A Cowboy for Christmas (6 page)

Claudia didn't know where her son got the darkness. Her new-agey sister, Carol, said that maybe the trouble was left over from a previous life, but Claudia didn't believe in reincarnation, even though part of her found the idea appealing. Second chances. It was a provocative notion, but what was the point if you couldn't remember who you'd been in a previous life? How could you correct past mistakes if you couldn't remember them?

For the most part, she was an optimistic person in spite of all the curveballs life had thrown her way. The death of her first baby, born three months premature. These days, they probably could have saved Robbie. But back then? She shook her head. Three months in the NICU, looking like a naked baby sparrow, hooked up to tubes and monitors. Such a tiny, precious thing. All that suffering and then she'd still lost him.

She'd been so thankful when Jake had come along a year later to ease her grief. For years, she believed her life was perfect. She had a handsome cowboy husband and a healthy baby boy and then one awful Christmas Eve she discovered Gordon had sired a son by another woman when he'd been on the cutting horse circuit out in California. Claudia's happily-ever-after had come crashing in on her.

It wasn't even the cheating that ate at Claudia so fiercely. Gordon had always had a revved-up sex drive and a wandering eye and she understood what problems that combination could cause when he was on the road alone. Before Jake came along, she'd traveled the circuit with him, but once she had the baby, her son had become her entire world.

No, it wasn't so much the affair as the fact that Gordon had two sons while she had only one. He'd not only cheated on her, but he'd cheated by having a child without her. Jake's birth had been difficult, resulting in her having to have a hysterectomy. Even though Claudia longed for more children, she couldn't have them. So she showered love on Jake. But part of her couldn't get over the fact that she was no longer a real woman. Empty. Wombless. Barren.

Gordon vehemently denied that the child was his, but Claudia knew the truth. It had eaten at her, dark and festering. And then she'd gone and done a horrible thing. The big, nasty awful that earned her a place in hell. She'd done what she had to do to protect Jake. She had not regretted her actions when she'd done it, but with the passing of time came wisdom. Hindsight stirred the edges of her secret disgrace into bloodred remorse.

She pretended to believe Gordon that the baby was not his and she never told him about her big awful sin. They repaired the tatters of their marriage as best they could and moved on. Neither one of them ever spoke of Amelia Jones and her son again, and for the most part, she put it out of her mind and life returned to normal.

Twelve years ago, Gordon had been kicked in the head by a wild quarter horse he'd been trying to tame and he'd died of a brain hemorrhage on the way to the hospital. Then when she lost Jake on the Fourth of July, she lost her direction. Lost both her heart and her soul in one fell swoop. If it hadn't been for Lissette and Kyle, she might have done the unthinkable.

She'd been completely stunned a few weeks later when she learned Jake had left his life insurance money and death gratuity benefits to Amelia Jones's son, although she offered no explanation to Lissette. She had even pretended that she had no idea who Rafferty Jones was. That lie ate at her, but she hadn't been strong enough to face her daughter-in-law, especially when she could not understand why Jake had cut his wife and child off from the money that rightfully belonged to them. And without thinking what the consequences would be for Lissy and Kyle if he were killed, Jake had disobeyed a direct order and gone back to save orphans in jeopardy. She was so fiercely proud of him for that. His last act had been completely unselfish, but she was furious at the government for calling Jake's supreme heroism willful misconduct and by that designation, denying Lissy and Kyle survivor benefits.

Now there was something terribly wrong with her grandson. Was this delayed retribution for her despicable actions? Was this life extracting a cruel payback?

“Please,” she prayed, even though she was no longer certain God listened. So many of her prayers had gone unanswered. “Please, let Kyle be okay. It's not his fault. None of it. Don't take things out on him.”

“Claudia?”

She jerked her head up, swiped uselessly at the tears rolling down her cheeks with the rain-covered sleeve of her slicker.

Her next-door neighbor, Stewart English, had pushed open her backyard gate and stood there, umbrella in hand, wearing faded blue jeans, battered old cowboy boots, and a long-sleeved navy blue T-shirt identifying him as a member of the Jubilee Fire Department. His wife, Linda, had died the year before. Cancer. They'd been married thirty-four years. Had three kids. Claudia and Linda had been best friends.

