Page 15 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
Raiden, who really was decent, knew when to admit to a mistake. “Sorry, Tate. It’s just that Carl is an old man. Chances are good his filter is slipping, and he lacks impulse control.”
That possibility had already been pointed out to her, and while age wasn’t much of an excuse in her books, her real anger was reserved for the store and its management. No matter what, she wasn’t the one who’d deserved to be fired. “Even more reason why Carl should hang up his suit.”
“You’re right,” Raiden said. “I know the store manager. I’ll see that Carl isn’t asked to be Santa next year.”
Tate had so much to say about patriarchism, no matter how well intentioned, and where Raiden could put his. She opened her mouth to begin, but Miles gave her shoulder a squeeze, either as a warning or a show of support, maybe both.
“Let’s take that tour,” he said to her, nodding a friendly dismissal to Raiden, who appeared more than ready to find better places to be, so she let it drop.
But as they prepared to walk through the arena, with Miles eager to show her around and share its finer features, she discovered one positive thing had come out of her vexation with Santa and old boys and their networks.
Most of her earlier anxiety was gone.
Chapter Five
Miles
Seeing the arenadecked out for Christmas raised conflicting emotions in Miles. Part of him couldn’t wait for the day of the rodeo. Another part of him wallowed in bittersweet longing for his mom’s turkey dinner.
This year, bonding with his sweet little daughter and putting her needs first trumped all the sweet potato pie in the world. He’d make Christmas special in Grand. Not so much for Iris—she was too little to notice or care—but for him. She gave him a reason to put up a tree. He’d test drive new traditions with her in mind.
She’d fallen asleep with her head lolled against his shoulder and her warm baby’s breath dampening the side of his neck. Her limp arms dangled like the reins of a riderless horse. Despite the sleepless nights, and disposable diapers that were a lot harder to dispose of than the ads would have people believe, he was in love.
“This is the sound booth,” he said to Tate, carefully opening the door to a small room and sidling in so as not to disturb Iris. The booth was situated at the far end of the arena, away from the chute, but mid-row in the stadium seating, looking down. A large window overlooked the arena. “This is where the sound guys and lighting technicians work their magic and wind up the crowd. We have a laptop with touchscreen, a digital console, and over here, we have a tablet linked to a Wi-Fi router that allows the sound engineer to roam the whole arena if he needs to.”
“Oh my, look at all those switches,” Tate murmured politely, in that lilting tone of voice women adopted when they were humoring men.
A laugh bubbled against the backside of his ribs. He’d felt a tad sorry for Raiden, who’d been on the verge of getting a taste of what Santa had suffered, which was why he’d run interference. What had surprised him, however, was that Tate hadn’t picked up that Raiden was trying to impress her, even if he’d gone about it all wrong. How had she spent so much time around men on the circuit and remained so… unaware?
Tanner Shannahan must have been equally as scary as their older brother, was all he could say. However, in his opinion, her overprotective brothers had left her vulnerable, no doubt the opposite of what they’d intended. Her pretty blond looks, sweet smile that gave even Santa ideas, and bold, saucy mouth would pose a challenge to any man not as decent as Raiden. Silvery gray ringed the deep blue of her eyes. His gaze drifted lower. She had curves in all the right places and in proportions he liked—none of them over or under done.
And he had to ask himself—in all his years in the spotlight, what type of man had he been? Early on in his career, how would he have viewed a woman like Tate? Would he have treated her with the respect she deserved? Or would she have been nothing more than a challenge to him?
He liked to think he would have been respectful, but the truth was, he didn’t know.
He flipped a few of those switches she’d disparaged. Seconds later, Gwen Stefani was belting out “Last Christmas” over the speakers throughout the arena while colored lights flared.
“You’re a Gwen Stefani fan?” She sounded so surprised.
“You know someone who isn’t?” he countered, enjoying her disbelief. Let her see there was more to him than an ability to stick a ride and smile for a crowd.
“I guess that’s true if you’re into pop,” she conceded. “I’m trying to imagine Kaleb Driggers roping a calf to this… Who’ll pick the Christmas rodeo soundtrack?”
What was he doing, flirting with a girl too young to know about Gwen’s ska punk beginnings?
“I’ll leave that to the professionals.” Since rodeo music was matched to the moment, it took someone who knew what they were doing to get them paired right. “Besides, I’m not so much a fan of Gwen Stefani as I am of Christmas,” he added. “My family’s big into it. I’m a little sad not to be heading home to Texas. This’ll be the first one I’ve missed.”
The thought of his mom’s face when she found out he wasn’t coming gave him all kinds of guilt. He hadn’t told anyone about Iris yet, either. The family thought he was delayed because he was working. He didn’t mind missing Christmas Eve mass quite so much, not being especially religious, but he did love the tradition and being reminded of what the season was really about—peace on earth, goodwill, and all that.
Tate’s eyes turned to bright, sunny skies. “What’s stopping you?” Then her gaze drifted to Iris, asleep in his arms, and he realized the conclusion she reached when those twin skies clouded over.
“I’m not ready to drag a baby through airports,” he said, nipping off her line of thought before it took root. Embarrassed about Iris? Not in this lifetime. She was perfect. Any dad would be proud. He wasn’t sure what made him add the next part. Probably because he’d never seen the slightest trace of pity in the way Tate looked at him. “I’ve never especially cared what people think of my face. Not before the accident and not after. But I care what kids think. The last time my three-year-old nephew saw me, he cried and hid from me.”
“My friend Maybe’s youngest niece cries and hides when she sees her, too,” Tate said. “Maybe’s pretty enough. She’s just mean. Ever consider that a little facial scar might not be your real problem?”
A laugh burst out of him, disturbing Iris, who puckered her mouth and frowned in her sleep. “You think I’m mean?”
Tate studied his face in a way that he liked—nine-tenths admiration combined with a touch of honest assessment. She wasn’t a woman who knew how to keep her thoughts to herself. “No. I think Maybe’s mean. I think you’re worried about nothing. The scar will fade and your nephew will get used to it. But he can’t get used to it if you stay away.”
