Page 19 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
Cloda laughed. “Not that I know of, and contrary to Grand speculation, my husband and I aren’t first cousins, either. We hit the baby jackpot three times, but family luck must skip a generation. So far, out of seven grandchildren, none are twins.”
Watching Miles discuss his options with Cloda, decide on a dress, then tiny white cotton tights and a cute pair of shoes to go with it, only confirmed for Tate that when her teenaged self had needed a hero to worship, she’d chosen the best. She let her thoughts drift while Alan Jackson sang “Holly Jolly Christmas” for all it was worth. Teenaged Tate would be in her glory right now.
Why don’t you choose to be happy?
Because grown-up Tate knew happy endings didn’t exist. All of this bright Christmas cheer only lasted a few weeks at best before the world lost its magic and reverted to normal. Unfortunately, she didn’t know what normal was anymore.
Back in the truck, with Iris safely strapped in her seat and the shopping bag stowed behind Tate’s, Miles started the engine. He looked over at Tate, wearing such a thoughtful expression that alarm settled in. She didn’t want to be one of those women who threw themselves at him. She wasn’t that obvious. Was she?
But the gut-punch he delivered was of a far different kind.
Chapter Six
Miles
Miles had seenplenty of bulls with that exact same look in their eyes—a cross between panic and anger, and a need to tear into something, but not knowing how, when, or where to begin. Then, all hell would break loose.
Which wasn’t what happened here. This was much worse, because hell was what he would have expected from Ford Shannahan’s sister, and a bull rider’s twin, and the woman who’d crushed Santa’s ’nads.
He only had a hazy idea as to what stages there were to grief, but it seemed to him that Tate had progressed beyond rage—although without a doubt, red-hot embers remained—and now somehow seemed lost.
Why wouldn’t she be? If he’d understood Mrs. Quinn correctly, her family was broken. The Shannahan parents had completely disengaged from their remaining two children. He couldn’t imagine such a rift with his own tight-knit clan.
“Losing a twin must have been hard, especially at Christmas,” he said.
Tate’s gaze broke from his. She picked at a fingernail with her thumb. “Christmas didn’t have a whole lot to do with it. Seeing him trampled to death with no way to stop it would have been hard no matter what time of year it was.”
Ouch.She’d been in the arena, and didn’t that suck? The scar the sight would have left her with would be a lot harder to deal with than the bit of damage done to his face, and he’d bet she was a whole lot more traumatized than she’d have people believe. Sympathy would likely only earn him what Santa had gotten, however. He didn’t know her very well yet, but self-awareness wasn’t shaping up to be one of her strengths.
“Yes, I suppose it would be hard any day of the year,” he said, and left it at that. Iris began to fuss in the back seat, reminding him that he had two girls to feed because he’d promised Tate supper. “Let’s go grab something to eat at my house. I’m glad you don’t have any quarrels with Christmas,” he added, “because I have a tree to trim and could really use your help.”
“You put up a tree?”
He shifted the truck into gear and backed out of his spot. “Millions do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…”
She floundered, and he heard what she’d thought better of saying—because it wasn’t what she’d expected of Miles Decker, whose manly image his publicity team had gone to great lengths to protect. For a woman who had issues with gender inequality, she sure held onto a few biases of her own.
“More work for an already too-busy guy?” he suggested, helping her out.
“Exactly.”
She was cute. Prickly as a porcupine, but cute. Especially when she flashed that quick, gut-knotting smile. It gave him the same thrill he got from one of Iris’s equally genuine, equally unfiltered, grins. It was also the same thrill he used to get when he drew a bull outside of his comfort level, which should serve as a warning. If Tate were a bull, she’d be named Trouble. Or Trainwreck.
The drive to his house was short, but he took it slow because he wanted to check out the neighborhood competition as far as light displays went. Next year, he intended to win. He’d have to keep an eye on the McIntyres, he decided. They’d put serious planning into their yard display. Their power bill had to be fierce.
“Look what you’ve done with the place!” Tate exclaimed, admiring the paint and new floor when they finally walked into the house. Then, she ran a hand over the coatrack made of antlers. “This is… unusual.”
Which was woman-speak forisn’t this ugly?meaning maybe he should rethink its location. The ranch bunkhouse might be a better place for it. “You’ve been here before?”
“I used to date a boy who lived here. But that was years ago. I didn’t know the family sold it.” She hung her coat on the rack and straightened her cropped sweater, which had hiked up to her ribs, revealing a small silver stud piercing on her flat belly, right above the band of her jeans. The room temperature shot up about a thousand degrees.
“Years ago… You mean two or three?” He unzipped Iris’s snowsuit and wriggled her free, happy to have this cute little distraction to keep his hands busy.
Tate’s hands dropped to her sides and the stud disappeared. So did her smile. “Why do you do that?”
He had no idea what she was talking about, but he sensed danger. “Do what?”
