Page 18 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
Hearing his voice, as if he stood right here beside her, took her out at the knees. She staggered and would have fallen if Miles hadn’t caught her.
He stooped and peered into her eyes, concern edging his. “Hey. You okay?”
Other than an acute case of embarrassment and an overactive imagination?
She swallowed hard and forced herself to say something light. “Tell me you aren’t used to women throwing themselves at your feet.”
“Well, yes. But not literally. When did you last eat?”
“I had lunch.” Lack of food wasn’t her problem, but having him think she’d almost passed out from hunger was preferable to him thinking her crazy.
He kept his hand on her elbow, no doubt to be sure she didn’t face-plant on him, but she really was fine.
“Dress shopping, then supper,” he said, his tone letting her know that the decision wasn’t up for debate.
Since Tate only had frozen french fries and chicken strips waiting for her at home, she didn’t argue.
Cloda Quinn, Maybe’s mother, was another of Grand’s many huge Christmas fans, it quickly became obvious to newcomers, if they’d had any doubts. A fat, gorgeous pine tree, trimmed with angels and lace and red ribbons, hogged the front display case in a position of glory. The shop reeked of ginger and spice and everything nice thanks to handcrafted, scented candles strategically placed to satisfy whatever fire marshal happened by. Bing Crosby and David Bowie’s “Little Drummer Boy” assaulted Tate’s eardrums. Cloda’s paying customers were well past their toddler years, so when it came to her shop music, she favored the sentimental seventies and eighties.
And Cloda loved fashion. With six near-identical daughters to dress, she’d developed an obsession for giving them each something different that suited their personal tastes. She’d turned her obsession into a commercial success.
Cloda’s once-dark hair had lost its battle with gray, and fine lines crinkled her eyes and her lips. She had what Maybe lovingly called a “mom” body, with a hint of middle-aged spread she made no effort to hide. Her red wool cardigan, black turtleneck, and tailored black trousers announced comfort was as important to her as style. Leather, stack-heeled, lace-up ankle boots decked out in a red floral pattern shouted that an attention to detail was a far better weapon against aging than a few nips and tucks.
She worked at a sewing machine in a corner of the cluttered shop, intent on a piece of navy-blue fabric that looked like velvet, but Tate knew would be machine washable and virtually indestructible.
“Tate!” she exclaimed, catapulted out of her chair when she looked up and saw who’d arrived. She hurried over, wrapping Tate in an enthusiastic embrace. “How are you, my love? You doing okay?”
Tate’s chest ached in response to the question. Cloda knew what day today was.
“Fine,” she replied brightly, wishing people would quit asking her that.Whatever are you talking about? No issues here.
She glanced at Miles, who was rescuing a red sweater from Iris’s sticky grip.
Cloda’s eyes narrowed, not fooled for an instant. “Any word from your parents?”
The band of ache in her chest tightened. “No.”
Cloda hugged her again, longer and harder. “Give them time, sweetie. You and Ford are adults and they know you have plenty of support here in Grand. That frees up their mental space for them to battle grief in their own way.”
So far, their battle involved looking for others to blame and they’d settled on Tate. She’d been the bossier, more dominant twin, older than Tanner by five minutes, the one who’d gotten them both into trouble from the day they’d taken their first steps.
“This is Miles Decker,” Tate said, desperate to turn the conversation to something less painful and private, especially after the incident outside. “He’s looking for a party dress for his daughter.”
If Miles had been listening to the conversation—although how could he miss it—no one would know what opinion he’d formed. Tate envied him that particular talent of keeping his thoughts to himself. He leaned forward, arm outstretched, amiability oozing from him like slow-flowing lava.
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” Cloda said, shaking his hand. “Tate and my daughters have followed your career since your first ride. They’re all huge fans. And you must be Iris,” she added, proving Grand’s gossip mill was nothing to sneeze at. She wobbled one of Iris’s wee boots, knowing better than to gush all over a baby before she was ready, and received a sweet smile in return. “I assume the dress is for the Endeavour’s Friday night Christmas party?”
That last question was directed at Miles, who nodded, and Cloda got straight down to business. She posed a dozen more questions before steering Miles toward the gently used rack, which was where Tate had warned he’d end up.
“I completely understand wanting her to have something made specifically for her,” Cloda assured him, as if his concern for an eight-month-old’s fashion sense would make any difference in what she planned to sell him. “I raised six girls—three sets of identical twins—and believe me, being environmentally conscious while taking individual personalities and tastes into consideration was a challenge. Continues to be. But I firmly believe that we have a duty to this planet and the generations to come. Jax in the Box endorses that belief. My mannequins have worn these dresses longer than any child ever has, and when the clothes come back to me, I take them apart and remake them. I also have a line of practical clothing for older children that are made completely from recycled material and are durable enough to survive outdoor play in Montana. Those items usually get passed on to younger family members and friends instead of returned.”
“Three sets of identical twins?” Miles sounded dazed, fixating on that as if it was all he’d absorbed from Cloda’s enthusiastic barrage of ethical baby couture information.
“It’s rare, but not unheard of,” she confirmed, blissfully sifting through a rack of tiny, lace-trimmed dresses until she found what she sought. “Tate’s a twin, too. Of course, she and Tanner were fraternal.” She tugged a cranberry-red dress with a bib of white lace from its hanger and held it up for Miles to inspect. “This is the right size and was only worn once. The deeper red will be perfect with those pretty green eyes.”
Exactly whose pretty green eyes she referred to Tate couldn’t be sure. Not after the wink Cloda gave her. She felt her face take on the hue of the dress. Cloda knew she’d had a thing for Miles Decker, the professional bull-riding champion. But Tate knew the difference between a famous persona and reality, and Miles Decker the father only had eyes for one lucky girl in the room. Tate wouldn’t dream of encroaching on that fledgling love. The pair made a super-cute couple.
“Is there a factory leaking twin-producing chemicals into the local water supply around here, by any chance?” Miles asked, ignoring the dress—which really did look like new—and also the wink, for which Tate gave thanks.
