Читать книгу Holding Out for Christmas - Janet Dailey - Страница 7

Chapter 1

Conner Branch pulled a freshly cut tree from the pile on the flatbed trailer. A cloud of pine-scented dust surrounded him as he shook the tree to fluff the branches and remove any debris. Once the tree was ready, he passed it to his partner, Travis Morgan, who carried it to the display rack in front of the old frame ranch house.

With Christmas less than three weeks away, the three partners at Christmas Tree Ranch had all the work they could handle. Trees were selling almost as fast as they could be cut and loaded. Now, just to complicate things, a big snowstorm was moving in.

Conner glanced toward the west, where angry black clouds were roiling across the sky. A speck of wet cold melted on his cheek. The storm was moving fast. The flatbed would need to be unloaded before it hit, burying the piled trees in snow and freezing them together into a worthless icy lump.

As he turned back toward the trailer, he felt the familiar stab of pain in his right hip. Nearly five years had passed since a near-fatal dismount from a bull in the Professional Bull Riders finals had ended his career as a champion rider and left him unable to even mount a horse. Bad luck—but Conner had learned to count his blessings. He was alive and able to work, with a home, good friends, and a stake in a growing business.

He grabbed another tree and shook it, striking the base hard against the ground. Heavy snow would make cutting and hauling the trees that much harder. It would also mean getting ready for the sleigh rides that had become a popular tradition at the ranch.

With so much to do, there was little time to think of anything but work. Still, Conner had managed to indulge in a few brief, secret fantasies.

At least he’d assumed they were secret. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“Hey, Conner,” Travis called as he came back for another tree. “Do you think your dream woman will show up for the Cowboy Christmas Ball this year?”

Conner shrugged, feigning indifference as he handed off the tree and reached for the next one. The truth was, he’d been asking himself the same question. At last year’s ball, a female singer had performed with the Badger Hollow Boys, the Nashville band that played for every Christmas Ball. The lady had knocked his socks off. Tall and willowy in high-heeled boots, with long black hair and dark eyes that flashed like a gypsy’s, she’d been dressed like a cowgirl in tight jeans, a beaded, fringed leather jacket, and a battered Stetson. She’d had a good voice, too, with just an edge of sexiness. But it was her attitude—sassy and confident—that had really gotten to him. She was Wonder Woman in western gear—and she’d vanished before he’d had a chance to meet her. But he had learned her name. Lacy Leatherwood. Sexy. Like leather and lace.

“I take it you’re going stag,” Travis teased.

“I always go stag. It leaves me open to possibilities,” Conner said.

But that strategy hadn’t worked at last year’s ball. No sooner had he walked into the gym than Ronda May Blackburn had latched onto him and clung to his arm all evening. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about Ronda May this year. She’d given up chasing him and landed a cowboy from a ranch on the far side of town. Last he’d heard, they were making wedding plans.

For this year’s Christmas Ball, Conner vowed, he’d be prepared. He would have his fun dancing with all the ladies, even some of the married ones; but he would make sure that when the entertainment came on, he was front and center alone, ready to catch his dream woman’s eye and hopefully meet her when she walked offstage.

But what if she didn’t show up? What if she came and he found out she was married or attached to a boyfriend in the band?

He would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. But cross it, he would. As a national bull-riding champion, he’d dated rodeo queens, movie stars, and supermodels. As an injured partner in a small-town ranch, he’d romanced every attractive, eligible woman in Branding Iron. But none of them had made his heart slam on sight—until a dark-haired beauty in high-heeled boots and a fringed, beaded buckskin jacket fit for a rock star had walked onstage at last year’s Cowboy Christmas Ball.

“Hey, let’s get moving, man! No daydreaming allowed!” Travis gave him a playful punch. In the past, Conner had teased his partners unmercifully about their love lives. Now that Rush was married and Travis was planning a holiday wedding, they were repaying him in kind.

