Page 5 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
The Endeavour’s plans for a rodeo had several layers to it. Getting it off the ground was phase one. Next up, they planned to breed their own line of bulls and sell them at auction. Miles had suggested to Ryan that, if they were going to engineer their own bulls, it might prove worthwhile to train riders to ride them, too. But that was phase three.
Miles had been wanting to meet Levi regarding phase two for a few weeks now, and this was his chance. He walked up to his table and introduced himself, then pulled up a chair and contemplated his opening line. There was no need to tiptoe around. He preferred the direct, honest approach.
“Word has it you’re involved in the Running River’s breeding program,” Miles said. Word also had it he wasn’t happy there. Miles was counting on that being true. “I have a proposition for you.”
Levi drank from his half-empty glass. A thoughtful gaze met Miles’s over the rim. “I’m listening.”
“How would you like to lead a similar program for the Endeavour?”
Interest crackled in the other man’s eyes. “I’d have full control?”
That question and the hopeful way it was posed told Miles a lot about Levi’s current position. “It depends on what direction you saw us headed in,” he replied, careful not to commit. “We’d be happy to hear your suggestions. If we’re all in agreement, then the most likely answer is yes. Why not drop by the Endeavour at the start of the new year so we can talk more? In private?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Which was all Miles could ask. He’d leave it to Ryan O’Connell to sweeten the deal.
He left Levi to his thinking and finally arrived at the bar, where he ordered a beer from the bartender, Ford Shannahan. Santa’s pretty blonde helper showed up while he waited. She eased a full tray onto the far end of the counter, then scooted under the flap and began to unload dirty glasses into the dishwasher.
Ford slid a tall glass of cold, frothy, black stout toward Miles before taking his money.
“Who’s the new girl?” Miles asked.
“My sister.”
Ford’s sister, huh? Other than the blond hair and blue eyes, Miles didn’t see it. She was sassy and cute. Ford was terse and scary as hell. “I take it by the outfit that she likes Christmas.”
A shadow passed across Ford’s dour, expressionless face. “Not as much as she used to.”
And… there was a story buried in that look somewhere.
One that was none of Miles’s business.
The girl looked up from the dishwasher and caught sight of Miles talking to Ford but looking at her. A glass slipped through her fingers and hit the floor, where it shattered, setting chaos in motion. She jerked her arm backward and caught the edge of the tray with her elbow. The remaining glasses sailed off the bar and into the taproom where they landed with a crash. Broken glass scattered at Miles’s feet—tiny, glittering pieces of shrapnel.
Heads turned. A few people applauded.
“Damn it all!” the girl swore.
Ford rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Great going, Tate.”
Tate Shannahan.
So that was her name.
She grabbed a broom and a dustpan and scurried around to the taproom side of the counter. Her cleaning equipment got caught up in the flap and she swore again as she wrenched it free. Miles crouched down on his heels and began to help pick up the larger fragments of glass.
“I’ve got it,” she said, then glared at the broom as if the whole mess were its fault and it would pay for it later. Stiff yellow bristles scraped against the floor, sweeping slivers and shards into a single pile, the broom no doubt afraid for its life.
There it was—the family resemblance.
Miles sighed, tipped the chunks of glass from his palm into the dustpan, and went back for seconds. He’d never had a grown woman react this strongly to the sight of his scarred face before—at least, not to his knowledge—and he had to keep busy so as not to overthink it. Ninety-five percent of him was as pretty as ever. A lousy five percent shouldn’t matter.
“That’s the last of it,” he said, disposing of a third and final handful of glass, then dusted his palms to make sure he was rid of any clinging bits and pieces. He picked the tray off the floor, stood, and returned it to the bar. Most of his natural charm seemed to have abandoned him, because that was the extent of his ability to get a conversational ball rolling.
Not that she appeared to be interested in idle chatter with him.
She shifted from one pointy-toed, winklepicker-clad foot to the other, all tense and awkward. Deep, Nordic-blue eyes hit his chest, skated upward, hesitated a split second an inch shy of his chin, then bravely soldiered on.
