A Cowboy for Christmas (3 page)

Her heart slammed against her chest with jackhammer force. Her negative energy flowed into Kyle. He fisted his little hand in her hair, yanked, his hopeless shrieks piercing her eardrums.

Calm down, calm down.

But she'd lost all ability to soothe herself.

Bake. The no-fail solution to runaway emotions. Bake. How could she bake without real vanilla?

Get real vanilla
.

It was a nonsensical edict. Of course it was, but the command stuck in her brain. She made it to Jake's extended-cab pickup truck. She'd wanted a Prius and this was what she ended up with. The key fumbled at the lock, but she finally wrenched the door open and got Kyle buckled into his backward-facing car seat.

By the time she slid behind the wheel she was only breathing from the top part of her lungs. Her diaphragm had shut down, paralyzed, seized. Puff, puff, puff. Short, fast pants swirled through her parted lips.

Hyperventilating.

Real vanilla
, whispered her mammalian brain.

Go home
, commanded her last shred of logic.

She started the engine, put the truck into reverse, and stamped her foot to the accelerator. Her worn leather purse rocketed to the floorboard, sending the contents scattering—makeup, hairbrush, wallet, plastic Happy Meal toys.

Dammit! She reached down for her purse.

Instantly, she felt a jolt, heard the jarring crunch of bending metal, tasted the wiry flavor of alarm. She lifted her head, saw a big red pickup truck filling her rearview mirror, and realized she'd just hit someone.

Chapter Two

R
afferty Jones had a simple goal. Find a certain woman. Deliver what he'd come to Texas to deliver, do what he'd promised, and then get out of Jubilee before things turned dicey. He wanted to be long gone when that happened.

Because they would turn dicey, of that he had no doubt.

He was not usually a procrastinator, but now that he'd driven the streets of Jubilee, which were overrun with horse trailers and dually pickup trucks like the one he drove, he was suddenly uncertain about his mission.

It felt too familiar here. People in Stetsons and Wranglers and cowboy boots were the majority not the minority. In L.A. he was the oddity. In Jubilee, he was part of the scenery. Country music played from shops on the square instead of rap or hip-hop. The air smelled of fresh harvest. Folks waved and smiled as if they knew him.

As if he belonged.

Instead of driving straight to the address clipped to the papers on the seat beside him, Rafferty decided to stop at the grocery store. He knew he was stalling, but he hadn't eaten anything since Tucumcari except a small bag of peppered beef jerky. He wasn't a big fan of greasy truck stop fare or fast food. A can of tuna and crackers washed down with V–8 juice sounded just about right to him. Throw in a couple of bananas for dessert and he was good to go.

Searcy's Grocery looked homegrown. It should do the trick.

He pulled his old Dodge Ram diesel into the lot and out of nowhere—
wham
—a late-model Ford extended-cab pickup truck bulleted backward out of a parking space and clipped his left front fender.

Dammit.

He put his aging Dodge into park, and swung his gaze to the driver of the Ford.

She was a pretty woman with an agitated expression on her thin face. Not beautiful, but nice-looking.

She turned her head and their gazes met.

He saw it then. That haunting vulnerability he seemed fatally attracted to. Her skin was pale, her eyes wide, her pink bottom lip pulled up between straight white teeth.

Unexpected fear seized him. He couldn't express why or in what way, but his gut sensed she could do him serious harm.

Blow off the damage, back up, and drive away. Now
.

Too late.

She was opening her door, and swinging to the ground. She wore a long-sleeved white cotton shirt over a blue denim skirt that made her look all of eighteen. The hem swished against the top of black knee-high boots. A mass of wavy, brown-sugar hair tumbled down her back. He couldn't help noticing the wedding band on her left hand. She was married.

Disappointment arrowed through him.

Why the hell did he care? His romantic relationships always seemed to end in a messy tangle. Besides, he was only in town for one day.

All you'd need is one night with her.

But something told him that one taste of this woman would never be enough and damn if he didn't have an urge to run his fingers through that cascade of thick hair. It looked incredibly soft. Good thing he'd noticed the ring before he said something glib and flirty. The last thing Rafferty needed was an angry husband punching his lights out for lusting after his woman.

“I am so sorry.” She kneaded her forehead. Distress glazed her green eyes and the worry lines creasing her brow furrowed deeper than a crunched fender.

That was his first clue that she was having a really bad day.

Watch it. No sympathy. Don't cut her any slack. Pretend she's a hairy, knuckle-draggin' steelworker.

