Page 66 of Rocky Mountain Cowboy Christmas
Camille was tromping through the snow toward the workshop when fat, soft snowflakes started to fall. At first it was just one or two, but soon they were floating down in great numbers, landing on her eyelashes and the tip of her nose.
“Of course,” she said, looking up at the sky.
“Of course what?” Ryan asked, coming up behind her. He’d seemed to have gotten past his snit over the past few days, although he wasn’t quite as talkative as before he’d found out about her and Steve.Me and Steve.Even their names linked together made her shiver happily. She mentally rolled her eyes at her silly smitten self, but that didn’t stop her smile.
“Of course it’s snowing on Christmas Eve. This place is like every holiday cliché rolled into one ranch.”
“Just wait until tomorrow,” he said. “We open presents at Steve’s place and then hitch Buttercup to the cutter for a sleigh ride. It’s like a Christmas card come to life.” He winked at her, and she felt a moment of gratitude that he seemed to have come around and that he’d pretty much stopped hitting on her, so that Christmas at the ranch wouldn’t be a mess of awkwardness.
“That definitely sounds”—wonderful—“like the ultimate Christmas cliché.” She couldn’t wait. The mention of presents reminded her that the bag of wrapping paper she was carrying was getting more and more snow-covered the longer she stood there. Besides, just because he’d been behaving himself recently didn’t mean that she felt immediately comfortable with Ryan. “Better go.” She held up the bag. “My wrapping’s going to be soggy.”
Giving him a wave, she hurried the rest of the way to the shop. All four kids were there, waiting for her so they could wrap presents. They sat in a circle on the heated floor with their backs to each other so that they couldn’t see the others’ presents and possibly get a peek at their own gift.
After knocking the snow off the top of the bag, she dumped out all the wrapping paper and gift bags and scissors and tape and Sharpies for writing names. “This is everything from your house and what we ordered online.”
The kids picked through the options, scrambling to grab their favorite colors and patterns. Once everyone had the supplies they needed, they returned to their spots in their outward-facing circle. Gathering the remaining items, Camille plopped down in the spot they’d left for her between Maya and Will, resisting the urge to sneak a glance at the others’ unwrapped gifts. The kids all seemed very disciplined about not peeking at other people’s presents. It made Camille feel extra guilty about the temptation she’d felt to try to see what they’d gotten or made for her. Sometimes she felt like they were more mature than she was. Focusing on unrolling some silver wrapping paper, she shifted into a more comfortable position. A peaceful quiet settled over them, broken only by the rustle of paper or the sound of tape being pulled from a dispenser.
“You never finished your story, Camille,” Will said, breaking the silence.
“What story?” She started with Steve’s sculpture. It had turned out really well, she thought, but she was still anxious about his reaction. She was finding that giving a piece as a gift was more nerve-racking than selling it. After all, if someone was willing to pay money for it, then they obviously liked it. When she gave it to Steve, he’d have to keep it to be polite, even if he hated it. It made her antsy, and she wished Christmas would just arrive already.
“That first day I met you in the store, you said that you liked Dad the best, but Uncle Ryan interrupted before you told me why.”
Camille’s face heated as she groaned, and she was suddenly glad that they were facing away from each other so they couldn’t see her blush. “Really? You want to hear about that? How about some other story, one that doesn’t make me sound like such a sad little dorkus.”
“No, tell that one!” Maya sounded gleeful, and they all took up the chorus, as Camille should’ve expected.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “So, your dad was three years older than I was. When I was in school, they didn’t have the new, bigger middle school yet, so the high school was ninth-graders through twelfth-graders. This meant that we went to the same school for a year when I was a lowly freshman and he was a senior.”
“Quit stalling,” Micah grumbled, and the others laughed.
“I’m not stalling.”Not exactly.“Just setting the scene. The Springfield brothers were like royalty when I was growing up—the four handsome princes. Just like you four, they were just a year or two apart, so the high school was filled with them for a while. Everyone had their favorites, although most people thought that Ryan was the most handsome and Nate was the most charming. The Joe fans thought he was a bad boy rather than just crabby.”
The kids laughed.
“Not me, though. Even though Nate and Ryan were closer to my age, I was a diehard Steve groupie from the time I was twelve. I thought he was the most attractive of the four, but I was most drawn to him because he seemed so kind and steady.”
She turned over Steve’s wrapped gift and popped a premade bow on the top before adding it to her “done” pile. Next, she grabbed the box holding Maya’s present and chose another color of wrapping paper.
“So, on one side of the school social spectrum, there was handsome prince Steve, and on the other side, there was ninth-grade me, incredibly shy with clothes my grandma picked out and braces and a habit of dropping things when I was nervous…which was most of the time. I was a mess, and you know how other kids can just sense that? Like wolves that can pick out the deer with the broken leg, only there’s more mental torture involved in high-school packs.”
She paused, staring at the ribbon in her hand, suddenly back there with her fourteen-year-old self.
“What happened?” Maya prompted, bringing Camille out of her head.
“For my art class, our final project was putting together a portfolio of our best paintings from the year. I worked hours and hours outside school on the pieces for that portfolio. I was really into watercolors at the time, and I tended to overwork things. Once they lose their light—the white paper showing through—and get muddy, it’s really hard to salvage them.”
Micah gave a grunt that she took as agreement, but she sensed the others’ growing impatience.
“Sorry to go all art geek on you,” she said, “but that’s just so you see how much time went into this thing. I think I destroyed about ten paintings to every one that worked out. Anyway, the day came to turn in our portfolios, so I carefully put mine in this oversized folder and held it on my lap on the bus and carried it to every class I had before art. I didn’t want to put it in my backpack or locker in case the edges got bent.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to your paintings,” Maya wailed, “but I know something’s going to happen! I don’t think I like this story.”
“There’s a happy ending,” Camille assured her. “I’m walking down the hall, clutching my portfolio to my chest, and I’ve made it through half the day. Art class is next, and I’m really excited for my teacher to see it. Someone walks by and bumps into me. I don’t think it was on purpose, but it was hard enough to knock me off-balance, and I fell. The pictures mostly stayed in the folder, but when I started to get up, this nasty kid named Justin grabbed my portfolio out of my hands.
“He started throwing each painting up in the air, laughing as I ran after each one, begging him to stop. The hall was crowded, and I knew people would walk right over them if I didn’t get there first, leaving shoe prints and rips. Everyone saw what Justin was doing, but they just laughed or ignored it and kept walking.”
She heard Maya suck in a horrified breath and hurried to get to the happy ending.
