Page 4 of Her Candy Cane Cowboy
The barrister calls my name, and I step away from Dallas and the panty-dampening words he spews. Clutching my coffee, I turn to leave sparing him a glance as I draw near. Pausing, I say, “All night long? That’s sort of like believing that fish or penis inches are factual measures. It’s a myth.”
He laughs and the rich sound carries across the room. The two middled-aged women glance toward us with curiosity.
“Goodbye, cowboy,” I say firmly.
“Until next time,” he responds, making it sound like future meetings are a foregone conclusion.
Fat chance. I plan to avoid him and his merry dildo for the remainder of my time in town.
Darting back across the street to the rental car, I get in, taking a moment to replay the interaction. The man radiates confidence, and it caught me off guard. Both times I’ve seen him have been brief but left me with a fast pulse and a dry mouth. Because…because…okay…I’ll acknowledge the truth.
He is appealing. The kind of man who makes hate sex sound like a great idea, though I get the feeling my dislike is the only one that exists. He doesn’t seem to dislike me at all.
A sinking feeling fills my stomach and my mind races for answers on how to deal with this unexpected glitch. I have to figure this out. I’m determined not to get rattled again by the handsome cowboy.
Chapter 3
Dallas
Thanks to the curvy beauty I met at the post office, my trip back to Montana is turning out to be a lot different than I expected. If anyone would have told me I’d fall in love during the holidays or hell, any day for that matter, I’d have laughed my ass off.
Never much thought I was the falling in love kind. Maybe part of that is because of a foul tempered foster mom who said I was a bad kid and broken. She said broken people don’t know how to love and they don’t deserve it anyway. I carried those words like they were my future written in stone.
And look at me now. That curvy woman has me tied in more loops than a bag of Christmas bows. I don’t even know her name, but I will. I’ll know everything about her.
I drive onto the property of The Naughty List Ranch and see the two-story farmhouse. Many good memories were built here and some stick out more than others.
Like the first time Christopher sat beside me on the wraparound porch and told me I was a good kid. He said I was smart and talented, and he was glad I was there. Words nobody ever said to me before.
Another memory that sticks out is the first time I’d heard laughter spilling from the farmhouse’s open windows. I grew up in dozens of homes where people screamed and argued and threw things.
That’s the kind of environment I expected when I came to the ranch. And I expected Christmas to be just another day the way it had been up to that point. I didn’t even look at the boxes wrapped beneath their tree because I figured none of them had my name on them anyway.
But Christmas morning Mary had pressed a cup of cocoa in my hands and then told me to open my presents. Presents. Plenty of them. Like I mattered.
Maybe that’s why Christmas became my favorite holiday. It was during that time of year that even though the weather outside was cold, my frozen heart started thawing out.
I’m still smiling as I exit the car and glance over to see the bunkhouse where’d I’d slept and forged close bonds with the other boys, Grady, Cole, and Nate.
This place is as perfect and as special as the couple running it. They’re both on the porch grinning broadly. Though they’re in their early sixties, they have a vibrant, youthful glow about them. I reckon it comes from the light in their hearts.
“Welcome back, Dallas,” Mary says, her hazel eyes filled with joy. She looks at me like I’m her favorite, the same way she does the other boys. Her silver-streaked curls are pulled back into her familiar bun.
I stoop to her height and hug her. We still talk on the phone and video chat, but it’s not the same as getting a hug.
Christopher runs a hand down his white beard and his blue eyes light up as he engulfs me once Mary lets go.
This is the man who taught me to work hard. Who didn’t put up with excuses or bullshit. I might be a man now roughened by long hours working my ranch, but I feel like a scrawny teenager again.
He grips my shoulder and squeezes lightly. “Good to see you. Are you heading to the bunkhouse first?” he asks, handing me a cup of the spiked apple cider he makes.
I down it in just a few gulps. I’ve missed this, too.
He takes the cup back, then pulls a peppermint tin from his pocket and offers me one.
I take it and as I’m popping it into my mouth, a car pulls up.
“Oh, good. Ginger is here,” Mary says.