“It's my fault. I wasn't paying any attention to where I was backing.”

He wasn't going to argue. She had plowed into him. “No, you weren't.”

Okay, he was being unrelenting, but it was his only defense against her wide-eyed upset. Rafferty hardened his jaw. He wouldn't be feeling forgiving if she were a six-foot, two-hundred-pound guy.

But she wasn't.

The woman moved forward, spied the damage to his truck, and groaned. She splayed her palms against her lower back. “I'll pay. Let me just get my insurance information.”

“Hold up a minute.” He reached out and rested a hand on her slender shoulder. Big mistake. His body reacted instantly. Lightning-quick, he dropped his hand.
Think of something else besides how good she smells. Horses. Think about horses.

“What? What?” She blinked as if seeing him for the first time.

“Are
you
okay?” Rafferty asked, unable to stop his dumbass self from caring.

“Fine, fine.” She looked harried, distracted . . .
fractured
.

Do not go there. It's not your duty to fix her life.

A thin wail came from the backseat of the Ford. There was a kid in the truck. Double damn.

“What about your baby?” Rafferty arched an eyebrow.

Her mouth formed a startled O. She pivoted and rushed to her child.

Rafferty followed, even though he had no idea why.

Clucking a soothing noise, she removed a toddler in a blue T-shirt who was kicking hard, arms flailing. He seemed more mad than hurt or scared.

Like any good mother, she examined him thoroughly in spite of the squirming and squalling. “Hold still for Mommy,” she pleaded.

The boy bucked against her, snorting in loud frustration.

Rafferty stepped closer. “Hey there, little britches,” he said, and gave the boy a stern but gentle look. “Ease up on the volume.”

The toddler's gaze fixed on him. His mouth clamped shut and he quieted, his eyes filling up with Rafferty.

“He needs a nap,” the woman apologized. “And he misses his daddy.”

“Traveling man?”

She jerked her head up. “Huh?”

“Is his daddy a traveling man?”

Her face darkened and her jaw tightened. “My husband . . .” She trailed off, her voice distant, but strong. “Died in Afghanistan.”

Damn. There was a lot of that goin' around.

“I'm sorry, ma'am.” He tipped his Stetson. “It wasn't any of my business.”

She hitched the boy on her hip and turned back to stare at their two trucks kissing back fender to front, but the foggy sheen to her eyes told him she wasn't seeing the slight damage. Was she thinking about her husband?

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Let me just get my insurance information,” she repeated and tracked around the front of her pickup to get to the other side. Rafferty trailed behind her. He couldn't make himself not notice the sweet sway of her hips.

She opened the passenger door and tried to one-hand the glove compartment open. The toddler started whimpering again.

“You want me to hold him for you?”

She pressed her lips into a grim line, shook her head. A fall of brown-sugar hair slanted across her cheek.

“I don't mind helpin',” he offered.

“I've got it,” she snapped.

Rafferty raised his palms. He knew when to back off. This one's nerves were wiredrawn and he had a feeling it was not just because of the smashup.

She half leaned over, one side pressed against the seat, the child tucked in the crook of her arm, and dug through the glove compartment. Papers flew every which way—receipts, fast food napkins, computer printouts of MapQuest destinations.

“I know it's in here somewhere,” she mumbled.

The kid was tuning up, working out his lungs.

Rafferty met the boy's eyes, laid a finger over his own lips.

The toddler stilled.

The woman's head jerked up and she thrust the child toward him. “Fine. Hold him.”

Rafferty's arms wrapped around the boy, who looked surprised to be there. He studied Rafferty's face with the astuteness of a miniature cop.

In the meantime, the child's mother was still rooting around in the glove compartment and muttering under her breath. “I found the old one, but it's expired. The new one has to be in here somewhere.”

“Could it be in your purse?” Rafferty asked, trying to be helpful.

Their vehicles were blocking the back end of the parking lot and a few people had already thrown them irritated glances. If he wasn't holding the baby, he would have gone ahead and moved his truck.

“No, no, my husband always puts it in the glove . . .” She trailed off, her shoulders slumped, and all the fight seemed to go out of her. “I didn't pay the car insurance.” She gulped visibly. “I forgot to mail it in. The stamped envelope is setting under a pile of correspondence on the table in the foyer.”

“Look, it's okay. Don't worry. I'm insured.”

“It's not okay. It's not okay. It's not.” She pounded a fist against the dashboard and then burst into tears.