“Give me that tree. You can be lovesick on your own time.”

Travis grabbed the pine Conner was holding, gave it an extra shake, and carried it to the display rack. Bucket, the ranch’s black-and-white Border Collie mix, followed Travis to the front yard, sniffed at the tree, and lifted his leg on the trunk.

“You old rascal,” Travis scolded. “What are you going to do when you and Conner are the only bachelor holdouts left around here? Maybe you’ll go off and find that little lady coyote you met last winter. Too bad you’re fixed, huh? But Conner, here, isn’t. What’s he going to do about that? Where’s his little lady coyote?”

If there’d been snow on the ground, Conner would have lobbed a snowball at his partner. As it was, all he could do was ignore the jab and keep working.

As he hoisted a heavy tree off the trailer, he couldn’t help thinking how much things had changed in the past year.

Last holiday season, with the tree business just getting off the ground, all the partners had been single men. Then, last summer, Rush, a veterinarian, had married Judge Tracy Emerson and moved to her house in town. But Rush was still very much a partner. He’d even built a small clinic on ranch property to supplement his mobile vet service. For the month of December, he had cut his practice back to emergencies only, so he could help with the trees and sleigh rides.

Travis and his sassy red-haired Maggie had agreed to put off their wedding until her term as mayor of Branding Iron was finished. Now that the town had elected a new mayor, who’d agreed to take over his duties early, the wedding was on for the twenty-second of December, two days after the Christmas Ball. Like Rush, Travis would be moving into town to live with his bride. But his working life would still be centered around the ranch.

Conner was still getting used to the idea that after the wedding he would be living in the ranch house alone. His partners would still be there in the daytime, for work and fun. But what would he do on those long, lonesome nights, with no company in the house except Bucket?

He’d go plain stir-crazy.

He’d finished shaking out the tree and was handing it off to Travis when Rush pulled his Hummer through the gate and climbed out. “Hey, Rush!” Travis shouted. “You’re just in time! We need to get these trees unloaded before the storm hits.”

As the tall, dark vet hurried to help, Conner glanced up at the sky. Clouds were rushing like a buffalo stampede across the sky, driven by a biting wind that blew the snow sideways, ahead of the main storm. The cold cut through Conner’s light fleece jacket as he picked up the pace, forcing even the thought of his dream woman from his mind.

By the time the partners finished unloading the trees and propping them against the racks in the front yard, clouds of snow were swirling out of the sky. Conner stayed outside long enough to park the ATV, unhitch the trailer, and pull both under the cover of the shed. Then he waded back through the storm and joined his friends and Bucket inside the house.

As he shoved the door closed against the wind, he could feel the warmth of the potbellied iron stove and smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen. Nobody had taken time to stock up on groceries, but Rush had picked up a dozen fresh doughnuts at Shop Mart on his way here. Four doughnuts for each hungry man. That sounded about right.

“I guess we could’ve ordered pizza from Buckaroo’s,” Travis said. “But I don’t think the delivery boy could make it through the storm. It’s brutal out there, especially now that it’s getting dark.”

“I’ve read stories about weather like this.” Rush poured three mugs of coffee and passed them around the table. “In the old days, sometimes farmers had to string a rope between the house and the barn to keep from getting lost on the way.”

“Well, that shouldn’t happen here,” Travis said. “I fed and watered the horses a couple of hours ago. They should be fine till morning. And since we sold off our steers last month, we don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Except me,” Rush said. “If I don’t leave now, I might not make it home.”

“At least you’ve got a reason to get home,” Conner said. “If I had a woman like Tracy waiting for me, I’d drive through the blizzard of 1899 to get to her.”

Rush grinned as he buttoned his coat. “Eat your heart out,” he said. “As a consolation prize, you boys can have my share of the doughnuts. Stay warm.”

