Page 1 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
Chapter One
Miles
Whoever was responsiblefor the Christmas displays on Yellowstone Drive knew their stuff. From what Miles Decker had seen in the six months he’d been here, Grand, Montana, was as pretty as a picture any day of the year.
But decorated for Christmas?
Amazing.
Glittering lights trussed the underbelly of a black, star-speckled sky. They draped from every tree, shrub, and railing. Every storefront—every business—they all shouted,let the season begin.
The only thing missing was snow. They’d had a few skiffs since October, but none of it clung for more than a few days. Miles didn’t care much about a white Christmas one way or the other—growing up in Laredo, Texas, he’d seen snow maybe three times, and at Christmas, never—but judging by the conversations he kept overhearing around him, for some of Grand’s residents, snow at Christmas was a really big deal.
He’d come downtown intent on buying the perfect gifts for his nephew and niece at the annual midnight craft fair. They’d shut down the waterfront from the town hall to the library. No cars allowed. People flowed freely down the main street, then up the river boardwalk, checking out handcrafted merchandise at the numerous vending stalls.
“Mommy, what happened to that man’s face?”
The question, coming out of the blue and uttered in the type of loud whisper only a small child could pull off, dragged Miles’s soaring Christmas spirit back down to earth. His head, as if disengaged from his body, swiveled toward the source of that whisper.
His gaze settled on a young mother whose cheeks had gone bright red, likely from embarrassment as much as the wintery cold. A little boy, maybe four or five, clung to her leg. Wide, fearful eyes peered from the tightly laced hood of a navy-blue snowsuit.
“I’m so sorry,” the mother apologized. She rubbed the top of her son’s head with a gloved hand, whether to comfort or protect him, Miles couldn’t say. Either one punched the same blow to his gut.
He summoned an easy smile, the one that used to make women melt, hoping to ease her embarrassment, at least. “It’s a fair question.” He crouched down to the boy’s level, not to get closer to him, but in an attempt to look less… overwhelming. He’d go with that. He tapped his scarred cheek. “Not very pretty, is it?”
The boy’s hold on his mother’s leg tightened. He shook his head no.
“It was an accident. My own fault,” Miles added. “I’ve been a cowboy my whole life and I should have known better than to turn my back on a bull.”
“Did you shoot it?” the boy summoned the courage to ask.
A perfectly legitimate question. Rural kids knew what happened to animals that ranch hands couldn’t control. But rodeo bulls were bred for aggression and that was what Miles had gotten.
“No. The bull was just doing his job. He took offense at me not doing mine right and I got what I deserved.”
Miles straightened, tipped his hat to the mother, and went on his way, inhaling the spirit of the season, recapturing the mood, shaking off the encounter.
He meandered the entire square and counted four Christmas trees in all. A Douglas fir monolith, clad in enough twinkling lights to land a wide-body jet, brightened the exterior of Grand’s town hall. A balsam fir embraced the front steps of the library. Another Douglas lit up the waters of the Yellowstone River behind the hotel. And the fourth, a Fraser fir dressed in tiny, colorful, shimmering packets of coffee and tea, graced the patio that jutted over the river at the Wayside Café. Every shrub, every doorway, and every rail in the square had been trimmed with ornaments and lights. He loved looking at them.
He used to enjoy watching kids, too. Their excitement and wonder and pure, simple joy. That was the only thing he missed about being famous—the little ones who all wanted their pictures taken with him, then got so excited they couldn’t speak. He’d once been more popular than Santa.
Not anymore. Nowadays, kids took one look at his damaged face and reacted exactly like that poor little guy had—they either burst into tears or ducked behind their mothers’ legs for protection.
Strangers weren’t so bad. The first time Pax, his three-year-old nephew, hid from him though, he had to admit, it had stung. It might or might not have influenced his decision to stay in Grand for the holidays rather than head home to Laredo, Texas, to be with his family.
He reached the Wayside Café—the last stop on the circuit—and had paused at a stall to examine hand-carved wooden toys when he heard someone call out his name.
“Hey, Miles. Shopping local this Christmas?”
Dallas Tucker, one of the three owners of the Endeavour Ranch, and his fiancée, Hannah Brand, hailed him from across the boardwalk. The pair, without a doubt the cutest and nicest couple in Grand, were snuggled together on a wooden bench. Between them, they knew everyone in town. They were so popular he was slightly amazed to find them alone.
Dallas was a local doctor. He looked more like a recent college grad who should be backpacking around South America, not wintering in Grand. His black, curly hair was always a few inches too long, as if he couldn’t squeeze in the time to get it cut, and he never seemed to pay attention to what went on around him. Looks were definitely deceiving, however. Not much got past him.
Hannah owned the Grand Master Brewery and Taproom. She wore a hand-knit pink toque over long, honey-brown hair, possessed the warmest, most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, and gave off an air of sweetness that could erode solid rock. She drew people to her—men, women, and children. More importantly, she’d never once looked at him with pity. Envy tickled low in Miles’s throat. Women like Hannah had enough sense to steer clear of bull riders.
Rightly so.
He jogged across the boardwalk toward them. “I’m trying to find something special for a three-year-old and a five-year-old. My nephew and niece,” he explained, leaking puffs of white breath like a cracked chimney. “So far, no luck. I was about to make another trip around the square to see if there might be something I missed.”
