Page 38 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Tate said. “Come here, sweetie.” She swooped in and plucked Iris from his dad, kissed her cheek and hugged her for a moment, then passed her to Ford, who had no choice but to accept her.
“Dad, this is Tate’s brother, Ford Shannahan. Ford, this is my dad. Vince Decker.”
“Pleased to meet you,” his dad said, extending a hand. Ford awkwardly shook it, trying hard not to break the tiny bundle he held. “I see the family resemblance.”
Sure. They both had blond hair and blue eyes. Beyond that, it was up for debate. Miles wanted to bang his head on a wall. Wasn’t this going well?
And then his mother arrived on the scene, wiping her hands on a cup towel. Where she’d found the apron, Miles had no idea. She channeled her inner June Cleaver, who emerged during the holidays and for church suppers. The rest of the year she specialized in ordering off menus.
“What a pretty sweater,” she said to Tate, and Miles hoped she was being polite and wouldn’t figure out what those reindeer were up to during dinner when she had food in her mouth.
“Thank you,” Tate said.
Miles introduced his mother to Ford.
“Let me take her off your hands,” his mother said, reaching for Iris, and Ford passed her over willingly enough and with obvious relief.
Iris, apparently unused to rejection despite the woman who’d birthed her trying to cure her of that, was not impressed by the transaction. She started to cry.
Meanwhile, Ford tried to distract someone—Miles wasn’t sure who—by changing the subject. He admired the tree. “You buy that from Paul Bunyan?” he asked.
“Ha, ha,” Miles said. “This from the guy who could pass for Paul Bunyan’s clone. I need a drink. Let me get you a beer.”
“I’ll give you a hand in the kitchen,” Tate said to his mother, and Miles experienced a fresh wave of fear.
“Let’s all have drinks in the kitchen,” he said.
His mother patted his arm. “Don’t be silly. You men have your drinks in front of the tree. Put on some music. Let Tate and I get to know each other. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
His mom had taught him to cook, but she could fake old school when it suited her purpose, and right now it did. Meanwhile, Tate was being unnervingly agreeable, because it was unlike her to hang out in the kitchen while the men lazed around drinking beer.
When his mom called the men into the kitchen a half an hour later, Tate was busy setting wineglasses on the table—which looked very festive, with a white linen tablecloth, red candles, and bud vases stuffed with pinecones and dried grasses. As far as he could tell, everything seemed fine between them.
“So, Tate,” his mom began when they’d all filled their plates with steak, roasted vegetables, and bread. “Tell us a little about yourself. How did you end up babysitting for Miles? Is this a career choice or are you earning money for college?”
“Mom!” Miles said sharply. “If you want to know how old she is, ask me later.”
Tate smiled at him, then his mother, and left the age issue alone. “It’s neither. A friend told me he was looking for someone to take care of his daughter, and I’m a big fan, so I applied for the job.”
Miles sensed danger and rushed in to help save her from drowning. “Tate’s not that kind of fan.”
“What kind of fan would that be, dear?” his mother asked, sounding innocent enough, but he’d gotten plenty of lectures on that particular topic and he wasn’t fooled.
“He means I’m not a buckle bunny,” Tate cheerfully inserted, and Ford coughed up the sip of wine he’d just taken. The table jerked and Tate jumped, leading Miles to the conclusion that her brother had kicked her beneath it.
His mom had presided over plenty of family dinners, and it took more than a kick under the table to faze her. She resumed questioning Tate as if nothing had happened. “You’re good with Iris. You must have had quite a bit of childcare experience.”
“Mm,” Tate said, shoveling food in her mouth.
Smooth.Miles took a long swig out of his own glass of wine. He hadn’t considered how the evening would likely progress when he’d agreed to invite her to dinner.
“Tate’s good at looking after people,” Ford said unexpectedly. He cut his meat into small, precise pieces, all the same size, and kept his eyes on his plate while he spoke. “Particularly when she cares about them. She’s a typical Demeter archetype. A nurturer and overcontrolling mother figure.” Everyone stared at him. And then, because a penchant for unfiltered honesty must run in the family, he added, “She’s a terrible cook, though. She never caught on to that.”
Miles filed the archetype information away. Nurturing fit with what he’d heard about her and what he’d seen for himself. It also explained why she’d taken the hit from her parents over her brother’s death. They hadn’t fully grasped the dangers of bull riding and assumed she’d look out for him as usual.
Nah.Miles dismissed that line of thinking as giving them far too much credit. Her parents were self-absorbed jerks, and nothing would convince him otherwise.
He wasn’t about to let Ford outdo him when it came to defending his sister, however. His reputation was on the line here as well. Did his mother think he’d let just anyone look after his daughter, simply because they claimed to be one of his fans?
