Page 2 of Her Cowboy Santa
“Not even for a quick stop-in?” Her voice has that little note to it. The one that lets me know she’s disappointed but trying to hide it. I hate that it’s hurting her, but I hate smiling through the festivities even more.
“Not even for a quick stop-in,” I confirm. Christmas is only a few days away, and my big plan is to hide out on my farm and pretend the day doesn’t exist. It’s surprisingly easy to do for a cowboy. After all, the chores don’t take a day off just because it’s a holiday. The animals still need to be fed and watered, the fences mended, and the barn secured. There’s a lot for a cowboy to handle. Far too much to take time off.
She sighs softly. “Some of your brothers are coming.”
“I’m going to send you a really nice Christmas gift,” I answer, hoping my words will be a distraction to get her off this topic.
“I don’t want a gift, nice or otherwise,” she tells me. “I have everything I need right here.”
“You’re really going to like it.” In truth, I have no idea what I’m getting her. I’ll have to look up one of those lists on my phone, the kind that talk about what gifts women are wanting for Christmas this year.
My phone beeps in my ear, signaling I have a new text message. It’s a welcome relief to be able to say, “I’ve got to go. This could be important.”
I tell her I love her and end the call. But it’s only a message from Ledger, thanking me for my help.
I tap out a quick response and continue my solitary walk, which is over too fast when I spot my ranch hands coming out of the bunkhouse.
They look like they’ve had some spiked eggnog.
“Hey there, boss man,” Michael, one of my new ranch hands, calls out. He plucks off the red Stetson with fur from his head and puts it on mine. Then he breaks into a braying laugh, as do the other ranch hands who are with him.
Yep, someone definitely spiked the eggnog tonight.
“He’s cowboy Santa,” Michael declares, laughing again. He points with his thumb behind him. “We’re headed to Liquid Courage for a little bit of holiday cheer. Why don’t you come with us?”
“I’m good,” I tell him. He says something about cowboy Santa being grumpy, until I glare at him. Suddenly, the ranch hands are all too eager to disperse.
I watch them go and shake my head. Rudy watches them too, letting out a whine like he’s disappointed to be stuck with a grump like me for the holidays. “Come on, I have a good Christmas gift for you. Might even give it to you early.”
The sight of my two-story farmhouse with its green roof soon to be covered in snow and the cozy porch with the wicker furniture almost brings a smile to my face. I bought it a few years ago. It’s what I’ve worked hard for my whole life. But it’s only half the dream.
The other half involved the place being lit up with lights and little ones toddling about and a wife with a sweet smile. Someone who would look forward to cozying up with me on these cold winter nights.
Seeing the dark farmhouse makes my heart hurt the same way your hand does when you’ve bumped into something. You don’t remember quite how the bruise got there, only that it aches when pressed on.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I mutter at the same moment that Rudy lets out a menacing growl and lays his ears back.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I take the porch steps two at a time. I only have to swing my door open to spot the problem. There is an intruder in my living room, or rather, what I’m sure Rudy would classify as an intruder.
Hunter, my brother, so rarely drops by that Rudy doesn’t know him or his scent very well.
“Help yourself to some of my jam,” I tell him because he’s stretched out in one of my plush leather recliners with a jar of jam and some table crackers. I’ve been making that jam and working on it for two years now. I’ve perfected it. I know I have.
“You’ve got jars of it,” Hunter says, spewing crackers everywhere. But he at least has the decency to put down the footrest of the recliner and click off the sports game he was watching. “Nice hat. Are you supposed to be western Santa?”
“What are you doing here?” I think I can count on one hand the number of times he’s come down the mountain.
“Well, I was in the neighborhood,” he answers as if my farm is one of those suburbs with two thousand houses all built within a square mile. I’d break out in hives if I had more neighbors than trees. Huh, maybe that’s why city folks are always complaining about their allergies.
I make a noise of disbelief and head into the kitchen, pulling three steaks from the fridge where I’ve had them marinating. I didn’t plan for company, but as long as Hunter doesn’t annoy me, I reckon I could throw him a bite of food. “Yeah, I know what a social butterfly you are.”
He has the decency to look sheepish. He rarely leaves his cabin on the mountain. In fact, there’s only one person who could have put him up to this.
“Emma May,” I say under my breath.
He nods, confirming my guess. Emma May is our adoptive foster mother. She was already fostering Hunter and Ford, my biological brothers. Somehow, she and Mary Maas connected online after realizing they both had part of a set of triplets.
At first, when Mary told me about my teenage brothers in North Carolina, I didn’t believe her. But after talking with Hunter and Ford, I quickly realized we shared a connection.