He opened the door. Wind tore the knob out of his hand, blasting cold and snow into the house as the door slammed inward against the wall. Conner sprang to shove it closed again. Bracing with his body, he waited until he heard Rush’s Hummer start up before sliding the bolt into place.

“Rush will be all right.” Travis seemed to read Conner’s concern. “That big Hummer drives like a tank. It can go anywhere. Sit down. Have another doughnut.”

Conner sank onto a chair and refilled his coffee mug. In the box on the table, six doughnuts remained. They looked about as appetizing as lumps of Play-Doh. “I never thought I could get tired of doughnuts,” he said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather have a juicy slab of prime rib, medium rare, with potatoes and gravy.”

“Good luck with that,” Travis said. “Even the freezer’s empty. What happened to all those women who were bringing you cookies and casseroles?”

“They must’ve given up on me.”

“Maybe word’s gotten around about Mr. Love ’Em and Leave ’Em, Conner Branch. Women do talk, you know. Have your ears been burning?”

“If they did burn, I’d be too busy to notice.”

A gust of wind rattled the windows and howled around the eaves of the old frame house. It’s a mournful sound, Conner thought. A lonesome sound.

Travis refilled his coffee mug and reached for another doughnut. “Well, since you’re going to be out here alone after the wedding, maybe it’s time you thought about finding a steady girlfriend, or even a wife to keep you warm on nights like this. You’re getting too old to be a player.”

“Old? Hell, I’m no older than you are.”

“But I’m the one who’s getting married.”

Conner was groping for a sharp comeback when his cell phone jangled. His first thought was that Rush had run off the road and was stranded somewhere. But the number on the caller ID wasn’t Rush’s. Curious, he took the call.

“Conner, this is Sam Perkins.”

Conner recognized the booming voice and name of a neighbor who lived down the highway, past the turnoff to the ranch.

“Hey, Sam, is everything all right?”

“Well, not exactly,” Sam said. “I just made it home in this blizzard. When I drove by the turnoff to your place, I noticed your sign was loose, just hangin’ by one corner from the post. If the wind catches it, it could be in the next county by morning.”

“Oh, blast it. Thanks, Sam. I guess somebody here had better make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Conner cursed the storm as he ended the call. Two months ago, the partners had invested five hundred dollars in a professionally made sign to mark the turnoff to Christmas Tree Ranch. They’d mounted it on heavy metal posts, but evidently the job hadn’t been secure enough to hold up to a storm like this one.

The sign was too valuable to lose. Somebody would need to go out and recover it.

“Somebody?” Travis raised an eyebrow.

Conner sighed. “I guess it doesn’t make sense that we should both go out there and freeze our butts off. How about rock-paper-scissors? Winner stays here.”

The two men faced each other for the old childhood game. One . . . two . . . Conner groaned. His fist had made a rock. Travis’s flat hand had made paper. Paper covered rock. No need for words.

“Take my truck,” Travis said. “It’s heavier than your Jeep, and it has a spotlight. There’s a box of tools under the seat. And don’t forget your phone. If you get into trouble, call me. Otherwise, I’ll be right here with Bucket, keeping toasty.”

“Don’t rub it in.” Conner pulled on his heavy parka, his wool seaman’s cap, and his gloves. Taking the keys Travis handed him, he managed to slip outside without losing control of the door.

The newer-model used truck Travis had bought last summer started with a roar. The snow wasn’t deep on the ground yet; however, as Conner pulled out of the driveway, onto the lane, it swirled around him in thick clouds. Even with the wipers going full speed and the defroster blasting heat, he was driving almost blind. Only his sense of direction, and the crunch of tires on the lane’s gravel surface, told him he was headed toward the highway.

Dim lights on his left told him he was passing the house of their nearest neighbors, the McFarlands. The intersection, where the sign was posted, would be a few hundred yards beyond it.

