Читать книгу A Cowboy Christmas - Ann Major - Страница 10

“How the hell did your bull end up in my mud bog?” Logan Taylor asked his best friend and neighbor, Fletcher McFadden. Fletcher had called Logan a half hour ago requesting help. Luckily Logan had his cell phone with him in the barn where he’d been mucking out stalls.

“Danny left the gate open again.” Danny was Fletcher’s seven-year-old son. The kid was a handful.

Logan didn’t comment on the boy’s carelessness. Danny was going through a rough patch after Fletcher and the boy’s mother divorced. Come to think about it, all three of them—Danny, Fletcher and himself—had seen better days. “I brought a sling,” Logan said. He’d also loaded a few hay bales into the truck bed. He’d spread the hay around the edge of the bog to help the bull gain its footing after the animal was freed. He motioned to Fletcher who stood knee-deep in muck. “What do you plan to do—push the bull end over end until he rolls out of there?”

“Ha, ha. Hurry up, hoss. My feet are numb.”

Logan tossed two ends of the sling through the air. A warm spell had ushered in the first week of December, but a chill hung in the early-morning air and white clouds puffed from Fletcher’s mouth as he struggled to work the harness beneath the ten inches of space between the bull’s belly and the mud.

“You ever think about fixing this bog?” Fletcher grunted.

Granted, Logan should have filled the mud hole long ago. The problem was he didn’t give a crap about much anymore. After Bethany died everything had lost its urgency. He was marking time. Waiting for something to change his life. Waiting for…just waiting.

Although Fletcher had his share of troubles recovering from a divorce and raising a son, he’d tried to drag Logan back into the world of the living after Bethany’s death. Logan appreciated his friend’s concern but preferred a solitary existence.

“All set.” Fletcher flung the ends of the harness over the bull’s body and Logan secured them to the trailer hitch on his truck.

“I can’t lose this bull to a broken leg,” Fletcher warned.

The McFaddens raised some of the best breeding bulls in Texas. “How much is he worth?” Logan asked.

“So much he ain’t for sale.”

Logan removed a pair of wire cutters from his pocket and opened the bales in the truck bed. After tossing the hay along the edge of the bog he hopped in his truck.

“Nice and easy!” Fletcher hollered.

Nice and easy was the only way to pull a two-thousand-pound hunk of beef from a muddy hole. Logan pressed the accelerator and the truck’s tires dug into the earth. He checked his side mirror. Fletcher had his shoulder jammed against the bull’s side, trying to coax it to move its legs.

The animal slowly toppled onto its side. With steady pressure on the gas pedal, Logan moved the truck a few feet forward. For a second the bull sank beneath the mud, only the whites of its eyes visible. Logan gave the truck a little more gas and the animal’s head emerged.

“Keep going,” Fletcher said. “He’s almost to the edge.”

The diesel truck engine groaned in protest, but finally the bull reached solid ground. Logan dragged its body a few more feet until the bull lay on the hay, then he cut the engine and rushed to untie the harness from the hitch before the animal became tangled.

The bull’s sides heaved with exertion but after Logan slapped its hind quarters, the animal scrambled to its feet, slipping once but remaining upright. He trotted off, bellowing in disgust.

“You coming out of there?”

“I can’t feel my legs,” Fletcher complained.

Logan grinned.

“Give me your hand.”

“Sorry, buddy. No can do.” Logan wasn’t about to risk falling into the bog. “Here.” He threw one end of the harness and Fletcher snatched it mid-air, then Logan tied the other end to the trailer hitch.

“Take it easy. These are my favorite boots.”

Not for long, buddy. Logan hopped into the front seat and revved the engine. “Hang on!” As soon as Fletcher tightened his grip, Logan pressed the gas—hard—and the truck exploded forward. Fletcher flew through the air, sans boots, and landed on his belly at the edge of the bog. When he tried to stand, Logan hit the gas again and dragged Fletcher through the hay.

“God damn it, Logan!” Fletcher released the ends of the harness and attempted to stand. His feet slid out from under him and he went down a second time.

“You look like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz,” Logan called out the truck window.

“Think that’s funny, eh?”

