Page 24 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
“Glad I could help.” He reached over and adjusted her scarf. He didn’t give trite condolences or ask any questions, somehow understanding that, if she’d wanted to talk about it, she would have done so already. “Call me,” he added.
She dug her phone from her pocket and opened the door. Night yawned, most of the neighborhood either already asleep or tucking itself in. A few scattered Christmas lights dotted the street. She waggled the phone at him and threw out a challenge, just for fun and to get things between them back on the right track. “How about you sing to me?”
He drew his own phone from his back pocket and delivered a grin that had Tate’s heart hopping.He issogorgeous.
“I hope you like Celine Dion’s version of ‘O Holy Night,’” he said.
“I’ve heard worse ones.”
“And you’re about to.”
She smiled all the way to the taproom, listening to him hit the highs and lows with amazing precision.“Behold your king! Before him lowly bend!”It might not be up to Celine’s standards, but even so, it was impressive. Was there nothing this man did not do well?
“Don’t forget the party Friday night,” he said before they hung up.
*
Tate
Tate had plentyof ugly Christmas sweaters in storage somewhere—they’d once been another family tradition, along with church Christmas Eve—but something pretty enough to wear to the party at the Endeavour tomorrow night?
Not in her closet. She picked up her phone and called Maybe.
“I’ll be right there,” her friend said once she learned of the problem. This wasn’t her first rodeo featuring Tate and her poor sense of style.
Tate sprawled, spreadeagled, on the sagging twin bed, and stared at the cheap light fixture on the ceiling while she waited. She hadn’t seen much of Miles the past few days. She wasn’t sure if he was avoiding her, if he was too busy with rodeo preparations, or a combination of the above. When she did see him, he was as friendly as always. The same as he was with everyone else. She got the message—don’t read too much into the other night.
Although it was hard not to read anything into that kiss.
A large, meticulously wrapped box on the top shelf of her closet, eating up real estate, caught her eye. It gave her so much guilt whenever she opened the door. Last year, grief had been her excuse. Christmas came and went unacknowledged. This year, she had to do something about it. Saturday morning, after the party, she’d drive to Billings where Dana’s parents lived, and leave it up to them to decide as to whether Dana should have it.
A few minutes later, Maybe blew in on a blast of frigid night air, suitcase in tow. The wind snatched the fragile aluminum door from her hand and slammed it against the side of the trailer. She wrestled it into position behind her, flipping the latch so it wouldn’t blow open again, then closed the sturdier inner door.
“Where’s Ford?” she asked, ditching her knee-high boots on the rubber tray next to the entry and hanging her thick, padded jacket over the rail of a kitchen chair.
“Working.”
What Maybe saw in her brother, Tate didn’t know. He was handsome, of course. She’d had a steady stream of girlfriends over the years thanks to him. And Tanner, too. But Ford wasn’t warm and friendly like Tanner had been, or someone who let people get close, and losing his younger brother—the one the whole family adored—had been especially hard on him.
The real blow, however, had happened a long time ago when the girl he’d dated through high school found a new love after she went off to college. Tate didn’t have the heart to tell Maybe she was wasting her time where Ford was concerned. She’d have to figure it out on her own.
Maybe dumped the suitcase’s contents onto Tate’s bed. Reams of bright-colored fabric spilled across the worn cotton quilt that Tate had been gifted by a grandmother the year she’d turned twelve. Then she stood, with hands pressed to her hips, head tipped to one side, glossy dark hair spilling over a shoulder while she considered the options. She brightened the small bedroom and lifted Tate’s spirits through her presence alone.
Tate eyed the bounty. Maybe shared her mother’s passion for clothes but was less of an adherent to environmental stewardship. She blew her entire salary on clothes she wore once. Ford—even if interested, which he was not—could never afford her.
Maybe picked up a navy sheath that shimmered in the stark overhead light. The fabric was silky and smooth and didn’t look as if it laundered well. “I had to bring what I thought might fit. Mom doesn’t have time to make alterations right now.”
“That one doesn’t look practical,” Tate said. “I’ll be helping Miles with Iris and she drools.” Plus, she could see herself spilling wine down the front. The horror.
Maybe dismissed her concerns with the flap of a hand. “Practical is for my mom and old ladies. I’ve worn it twice now and likely won’t wear it again. Here.” She thrust it into Tate’s arms. “Try it on.”
“What about the black one?” Tate suggested, clutching the navy to her chest, even though she knew from experience that once Maybe took charge, her opinion when it came to clothing was neither desired nor required and carried no weight.
Her friend didn’t spare the dress in question a glance. “That one’s a last resort. Everyone wears black to evening parties. Now put on the navy.”
Tate stripped down to her undershirt and white cotton briefs and Maybe sighed as if giving up. “There’s no hope for you.”
“Who cares? No one will see my underwear under my dress.”
