Page 66 of Claimed By the Cowboy
Kitty gives me a puzzled look. “Who knocks out here?”
“Guess we’re about to find out.” I wipe my hands on the dishtowel and head for the door, still grinning at her ridiculous sweater.
A tall man stands framed by the snow, shoulders broad beneath a leather jacket, a dusting of white clinging to his Stetson. His presence is as stark as the cold air rolling in around him.
“Tom,” he greets with a curt nod.
I blink. “Well, I’ll be damned. Grady Cross.”
Kitty peers curiously from behind me as I shake his hand.His grip is strong and unyielding, his eyes a sharp gray-blue that take in everything and give back almost nothing. They look older than the man himself, carrying shadows of places most folks never come back from.
“Thought you wereoverseas,” I say.
“Was,” he answers simply. “Not anymore. Heard the Maas’ still light the Christmas Eve bonfire. Figured it was time to set a few things right.” His gaze flicks to Kitty, then back to me. “Besides, word is the Sutton brothers all went and got themselves married inside a year. Had to see that miracle with my own eyes.”
“Yeah, well.” I slip an arm around Kitty’s waist and draw her forward, pride warming my chest. “This miracle here is my wife, Kitty.”
Grady’s eyes soften a fraction as he inclines his head in greeting. “Good to meet you, Kitty. You’ve got your hands full with this one.” His gaze returns to me, and his mouth twitches with the ghost of a smile.
I squeeze her gently. “Oh, she handles me just fine.”
Grady’s expression sobers again. “Thought I’d drop by when I heard about what went down here. Poison in the water, sabotage on your land…”He pauses, jaw tight. “I’m sure you’ve got it handled, but if you need an extra set of eyes or hands, you call me.”
His tone carries the weight of a man who’s seen too much and isn’t afraid to step back into the fire if it means protecting the people he cares about.
I nod. “Appreciate it. Good to have you home, brother.”
“Don’t know if it’s home yet,” he replies obliquely. “Good to see you, Tom.” He tips his hat. “Kitty.”
With that, he’s gone, leaving behind nothing but a swirl of snowflakes and a silence thick enough to taste.
Kitty leans into me. “He’s… intense.”
“Always has been,” I murmur, watching the snow swallow him whole. “He was one of the Maas’ boys. Grady and I grew up side by side until he was about twelve. His home life was bad—real bad—and when things finally blew up, Mary and Jonathon Maas took him in at their Christmas tree ranch. Saved him, if you ask me. Saved a lot of boys who had nowhere else to go. Some went off to college, some to the military, some never came back at all. Grady? He went further than most, and I always figured he’d never return.”
Her brows lift. “The Maas family sounds special.”
I grin. “Havenstone’s version of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Mary with her fudge and knitted scarves. Jonathon with his big beard and even bigger laugh—hell, you’ll love them. I’ll take you to meet them over the Christmas period. Their place is like a Hallmark Christmas card.”
Kitty’s smile blooms, her fingers twining with mine. “Sounds like my kind of people.”
“Trust me,” I say, kissing her temple. “They’re everybody’s kind of people.”
I’m about to steal another kiss when the front door opens again, and Henry booms, “Smells like cinnamon rolls and Christmas in here!”
Snow clings to his boots as he stomps inside. Max is strapped to his chest in a reindeer-patterned carrier, a tuft of his dark hair sticking up like a tiny rooster comb.
Angus follows, lugging a tray of eggs and bacon like he’s feeding an army. He kicks the snow from his boots. “Don’t let Henry near the frosting,” he warns, setting the tray down. “Last time, we had to scrape sugar off the rafters.”
“Hey, that was one time,” Henry protests. “And technically, it was powdered sugar, not frosting.”
“You two are like feral raccoons,” I mutter, following them to the kitchen.
“Only we reproduce better than raccoons,” Henry adds smugly, kissing the top of Max’s head. My three-month-old nephew gurgles in response, tiny hands batting at his dad’s chin.
Kitty takes one look at Henry juggling Max and a cinnamon roll and sighs. “Do not feed my nephew sugar before nine a.m., Henry.”
“Relax,” he says, licking frosting off his thumb. “He’s just drooling on it.”