Logan hopped out of the truck and went to help his friend stand. Fletcher grasped Logan’s wrist and yanked. Logan stumbled forward, bumping Fletcher, and the two men toppled over like felled trees into the muck.

From there things went downhill faster than a California mudslide.

“You shithead.” Fletcher flung a clump of mud at Logan’s chest.

“You would have done the same thing if it had been me standing in that bog.” Logan landed a mud ball against the side of Fletcher’s head.

A mud-slinging battle ensued until every inch of their clothing was covered in smelly muck. “Enough!” Logan hollered, collapsing on the embankment, sides heaving with laughter.

Fletcher fell down next to him, chuckling. “Man, I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a hell of a long time.”

His friend’s words sobered Logan. He struggled to catch his breath. Now that the fun was over, his body felt chilled.

A long silence stretched between the men, then Fletcher spoke.

“You think I should have given Sandi a second chance—for Danny’s sake?”

The two men were thirty years old, their birthdays two weeks apart in July. They’d been friends since kindergarten and had stuck by each other through thick and thin. Through divorce and death.

“Did Sandi want a second chance?” Logan asked.

“No.”

“Did you want a second chance with her?” Logan asked.

“No.” Fletcher released a loud gust of air from his lungs. “If Bethany had cheated on you, would you have divorced her?”

“I don’t know.” Logan wished Bethany had cheated. Pretty damned difficult to work out marriage troubles with a dead spouse. “Stop beating yourself up over the divorce. Danny needs time to adjust is all.”

“You’re probably right.” Fletcher punched Logan in the arm. “I met a woman named Daisy on MySpace.” Fletcher had set up a MySpace page months ago and had tried to persuade Logan to join in the fun. He’d refused.

“Daisy? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“Everyone uses fake names on MySpace,” Fletcher said.

“What’s your handle?”

“Leonard. Lenny for short.” He grinned.

“Yeah, well, good luck with your little flower.”

They crawled to their feet. “Thanks for helping with the bull,” Fletcher said.

“Anytime.”

Hobbling sock-footed toward his truck, Fletcher said over his shoulder. “I’m throwing steaks on the grill tonight. You’re welcome for supper.”

“Think I’ll pass.”

“If you change your mind, we’re eating at six.” Fletcher honked and drove off.

Logan watched the blue horizon swallow his friend’s truck. West Texas was flat and barren and not a tree in sight. Most people considered this part of the Longhorn State the ugliest but the vast emptiness matched the way he felt on the inside.

Keeping to himself might be easier on the heart and mind, but it sure was damned lonely on the soul.

LOGAN’S FOOT ITCHED like the dickens, which meant only one thing—bad luck headed his way.

After helping Fletcher rescue the bull from the mud bog a week ago Monday, there hadn’t been much excitement in Logan’s day-to-day routine. The red Ford Focus hatchback winding its way along the ribbon of ranch road was about to change all that.

He slunk into the shadows inside the barn doors. He’d rather go another round with a mud-bogged bull than face the woman heading in his direction.

Three months had passed since he’d gone on a bender and had himself a hog-killin’ time at Billie’s Roadhouse ten miles south of Junket. When the local hairdresser had strolled into the honky-tonk, Logan’s boot heel had been planted on the brass rail long enough to take root.

If Cassidy Ortiz hadn’t left him a note the following morning, he would have speculated the rest of his years about who had worn the sultry scent that had clung to his pillow. Until now he’d been successful in avoiding the lady—not an easy task in a town the size of Junket, Texas. Population two-hundred-sixty-nine.

The hatchback stopped next to his truck parked in front of the house.

Turn around and leave. He slunk deeper into the shadows.

The car door opened.

No. No.

A cowboy boot appeared, then a jean-clad leg. No need for a jacket since the morning chill had worn off. A sweater would do—like the tight one that hugged her breasts when she reached across the front seat for…A dish?

Object in her hands forgotten, he zeroed in on her curves. How did any man, even a drunk one, forget a body like Cassidy’s? A tightening below his belt buckle suggested that certain parts of his anatomy had no trouble recalling her.

A wind gust blew her long midnight-colored hair against her face, blocking his view of her high cheekbones and dark, slanted eyes. She bumped the car door shut with her hip and strolled along the sidewalk. The swish-sway of her fanny reminded him that the stylist had nothing in common with Bethany, who’d been a small-boned, frail blonde.

