Page 2 of A Cowboy Home for Christmas
I laugh.
I forget the worry and sadness that has consumed me every day for the past half year. I see my girls forgetting, too. If only for a moment, I’ll take it. If it’s because of one little cuss, I’ll accept it.
“Mommy, why does everyone love Frosty?” Clara asks between jumps.
“I don’t know, why?”
“He’s cool!” Both girls answer in a fit of laughter. Pawpaw bought them a winter joke book and the jokes have been one after the next.
“Today, I find three lil’ monkeys jumpin’ on the bed.” My heart skips a beat at the sound of Barker Bennett’s deep husky voice.
Not exactly the reaction a widow should have for her dead husband’s brother. Then again, he’s been more of a husband than his brother ever was. Of course, now that Gunnar is dead, I can’t say that. On the other hand, they found his lifeless body in his mistress’s bed, so maybe I’m allowed to say all the mean fucking shit I want about him.
“Uncle Barker!” Clara shouts.
Lark bounces around to face him, wearing a smile from ear to ear. “Come jump with us. Four little monkeys jumpin’ on the bed!”
“Uncle Barker’s not little,” Clara giggles.
These two girls are the reason I keep my mouth shut, and my emotions bottled deep, deep down in the abyss of my stomach.
I turn to face him. Hot damn, the man is gorgeous. His chiseled handsome, and sexy facial features make all the women swoon. The buckle bunnies included. Especially if he’s anything like his brother. Which I know he’s not.
Our eyes meet.
Like they always do.
Even when he’s not working the rodeo circuit, he’s dressed in cowboy boots, a belt with a large steer buckle, and his lucky Stetson. He fits into the southern charm of the cabin. The timber trusses and ceiling rafters. Large windows and a patio door in each room that lead to the wrap-around balcony, and overlooks the trees, and ridges of Whiskey Ridge Creek.
Barker’s russet-colored eyes dance with a twinkle of humor. “I think three monkeys is plenty.”
I flush a hundred shades of embarrassment. “We were just playin’.” I’ve stopped jumping, but have to steady myself beside Lark’s bounces.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He leans against the doorframe, practically taking up the entire space. “Shit, shit, shit.” His husky voice melts my insides.
“Uncle Barker said shit.” Clara’s soft giggles are overtaken by Lark’s loud chatter.
“Uncle Barker always says shit.” Lark deepens her voice to mimic her uncle.
“Daddy says Uncle Barker cusses more than anyone he knows.” Clara’s bounce slows as the mention of her daddy sinks into her head.
“Shut up, Clara!”
“Hey now.” I touch the top of Lark’s head. Lark was a daddy’s girl. Couldn’t wait to ride horseback on the trail with him, clean the stalls, and tend to the horses. While Clara played on the deck dressing her dolls or sewing outfits with me.
“That’s what daddy used to say. Not says.” Lark’s smile is replaced by a snarl she uses to cover up tears she refuses to shed. “He’s not here anymore, stupid.”
I kneel beside Lark. My knee sinks into the white duvet. “Be kind to your sister. Be kind with your words.”
Lark folds her arms over her chest. Her lips curl deeper into a frown.
“It’s easy to forget he’s not here. Because he was with us for so long. It’s not right or wrong how we remember him. Sometimes I hear a truck rumble up the driveway at home, and for a second, I still think it’s him comin’ home.”
“But he’s never comin’ home.”
“No, he’s not, baby.” I brush stray hair away from her face. “But he’ll always be here.” I press my hand over her heart.
“Bullshit,” she mutters, with a challenging stare. There’s my baby girl pushing boundaries. My ambitious, adventurous, brave go-getter. But I’m not raising a lil’ girl with a sailor’s mouth.
