Page 9 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
“Hi,” Maybe said into the phone. “This is Tate Shannahan. We met the other night at the taproom? I heard you need a babysitter and I’d like to apply. Uh huh. Uh huh. Yes, I have experience.” Maybe listened intently. Tate heard the smooth rumble of Miles’s sexy voice on the other end of the line but couldn’t make out any words. “Sure. Of course. Eleven thirty is fine. I’ll be there.”
She thumbed the disconnect icon and tossed the phone toward Tate. “You’re to meet with him at the Endeavour’s main office at eleven thirty. Walk in the front door of the ranch house and he’ll be in the common area, waiting for you.”
“You’re a horrible person, Mabel,” Tate said. She tucked the phone in her purse, where it would be safe—although too little, too late.
“It’s only until you find something better. And I bet he pays well.”
What could possibly be better than working for Miles Decker? Her starstruck, tween inner self jumped up and down in excitement.
“What if he hears what happened with Santa?” Tate didn’t think she could survive having the face of bull riding think poorly of her. She got enough of that from ninety-nine percent of the town.
“Pull yourself together, woman. So what if he does? Do you thinkMiles Deckerwill care that you set Carl Beaman straight for putting his hand up your skirt?”
Maybe was probably right. Despite his dog reputation, Miles had always been a vocal advocate for women in an industry where women had to look out for themselves. One more reason for women to love him.
“You told him I have experience with kids.”
“It’s not rocket science,” said the impatient woman with a horde of nieces and nephews she largely ignored. “Play a few games. Watch television. I hear shark babies are in. Feed her spaghetti and hotdogs. That’s what we grew up on. Besides, what other employment options are out there for you right now?”
Maybe was definitely right about that. Tate was twenty-five and owned not one single marketable skill. Barrel racing used to be it, but she’d loved her horse more than the sport and had to quit after the sight of the arena made her pass out. She’d just gotten fired from a job most sixteen-year-olds could handle. She lived in a double-wide trailer owned by her brother.
She would have lived with her parents, but they sold the family home and moved to Florida shortly after Tanner, the family golden boy, died. When she suggested she spend Christmas with them, they’d made excuses as to why Christmas in Florida wasn’t for her. She’d gotten the message. They’d never come right out and said it, but they blamed her for Tanner’s death, too.
Now her best friend expected her to humiliate herself further in front of Miles Decker. Her hero. By showing up and having him turn her down because she wasn’t even qualified to babysit. Hadn’t she suffered enough?
“Babysitting is perfect for you. You’ve always liked taking care of other people, Tate. Face it. You’re bossy. And you’ve been lost ever since…” A brief, delicate pause suggested Maybe couldn’t find the right words. “This will give you a purpose until you get back on your feet. You can’t live off Ford forever.”
Maybe was right yet again. Tate had to make some sort of plan for her future, and to do that, she needed money. Besides, her inner tween self really,reallywanted to work for Miles Decker. Where was all that self-confidence she’d once possessed?
“Okay. I’ll go to the interview. But I’m blaming you if I don’t get the job and my self-esteem is destroyed.”
“That’s the spirit. Think positive,” Maybe said, toasting her with the dregs of her latte.
*
Tate and Fordlived about ten miles outside of Grand, putting her halfway to the Endeavour Ranch’s main house, which was twenty miles out.
She’d bought an old car with the last of the money from selling Davey, her quarter horse, before moving home. She’d loved Davey. But the mare had begun showing her age, and with her barrel racing days pretty much over, she deserved a better retirement than Tate could afford. Trained barrel horses, particularly ones as twitchy as Davey, weren’t suited for children, so Tate had sold her to a small, reputable ranch that planned to use her for cutting cattle and breeding. Tate hadn’t visited, even though she was welcome, because she didn’t know if she could walk away from her twice.
She passed through the Endeavour Ranch gates and coaxed her tiny car up the long drive. She parked next to an enormous garage, then crossed the yard to the front door of the hotel-sized main house, where a sign on the door told her to enter. She knocked to announce her arrival, because she was intimidated as hell and it was the polite thing to do, then pushed the door open.
Someone at the Endeavour liked Christmas. A lot. A star perched atop a giant fir tree stroked the ceiling some twelve feet above. The tree’s density and girth alone inspired awe. Delicate strands of light twinkled off the hundreds of crystal ornaments weighting its branches. A seven-foot angel crafted from iron watched over a metalwork nativity scene set up next to the tree—an incredible piece of art. She couldn’t begin to imagine how much it must have cost to create such a display.
Meanwhile, she’d bought her coat secondhand three seasons ago and her jeans were torn at the knees—through wear and tear and not by design. She was so out of her class. She should never have come. But she had and it was too late to run. All she could do now was fake it, so she swung her jaw closed and forged onward.
Miles was right where Maybe said he would be, in the center of a common area complete with leather sofas and stone flooring. He was on his hands and knees, crouched low to the floor, growling as he touched noses with a tiny human who was growling back at him. Tate’s heart turned to goo. This had to be the sweetest sight she’d ever seen.
Miles spotted her and bounced to his feet like the former athlete he was. “Tate. Thanks for coming.”
God, he was beautiful.
And then he smiled. It distorted one side of his face. The room slid sideways and started to spin, but this was one of the milder attacks, and the pounding in her chest wasn’t so bad. The solid floor under her hadn’t budged, meaning she could control it.
She focused on Miles’s eyes, not the scar, and took a few deep, grounding breaths. The room settled back into place. The heaviness behind her breastbone eased off. She tucked her shaking hands into her coat pockets. Only a few seconds had passed.
“That’s a baby,” she blurted out, because she had to say something—anything—to cover up her weird behavior. She was now two-for-two as far as making a fool of herself went.You’ll pay for this, Maybe.
“Yes, she is,” Miles acknowledged, his probing eyes attempting to lock in on hers. “Is that a problem?”