Cassidy knocked on the front door.

Nobody’s home.

Another round of knocking. Then she crossed to the front window by the porch swing and peered inside.

Persistent woman.

Right then Twister loped around the corner of the house. Logan didn’t know who was more surprised—the deaf German shepherd when he spotted the visitor or Cassidy when the dog snarled. Twister was all bark and no bite, so Logan didn’t intervene.

She tossed a piece of whatever was on the plate to the dog. Twister caught the treat midair, then wagged his tail as if it were a checkered flag at a stock car race. Cassidy inched toward the porch steps, pausing every few feet to fling another morsel at Twister.

If you don’t go out there and speak with her, she’ll stop by again.

He’d lock the entrance gate off the main road.

She’ll call.

He wouldn’t answer the phone.

What if she’s got something important to say?

If it was that important why had she waited all this time to come around? Aw, hell. He might as well get this over with. He made it halfway to the house before she noticed him. Her smile knocked him sideways, but he didn’t break stride. “Cassidy.”

“Hi, Logan. I was about to leave. I thought you weren’t home.” Twister growled and she jumped.

Logan stomped his boot on the ground and the dog immediately quieted. At Cassidy’s raised eyebrow he explained. “Twister’s deaf. He wandered into the ranch yard a few years ago after a tornado blew through.” Logan shrugged. “Vet thinks the noise from the storm ruptured his eardrums.”

“Oh, how sad.”

“Is there a reason you stopped by?” Logan cleared his throat and she flinched at his rudeness.

Damn. He hadn’t meant to sound like an ass. His social skills were rusty, considering he mostly kept to himself—except for that night at Billie’s Roadhouse.

He blamed his behavior that day on the stupid drugstore window display in town. Who the hell put up Christmas decorations in September? Logan had snapped when he’d spotted the twinkling lights on the artificial tree and the toy train that circled the base. The cozy scene had dredged up memories he wanted no part of.

To run from the recollections of that fateful day just before Christmas the previous year he’d headed to the nearest honky-tonk. After three beers Bethany’s memory had remained as vivid as ever and he’d switched to tequila shots. When Cassidy had strolled into the bar he’d been too drunk to hit the ground with his hat in three tries. No match for a pretty face and a sympathetic ear, he’d hadn’t objected when Cassidy had offered to drive him home. Logan shook his head as he realized she was staring at him.

“I made you—” she glanced at the plate covered in green plastic wrap, then shoved it at him “—Christmas cookies.”

Cookies? They’d had sex. One time. Maybe two. All that mattered was their relationship had lasted less than twenty-four hours. He hadn’t called her the next day. Or the next. Or the next day after that. And Cassidy hadn’t contacted him, leading him to believe that what had happened that night between them was over. Finished. Terminated.

Done.

The plate nudged his chest like a big fat finger poking his breastbone. There was only part of one cookie—a frosted reindeer head complete with antlers and a red nose—left. He gripped the dish. “Christmas is three weeks away.” And he intended to allow the day to pass without any fanfare.

“Mom and I got a head start on our holiday baking.” She laughed nervously, and her breasts jiggled. He resisted the urge to rub his eyeballs, which suddenly felt too big for their sockets.

“There were a dozen cookies—” she glanced at the reindeer head “—but I gave the others to the dog, so he wouldn’t attack,” she said.

“He acts mean, but he won’t bite.”

“If you say so.” Cassidy flashed a quick smile, showing off her pretty white teeth and full lower lip.

He really needed her to leave. When she didn’t…“I’m busy. If that’s all you—”

“Wait!” She stepped in front of him, blocking his getaway route. His damned foot itched again and a sense of foreboding settled in his bones like a bad case of rheumatism. He brushed past her and had almost escaped when…

“Logan, I’m pregnant.”

The heel of his boot caught the edge of the step, sending him sprawling onto the porch. The cookie plate flew from his hand, bounced off the front door, then slid to a stop under the swing. Twister vaulted over Logan’s body and snarfed up the broken reindeer head.

“Oh, my God. Are you all right?” Cassidy rushed to his side.