Women's tears did not scare Rafferty. Not when he'd grown up with a mother who was emotionally more child than adult, not when he'd practically raised his younger sister and brother all by himself.

“Hey,” he soothed, the center of his chest pinching oddly. “It's just a crumpled fender. Nothing to cry over.”

“It's not the damn fender.” She glowered.

“I know. I know.” He shifted the boy onto his other hip and reached for one of the fast food napkins that had fluttered to the seat.

Stop it. You know how you get. It's not your job to solve her problems.

His fingers accidentally brushed her arm.

She drew back, alarm running across her face. Belatedly, she must have realized what he was after, because she accepted the napkin he offered, pressed it to her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“You've been through a lot. Losing your husband—”

“It's more than that.” She sobbed softly. “He can't hear, he can't hear.”

Rafferty was confused. “Who?”

She waved at the baby.

“Your son?” he asked, just to clarify.

“He's going deaf.”

Sympathy yanked at him. Because of his deaf ranch foreman, Guillermo Santo, who never allowed his lack of hearing to slow him down, Rafferty knew that from the boy's point of view, deafness wasn't the end of the world, but the news had to have been a sharp blow to the mother. He started to tell her about Guillermo, but stopped himself. He shouldn't get into her business.

“Ah, hell,” he mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

“I just found out today and there's nothing the doctors can do to stop his hearing loss. He'll be completely deaf by the time he's five.” She shredded the napkin with anxious fingers. “I haven't told anyone yet. I can't bear to tell anyone.”

“I get that.”

“I can't stand to listen to their questions, see the pity on their faces.”

“ 'Course not. You need time to absorb it yourself.” The toddler had fallen asleep in Rafferty's arms, curled up against his chest; the pressure of the little boy's head weighed heavily against his heart.

“He'll never be able to identify birds by their calls or hear a football coach holler out plays or listen to his wife tell him that she loves him.” Her voice cracked again as a fresh round of tears sprang to her eyes. She swiped at her cheeks with both hands.

Jesus, just walk away, Jones.

But how could he do that? He had her boy in his arms. He reached out to her then, pulled her from the truck, and just held her there in the parking lot. The child in one arm, the distraught mother in the other.

Rafferty was instantly aware of everything about her—the softness of her skin, the sound of her ragged breathing, the pressure of her breasts poking against his ribs. Trapped. He felt trapped, and yet underneath it was another, completely opposite feeling.

Contentment.

On the street, a pickup truck with a throbbing bass passed by. A breeze gusted shaking autumn leaves from a nearby elm tree. Dark clouds bunched overhead. An elderly man and woman crossed the parking lot, arms linked, holding each other steady.

Rafferty shifted his gaze back to the woman in his embrace. Her crisp white blouse smelled of spray starch and the neckline dipped into a modest V revealing just the barest hint of cleavage. Sexy in an innocent way. Above her collar hung an opal stone suspended from her long, slender neck by a fine gold chain. Her skin was smooth and creamy pale. She was not a woman who wandered out into the sun much, and the contrast to his own tanned skin was stark.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “This is stupid. I don't usually . . . This isn't . . .
me
.”

“Shh. It's okay,” he said. But it wasn't okay and they both knew it. With her son's diagnosis, her life had changed forever.

Shoppers skirted the fender bender, staring goggle-eyed, taking mental notes, drawing erroneous conclusions about them. Nosy Roseys. Ogling. The downside of small-town living.

The woman's hands curled into fierce fists. “I'm about to implode. I can't take any more. Not now. Not on top of everything else.”

The October breeze ruffled her hair over his shoulder. She smelled like cinnamon rolls—sweet and warm and yeasty. Spray starch and cinnamon rolls. A homey kind of scent he had not grown up with. She dropped her forehead against his neck. Through the open collar of his western shirt, he could feel her soft breath feather the hairs on his chest.

“I'm so furious at my husband for leaving when I needed him most.”

“That's understandable.” He rubbed her back, hurting for her in an alarmingly empathetic way.

She tilted her chin up. “Is it? Is it really? Or are you just trying to make me feel normal?”

“What's normal?”

“I have no idea.” She laughed mirthlessly, but he felt her body relax. She pushed her fingers through her hair, ruffling the thick honeyed strands.

“Listen. Forget all about this fender bender,” he said. “Your truck is fine and I have insurance to fix mine. No harm, no foul. You go on home, put your baby to bed, have a hot soak in the bathtub, eat something healthy, and then turn in early. You'll feel better after a good night's sleep.”