Page 26 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
Chapter Eight
Miles
Miles loved agood party and the Christmas kickoff at the Endeavour was shaping up to be especially jolly. Thanks went in large part to Dallas Tucker and Elizabeth O’Connell—Dallas for his enthusiasm, and Elizabeth, her good taste.
The Endeavour shopped local. Hannah’s taproom provided the beer, Ryan had chosen the wine, and Dan and Jazz came through with mulled cider and rum and eggnog. The Wayside Café had provided pastries and Lou’s Pub delivered surprisingly delicate appetizers.
Ryan and Elizabeth had made an executive decision that junior staff and the boys from the group home were to have a separate party because they couldn’t possibly police underage drinking. Tonight’s party was for vendors and senior staff, and if anyone chose to stay over, the bunkhouses had been opened up for the women and bedrolls provided in the barns for the men.
Miles had moved from his usual bunkhouse and into a small trailer for the night to make room for the guests. He’d been offered one of the many spare rooms in the ranch house because of Iris, but he’d declined. Overall, she was pretty content, but she was a normal baby, and when out of sorts, everyone within hearing range knew all about it. His bosses didn’t need to lose sleep.
She wore her new party dress and was cute as a bug in a rug, as his grandma always said about Sydney and Pax. He couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say about her newest great-grandchild. He was less eager to hear what the straightlaced old lady would have to say about him.
He kept a watchful eye on his daughter as the female guests passed her between them, and an impatient eye on the door, waiting for Tate. They’d danced around each other these past few days, pretending that kiss had meant nothing—and her telling him about her brother’s anniversary meant even less—and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep up his end of it. Tate, he suspected, could go on forever. She seemed big into denial.
She arrived a half hour late. When she took off her coat, she revealed a dress that exposed a great deal more of her than it hid.
Silence settled over the small group of men who’d gravitated around him to pick his brain about his days on the circuit, wanting his opinions on the upcoming season. His jaw slackened, although he managed to keep his mouth closed. Barely.
“Is thatTate Shannahan?” someone asked, breaking the spell. He sounded so insultingly incredulous that Miles fought off an urge to punch him for it. Tate was beautiful no matter what she had on.
Tonight, she surpassed beauty. Blond hair spilled over bare shoulders in long, loose, spiral curls. Athletic, not slim, she filled that tight dress in a way that dried out his tongue and made the rest of him sweat. That dress was a message and he hoped it was intended for him. They had the matter of that kiss to resolve.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Santa’s little helper,” someone said. He was an older man—Jeff someone-or-other, whose wife stood beside him.
The comment was followed by a smattering of laughter from the guy’s male companions and Miles had visions of spending the rest of the night scrubbing blood off the floors. It looked as if Santa’s helper could use a little help of her own. He prepared to move in and rescue her—or her unwitting victim. He wasn’t sure which at this point.
Neither one, as it turned out. She took the comment in stride. “There’s plenty more where that came from, Jeff,” she said, sounding friendly enough, but that could be to lull him into a false sense of security before she swooped in for the kill. “Would you like a demonstration?”
“No thanks,” Jeff replied. “I like my Christmas presents handled with care.”
“Keep talking and your presents will be handling themselves from now on,” his wife informed him.
More laughter followed that comment. With the focus off her, Tate’s gaze swept the room. It passed over Miles as if they’d never met and settled on Iris. Her lovely face brightened.
He should be pleased that she was more interested in his daughter than him, considering he’d hired her for Iris’s benefit, not his, but he was new enough at this fatherhood thing, and aware enough of the scar on his face, to be disconcerted. What if she wasn’t into denial, and the dress wasn’t a message, and he was delusional?
Now that he was no longer a professional bull rider, his dynamics with women appeared to have changed. A few weeks ago, he hadn’t cared. Tate changed all that.
Despite the high heels she wore, Tate sidestepped the people blocking her path with the skillful agility of someone used to taking tight cloverleaf turns on a horse.
Miles loved high heels on a woman. There was something so sexual about the way women moved when they wore them—Tate in particular, because in her case, it was unconscious. It was like her to put on a dress designed to attract attention, then have no idea how much male attention she’d drawn.
He, meanwhile, was very aware and he couldn’t say that he liked it. He’d never worried about competition before—in or out of the arena—but Tate was the only unattached woman here and he wasn’t about to let her be circled by wolves.
“Excuse me,” he said abruptly, his attention on Tate, cutting off one of the rodeo suppliers in mid-sentence, anxious to reach her before some other wolf did.
He cut a direct line through the crowd, focused on his goal. He got to her at the same moment Iris wriggled out of Dan McKillop’s mom’s grasp, holding her arms out to Tate.
“It’s past her bedtime. Even party girls have limits,” Tate said to Freda McKillop, explaining Iris’s eager defection.
Iris made herself at home on Tate’s shoulder and stuck a thumb in her mouth, a sure sign Tate was right, and she’d had enough. She snuggled a fistful of Tate’s hair to her cheek like a blond security blanket. The sight of a lovely woman holding his baby with so much contentment filled Miles with all kinds of feels.
“Which is why Elizabeth set up the playpen in their private living room—so I can put her to bed without having to leave the party,” he interjected before his thoughts could get carried away. “She’s made the rounds of the room, met everyone, and showed off her pretty dress. She can call it a night.”
“Speaking of pretty dresses… Yours is beautiful,” Freda said to Tate. “Is that one of Cloda’s creations?”
“It is,” Tate confirmed.