Shrugging off her touch, he crawled to his feet. His shins stung and his chin hurt like hell where he’d banged it against the step. But the worst pain settled in his chest—a tight squeezing pressure that threatened to suffocate him.

“Please listen, Logan.”

His legs wouldn’t move—his traitorous feet had frozen in place.

“Bethany mentioned to me how badly you’d both wanted a child…” Cassidy ceased rambling and for a moment Logan believed he might catch his breath, then she continued and his lungs pinched closed again. “I know how devastated you were—” her voice dropped to a whisper “—that Bethany was carrying your baby when she died.”

Lack of oxygen numbed his brain and Cassidy’s words sounded garbled as if water had flooded his ears.

“I…” She paused, then rushed on. “Plan to keep the baby.”

Unable to trust himself to say anything appropriate, he remained stone-faced. After a tense stare-down, she spun on her boot heel and trotted to the hatchback. The car sped off, leaving a cloud of dust lingering in the air and Logan with a knot the size of Texas in his chest.

DON’T YOU DARE CRY.

Cassidy stopped the car at the entrance to the Bar T Ranch and rested her head against the steering wheel.

She’d put off telling Logan about the baby for three months because she didn’t want to say anything until the risky first trimester was over. She’d expected the cowboy to be shocked by the news, but not so…so cold. Even now the memory of his flat stare left her shaky.

Her eyes watered and this time a tear dribbled down her cheek.

Logan still mourned Bethany—the love of his life. The girl he’d dated all through high school and had married after graduation. Like clockwork Bethany had scheduled a haircut once a month when Cassidy opened her salon five years ago. Not long after, Bethany had confided in Cassidy about her miscarriages. They’d mourned each time the young woman had lost a baby and celebrated every time the home pregnancy test showed a plus sign.

What broke Cassidy’s heart was Bethany’s teary confession that all she’d ever wanted was to give Logan a child. Then when Bethany had finally succeeded in carrying a baby through the first trimester, she’d been killed in a car accident on the way to a doctor’s appointment in Midland.

No one, no matter how pure or goodhearted, avoided life’s cruel twists and turns.

A tiny part of Cassidy had hoped for a hint of excitement from Logan. After all, he’d wanted a baby for years. You’re such a fool. He wanted Bethany’s baby—not yours.

Well, she possessed enough enthusiasm for both of them. Cassidy would be twenty-eight in January and she had always wanted to marry and have a family. Her situation with Logan might not be ideal, but a baby was a blessing no matter how the child was conceived, and she was determined that Logan’s cool reaction wouldn’t dampen her joy.

Lifting her foot from the brake, she drove east toward the trailer park on the outskirts of Junket where she and her mother lived. She suspected Logan wished Mr. Claus was in the business of granting “do-overs.” If so, he’d probably ask jolly old St. Nick to erase that September night she’d strolled into the bar to let her hair down after a stressful day of caring for her mother.

Billie’s Roadhouse was known for its live bands and big dance floor. That particular evening Cassidy had been on the hunt for a cowboy to dance with into the wee hours of the morning.

Dance with—not have sex with.

When she’d spotted Logan drinking shots at the bar she’d gone over to say hello. The silly, drunken grin he’d flashed had put her dancing plans on the back burner. The bartender had held out Logan’s truck keys, assuming she’d arrived to haul his inebriated carcass home. She could have said no. She could have phoned Logan’s friend, Fletcher, to come get him.

But you didn’t.

Her and Logan’s fate had been sealed the moment she’d grasped the truck keys from the bartender. Afterward, she’d spent weeks making up excuses for her behavior that night.

Logan had been too drunk to drive.

Logan had needed to eat, and she’d insisted on cooking him a meal.

Logan needed to sober up, so she’d helped him shower.

Logan needed a babysitter—in case he’d vomited—so she’d rested on the bed with him.

Her intent had been to slip away before dawn, but then he’d called out Bethany’s name in his sleep and Cassidy had woken to his hand on her breast, his eyes shimmering with grief and pain. Logan had hit rock bottom and Cassidy hadn’t had the heart or willpower to turn him away.

