Page 1 of A Cowboy Home for Christmas
Chapter One
LAUREN
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“YOU GET MURDERED first, Lark.” A suitcase thumps on the bed in the room attached to mine.
“No, you get murdered first, Clara.” Another thump follows.
“No, you get murdered first.” A third thump.
“No, you get murdered first.” The fourth thump has my feet thumping across the wood floor. My six-year-old twin daughters are in the middle of a tug-a-war with an open suitcase.
“If y’all don’t unpack your bags, you’re gonna miss out on the Christmas fun at the lodge.” I take the suitcase.
“Awe,” Clara pouts.
“Drats,” Lark adds.
I plop the suitcase on the ground in front of the dresser, and slide open a drawer. “And no more Schitt’s Creek for both of you.” I transfer their small, folded outfits into the drawers.
“Awe.”
“Drats.”
I smile at their adorable sulking, even if my words hold a hint of firm parenting. “You weren’t supposed to be watching it, anyhow.” I can thank their aunt for that.
I zip up the empty suitcase, and set it on the closet floor before I turn to face them. Clara’s hand is slapped over her mouth. Her cedar-colored eyes pop wide open like shocked saucers.
“Mommy said shit.” Lark jumps on the bed. Her honey-blonde French braid bounces off her back. “Shit, shit, shit.”
My first instinct is to point a warning finger at her. My hand even twitches at my side. But it’s the first time since her father’s funeral that I’ve seen her smile. Her real smile. The troublemaking, devious one she wears while getting into mischief. It seems since his passing, she’s forbidden herself from stepping out of line, or pushing boundaries. I’ve always been proud of her pushing boundaries.
Her twin sister catches my hesitation. Clara climbs on the second double bed. She eyes me the entire time. She’s my cautious, obedient, lil’ girl.
She bounces.
Slowly at first.
When I say nothing, she jumps in tune with her sister. “Shit, shit, shit.” Clara’s ruffled dress billows in the air.
I want to scold them. I really do. My motherly instinct coils inside me.
Shit is a cuss word.
Girls don’t cuss.
Where’s the respect I’ve ingrained in you since birth?
But the words don’t find their way to my mouth. They definitely don’t find their way to my brain. Before I know what’s happening, my legs carry me to the bed, and I’m jumping beside Lark.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
They sing.
They laugh.
I sing.