Guessing more than seeing, he pulled the truck to the right, into the dry weeds that edged the lane, and trained the powerful spotlight on the far side. Through the snowy darkness, he could make out a barbed wire fence. Between the fence and the road was the sign. It had torn loose on three corners. Now it hung by a single lower bolt, flapping crazily in the wind. Even if the bolt held, the valuable sign could twist or bend and be badly damaged.

In this weather, there was no way he could bolt it back into place. He would have to take it down, haul it home in the truck bed, and come back tomorrow with a ladder and the right hardware and tools.

Grabbing a wrench from the toolbox, Conner climbed out of the truck. Bent forward against the wind, he staggered through the driving snow as he followed the beam of the spotlight to the sign. Unable to work the wrench with his thick gloves on, he stripped them off and stuffed them into his pockets. By the time he got the nut loose from the bolt, his fingers were stiff with cold. But at least the sign was free.

With his gloves on again, he dragged the sign across the road and laid it flat in the truck bed. Mission accomplished.

Conner exhaled in relief as he climbed into the truck, started the engine, and turned the heater up all the way. Now all he had to do was turn around, go back to the house, and park the truck under the shed.

The lane was too narrow for a U-turn. He would have to drive onto the highway and make the turn there. Switching off the spotlight and turning the headlights on bright, he pulled the truck out far enough to check both ways for oncoming traffic. The road was clear—no surprise. Only a fool like him would be out on a night like this.

The road’s asphalt surface was already slick with snow, but the big vehicle had good tires. Conner pulled all the way out, swung the wheel hard left, and came around with no problem. He was about to head back down the lane when something caught his attention. About fifty yards up the highway, seen through the blur of snow and distance, was what looked like a blinking red hazard light.

He took a quick moment to phone Travis. “I’ve got the sign, but I may have spotted somebody in trouble,” he said. “I’m going to check it out, so if I don’t come right back . . .”

“Unless I hear, I’ll assume you’re okay. Call if you need help, and stay safe, especially since you’re driving my truck.” Travis ended the call with a chuckle.

Conner turned and headed back in the direction of town. The safety reminder had been typical of Travis. A former highway patrolman, Travis had lost his job and served prison time after a tragic accident had left a young man dead. Conner owed Travis more than he could repay for offering him a home and a partnership in Christmas Tree Ranch.

Now, as he drove up the highway, he could see a small car off the road, its front end angled into the bar ditch. A single red taillight blinked through the snow-swirled darkness. The other taillight appeared to be broken.

He pulled onto the shoulder of the road, a few yards behind the car. Leaving his headlights on, he climbed out. The car’s rear windshield was covered with snow; as he came closer, he caught a movement through the side window. The driver would be a woman, he surmised. An able-bodied man would have tried to push the car back onto the road, maybe tried to flag down help, or even walked back to town. If there was a woman in the car, she would likely be cold and scared—even scared of him, Conner reminded himself. He would need to let her know he was here to help.

The car was idling, a curl of exhaust rising from the tailpipe. Approaching with caution, he tapped on the window. He could see movement through the glass. Then the window came down, barely an inch.

“I’ve got pepper spray pointed right at your face.” The young, feminine voice shook slightly, but Conner sensed that the lady meant business.

“Whoa there.” He took a couple of steps backward, showing her his empty hands. “I live down the road back there. I saw your light and came to help you. Are you all right?”

The window opened another inch. He saw frightened eyes in a pale face, framed by tendrils of dark hair peeking from beneath a knitted cap. And, yes, she really did have pepper spray. “I’m fine, just cold,” she said. “But the car seems to be stuck, and my phone is dead. Maybe you could call somebody for me.”

“Anybody special?” Conner took out his phone.

“My family lives in Branding Iron. I was coming to visit them, but then the storm hit, and before I knew it, I’d driven right past the town. When I tried to turn around, I slid off the road into this blasted ditch.”

“I’ll tell you what.” Conner passed his phone through the window to her. “If you’ll put that pepper spray down, you can call your family on this. Tell them Conner Branch is here, offering to help you. They’re bound to know me. Most people around here do.”