Forcing the memories aside, she flipped on the blinker and entered the Shady Acres Trailer Park. She could count on one hand the number of shade trees throughout the twenty acre patch of flat Texas dirt. The owner of the property had invested little money in landscaping. Most of the park’s tenants struggled to make their rent payment and what extra money they earned went toward food and clothing, not flowers or bushes.

Years ago Cassidy’s mother had planted a cherry tree in the small yard alongside their trailer. Today the tree stood twenty-five feet high and in April its pink blossoms added a touch of beauty to the stark neighborhood. Best of all, the tree provided much needed shade for the aluminum shed Cassidy used as a hair studio.

At half-past one in the afternoon the kids were in school and the neighborhood was quiet. She slowed the car as it passed over the first of two speed bumps and noticed the Millers had strung Christmas lights on their trailer. Cassidy took great pride in being the first Shady Acres tenant to decorate for Christmas. She’d made a habit of hanging her lights over Thanksgiving weekend. But her mother’s temperament had been more difficult than usual this holiday and Cassidy hadn’t had the energy to dig through boxes of decorations. After she parked next to the single-wide and got out of the car, her neighbor greeted her.

“Hello, Cassidy.”

“Hi, Betty.”

Betty’s cousin, Alice, appeared. “Sonja’s been inside the whole time you were gone.”

“Mom’s frosting Christmas cookies. We’ll bring a dozen over later today.”

The little old ladies had claimed to be related when they’d moved into the park eight years ago, but no cousins Cassidy knew held hands like her neighbors. She didn’t care what kind of relationship the women had. After Cassidy’s mother had been officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago, Betty and Alice had offered to keep an eye on Sonja when Cassidy ran errands. She owed her neighbors a debt of gratitude.

When Cassidy entered the trailer, she found her mother exactly where she’d left her—sitting at the card table in front of the TV. Pieces of broken cookie littered the tabletop and smears of colored frosting marred her mother’s blouse.

“Who’s that?” her mother called, gaze glued to the TV.

“It’s me, Mom.” She approached the table and inspected the cookies. “I like that one.” She pointed at the snowflake coated with an inch of silver-colored sugar crystals.

“I made that for you.” Her mother smiled.

“Mmm.” Cassidy took a bite and choked on the sweetness. When her mother’s attention drifted to her favorite game show, Cassidy went into the kitchen, tossed the rest of the cookie into the trash and checked the clock. She had fifteen minutes to prepare for Mrs. Wilson’s hair appointment. “I’ll be in the salon if you need me, Mom.”

Cassidy went outside to the shed, propping the doors open with potted plants. She’d saved her paychecks from a chain hair salon she’d worked at in Midland for two years to buy the aluminum building and beauty-shop equipment. Then she’d paid a fortune for a plumber to hook up a sink. She used extension cords and an outlet strip to plug in the hair dryers and curling irons and the two lamps she’d set on end tables. Between her mother’s social security checks and Cassidy’s income from styling hair they managed to make ends meet.

Her mother had been forced into early retirement because of health problems and so far Cassidy hadn’t had to touch a dime of her mother’s savings—money Sonja had set aside during the twenty-five years she’d worked at the fertilizer factory between Junket and Midland. Cassidy would use that money to put her mother in a home when the time arrived that she needed constant care.

Mrs. Wilson pulled up in her Lincoln Town Car. “Right on time, Mabel.” The retired schoolteacher was never late.

Mabel set her purse on the loveseat Cassidy had found in a secondhand store the previous summer. “How’s Sonja?”

“Mom’s doing well.” She refrained from discussing her mother’s worsening condition. If people learned how quickly Sonja’s disease was progressing they’d encourage Cassidy to put her in a home sooner rather than later.

“Go a little darker on the rinse, dear. I don’t want the color to fade before the Smith’s party on the eighteenth.”

After months of pleading with the older woman to experiment with a different hair color, Cassidy had given up. Mabel insisted on using old-fashioned blue hair rinse. Cassidy draped a cape across Mabel’s shoulders. “How’s Buford?” Her husband had retired from the state highway patrol this past summer.

“He’s being an ass.”

“What’s he gone and done now?” Listening to her customers vent was part of the job. Cassidy mixed the hair color, then cleaned her trimming scissors while Mabel droned on.

“He’s refusing to allow Harriet and her new husband to join us for Christmas dinner.”

