teased.

They spent the morning sorting through more of Uncle Peter’s boxes, laughing at the odd knick-knacks and marveling at the eclectic collection. Becket watched Ruby as she examined each item, her expression alternating between amusement and thoughtfulness.

“What do you think Uncle Peter was doing with a collection of vintage potato mashers?” Ruby asked, holding up an ornate specimen.

Becket grinned, taking the masher and turning it over in his hands. “Maybe he was preparing for a mashed potato apocalypse? You never know when you might need to whip up a batch in a hurry.”

Ruby’s laughter filled the room, and Becket’s heart swelled. He loved the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she let go and laughed.

As they worked, Becket noticed how at ease Ruby seemed, how her laughter came more freely with each passing day—a far cry from the stressed, overwhelmed woman who had arrived in Aspen Cove just a short time ago.

They unearthed a box of old Christmas ornaments, each one wrapped in yellowed newspaper. Ruby held up a delicate glass bauble, its surface painted with a snowy scene.

“These are beautiful,” she said, turning the ornament to catch the light. “I wonder what kind of Christmases Uncle Peter had here.”

Becket moved closer, peering at the decoration. “I bet they were something special. Maybe we could use some of these on the tree this year?” He paused, realizing what he’d said. “I mean, if you’re planning to stay that long.”

Ruby’s expression softened, but before she could respond, Becket’s stomach let out a loud growl. They both burst out laughing, the moment broken.

“I think that’s our cue for lunch,” Ruby said, setting the ornament back in its box.

As they prepared sandwiches, Becket’s mind raced. He wanted to ask Ruby about her plans, about whether she was still thinking of selling the house and returning to Chicago. But he held back, not wanting to pressure her.

It was nearing mid-afternoon when Becket realized they were out of the small candies he used for decorating the gingerbread cookies. “I need to run into town,” he said, glancing at his watch. “We’re out of those little candies I used for the buttons.”

“Oh, I can go,” Ruby offered, but Becket shook his head.

“No, you stay here and keep sorting. I won’t be long.”

Becket needed a voice of reason when it came to his feelings for Ruby, and if anyone had wisdom to offer, it was Doc Parker. The man was practically the town’s historian—oldest in years and, likely, wisest in words.

In town, Becket found the candies he needed at theCorner Store. As he was leaving, he noticed it was nearing four o’clock—Doc’s usual time for a pint at Bishop’s Brewhouse. On impulse, he headed over.

The warm, hoppy smell of the brewery enveloped Becket as he entered. He found Doc at the bar, already nursing a pint.

“Well, if it isn’t our resident goat whisperer,” Doc said. “Pull up a stool, son.”

Becket sat down and ordered a beer, already feeling a bit lighter in the company of Doc. “Thanks, Doc. I was hoping to catch you. I need some advice.”

Doc raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Advice, huh? That’s gonna cost you.”

Becket’s lips twitched. “Like a copay?”

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