Conner was taking a risk, saying that. A few rodeo fans remembered him from the PBR, and he’d driven the sleigh in the last two Christmas parades. But there was always a chance that the woman’s family had never heard of him.

If that was the case, what would he do? She had his phone now, and she still had that canister of pepper spray. Maybe she would call 911. At least the sheriff knew him.

While she was on the phone, Conner took a look at the car. The bank of the bar ditch was so steep here that the compact Toyota was almost resting on its chassis. There was no way to push it from behind without causing serious damage. It would need to be towed with a chain, which he didn’t have with him in the truck.

She had turned away to make the call. Now she turned back, lowered the window a few more inches, and handed him the phone.

“So, did you find out I’m not a serial killer?” He leaned against the car, trying to shield himself from the biting wind.

“Just barely. My parents didn’t recognize your name. But my brother, Daniel, knew who you were. So I guess you’re all right.”

Daniel. The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t connect it with a face. “I’ve looked at the car,” he said. “It’ll need to be towed out, probably in the morning. Is anyone coming to get you?”

She sighed. “My dad has poor night vision. He’d never make it here in the storm. Daniel and my mom don’t drive. So I guess I’m stuck, unless—”

“Unless I give you a ride home.” Conner finished the sentence for her.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s an imposition—”

“No, it’s fine. This truck can go anywhere. Do you need to get anything out of the car?”

“Two suitcases. They’re in the trunk. My name is Megan, by the way. Megan Carson.” She reached down and pulled the trunk release. Conner lifted out the two bags and put them in the backseat of the cab. He was fine with driving her home. From what he’d seen of her, it was hard to tell what she looked like. But he couldn’t help being intrigued.

He was holding out for his dream woman to show up at the ball, he reminded himself. But if there was an attractive new female in town, why not get to know her?

After all, what did he have to lose?

* * *

Megan closed the window and turned off the ignition. Unlocking the door, she tried to shove it open. She managed to push it about halfway before a wind gust slammed it shut against her shoulder, the sound of it like a thunderclap in the darkness.

“Here, come on.” Her rescuer appeared in a swirl of snow, opening the door and holding it against the wind. Megan took the gloved hand he offered, clasping it as he guided her through the blinding storm to his truck and held the door while she climbed inside. The hood of his parka kept his face in shadow. So far, all she knew about him was that he was strong, had a masculine voice, and cared enough to help a stranded woman on a stormy night.

He took her keys and disappeared in the direction of her car, probably to make sure it was locked. Moments later, he reappeared on the driver’s side of the truck, brushing the snow off the windshield and side window before he opened the door and handed her the keys. In the brief flicker of the dome light that came on, she glimpsed blue eyes below the hood of the parka—the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

He closed the door, pulled off his gloves, and pushed back his hood. The knitted cap he wore underneath hid his hair. Megan stole a glance as he fastened his seat belt. In profile, his face was handsome in a clean-cut, chiseled way. But what was she thinking? She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, or even a date. And a man as good-looking as Conner Branch was bound to have a wife, or at least a steady girl.

“Where to?” He started the truck.

She gave him her parents’ address. “It’s just a couple of blocks off Main Street. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it. Not in a little boondocks town like this one.”

“Boondocks?” He chuckled, his laughter deep and warm. “You sound like a city girl.” He steered carefully onto the highway. “Am I right?”

“Close enough. I teach school in Nashville. I arranged to take Christmas leave early to give my family some extra help.”

“A teacher, hmm? I might’ve guessed that. What grade?”

“Kindergarten.”

“Like it?”

“I do. For now.” Megan stopped herself. She’d learned the hard way not to talk about her other career, the one she really wanted. People who learned her secret tended to forget about Megan Carson. Lacy Leatherwood was so much more fascinating—even though Lacy wasn’t real.