“I thought Buford liked your sister.”

“It’s husband number four he hates.”

Harriet exchanged husbands as often as women switched lipstick colors.

“Mitchell’s a lawyer.” Mabel twisted in the chair and said, “You know how much Buford hates lawyers.”

Poor Buford. He’d earned a reputation of having the highest percentage of nonconvictable arrests during his tenure on the force. Cassidy changed the subject. “How do you like teaching Sunday school?”

“Aside from a few rambunctious boys the kids are well-behaved. They need a substitute teacher for the first-grade class if you’re interested.”

“Not right now, Mabel.” Cassidy had stopped attending church months ago after her mother had stood up in front of the entire congregation and announced that if she didn’t go to the bathroom right then she’d pee her pants.

While Mabel chatted about the children’s holiday play, Cassidy slipped on a pair of latex gloves and worked the blue dye into Mabel’s hair, then set the timer for an extra ten minutes and placed a magazine in her lap. “I need to check on Mom.”

When Cassidy entered the trailer and peeked around the kitchen doorway, she discovered her mother fast asleep in the recliner. Relieved, Cassidy poured a glass of lemonade for her customer, then returned to the shed.

“Thank you, dear.” After a sip, Mabel said, “I hear there’s a new doctor in Midland who specializes in brain problems like your mother’s.”

“Really?” Old people were afraid if they spoke the word Alzheimer’s out loud they’d contract the dreaded disease.

“I’ll find out his name before my next hair appointment.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” Her mother’s insurance didn’t cover experimental tests or medicines. Cassidy had spent hours on the phone with insurance representatives, each call ending with “I wish there was more we could do, but unfortunately…”

The timer dinged and Cassidy rinsed the dye from Mabel’s hair. Next, she trimmed the ends, then retrieved a pink plastic tub of rollers from the storage cabinet. She’d put in the final roller when a truck pulled alongside the Lincoln.

“Why, it’s Logan Taylor,” Mabel said.

The cowboy sported the same somber expression he’d worn earlier in the day when Cassidy had stopped by his ranch.

“How long have you been cutting his hair?” The gleam in Mabel’s eyes warned Cassidy not to say too much, lest she give the woman the idea that she and Logan had a thing going—which they didn’t.

“Logan isn’t one of my clients.” Mabel opened her mouth, but Cassidy cut her off. “Time for the dryer.”

“Hello, Logan.” Mabel wiggled her fingers in the air.

Feeling Mabel’s eyes on her, Cassidy offered a weak smile.

Logan cut through the yard, stopping outside the shed doors. “Mrs. Wilson,” he greeted the older woman. Then his gaze shifted to Cassidy. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” She tucked Mabel’s head under the dryer, flipped the switch to high and lowered the hood. Hoping the noise would drown out whatever Logan had to say, she stepped outside the shed.

His shadow fell over her like a dark, menacing storm cloud. He didn’t speak, which gave her a chance to study him—shaggy, dark hair, cheeks covered in beard stubble and dark smudges beneath his brown eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed his unkempt appearance earlier?

Because you had other things on your mind.

“About that night…” He removed his Stetson and twirled it around his middle finger. “I had too much to drink—”

“That’s why I drove you home.” That was the truth—sort of.

The cowboy hat spun faster. “So…did I or did you…”

“Neither actually.” He hadn’t asked her to stay nor had he asked her to leave. She hadn’t offered to stay nor had she offered to leave. “It just happened.”

Her heart ached at the abject misery in the man’s eyes. The fact that he failed to remember their lovemaking should have hurt or angered her, but she felt only sympathy for him.

“I thought you should know about the baby.” She sucked in a quiet breath. “In case you wanted to be involved in the pregnancy.” She’d hoped, prayed, fantasized that Logan would step up to the plate and be a father to their child, regardless of his feelings toward her.

His gaze wandered around the yard. “Are you…”

The words were barely a whisper and Cassidy had trouble hearing above the hum of the hair dryer. “What did you say?”

Right then Mabel shut off the dryer at the same time Logan raised his voice. “Are you sure the baby’s mine?”

Mabel gasped.

Cassidy stared in shock.

Logan groaned.

Oops. The cat was out of the bag.