“Stewart.” She forced a smile. “How are you?”

“It's raining. You're gardening in the rain.”

“I know.”

“I brought you some bread.” He held up the loaf of bread wrapped in a plastic bag. “Made it myself in the bread maker that Ben's wife bought me for Father's Day. First time I hauled it out of the box. It's pretty good. I made two loaves.”

Claudia got to her feet, stripped off her gardening gloves. “That was sweet of you.”

The yeasty smell of fresh, hot bread drifted across the yard toward her in spite of the scent-dampening rain.

“Brought butter I churned myself.”

“You churned it yourself? Now that is quaint.”

Stewart wore a ball cap embossed with the same emblem that decorated the pocket of his T-shirt. He was bald underneath the cap. He was one of those guys that once his hair started falling out, he'd taken the shears to his whole head, simply going with it instead of fighting nature. Up until the day he died at forty-nine, Gordon had had a full head of brownish-blond hair.

“Gemma's on this back-to-nature kick,” Stewart explained, speaking about his oldest daughter. “She's bought her own Jersey milk cow. Gives me all this fresh milk. Far more than I can drink. I had to do something with it. Gotta tell you, it's the best butter you'll ever taste. Warning, it's addictive.”

To keep her figure, Claudia had given up excess carbohydrates a long time ago, but the bread did smell good and she'd lost twenty-five pounds since Jake died. Why not indulge? It might take her mind off the fact that Lissy hadn't called. “Would you like to come in?” She inclined her head toward her back door.

“Nah, can't. Hope's got me hooked up on some blind date.” Hope was Stewart's youngest child. “I'm not interested in dating, but you know kids.”

She nodded. “The things we do to please them.”

Stewart's eyes met hers. “You've been crying.”

“Who me?” Claudia forced a laugh. “No, no. It's those winter onions I've been grubbing out of the ground.”

Stewart screwed up his mouth in an expression that said he didn't believe her, but he didn't say anything.

“So,” she said, as the rain dripped steadily onto his umbrella. “Who's the blind date with?”

“Piano teacher,” he said. “From Twilight. She gives lessons to Hope's kids.”

The neighboring town of Twilight lay thirty miles southwest of Jubilee, and the two communities had a natural rivalry.

“Well, at least she's musical. Music is nice.”

“I don't think it's going to be a love match,” Stewart went on. “The fact that I'm tone deaf will probably be a deal breaker.”

“Don't pass judgment. Give her a chance.”

“Oh-ho, this sounds like the pot calling the kettle black to me,” Stewart said. “I remember when Linda tried to fix you up with her cousin Larry and you wouldn't even consider it.”

“Larry sold vitamins through multilevel marketing, for heaven's sake,” Claudia said. “I couldn't get involved with a guy who could fall for a glorified pyramid scheme.”

“Touché.” Stewart smiled. “FYI, Larry declared bankruptcy last year. You dodged a bullet.”

She smiled, glad for Stewart's distraction.

“How's Lissette?” he asked.

Claudia drew in a deep breath. “She's hanging in there.”

“I heard she had a fender bender in Searcy's parking lot this afternoon.”

“What?” Alarm pushed through her. “Where did you hear that?”

“Mailman.”

“Oh my goodness.” She pressed a hand to her chest. Why had she been so hands-off? Lissette needed her and she'd been here grubbing in the garden in the rain feeling sorry for herself. “Is she okay? What about the baby?”

Stewart touched her arm. “It was just a fender bender, Claudia. She's fine.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“C'mon. You know the gossip mill. If she'd been hurt you would know about it.”

Why hadn't Lissy called? “She might be hurt. Maybe she hit her head and got a headache and she went home to lie down and got a brain bleed like that poor actress Natasha Richardson.”

“You're letting your imagination run away with you. There's no point jumping to conclusions. Don't get upset until there's something to get upset about.”

She knew Stewart was simply trying to comfort her, but she didn't need to be told how to feel. Why was it that men always negated a woman's feelings? They thought they were being tough, but Claudia suspected it was really because emotions scared the hell out of them. She bit down on her tongue to keep from saying something tacky.

“Why don't we go in the house and call her,” Stewart said. “That should put your mind at ease.”

“I need to see her.”

“Tell you what, you change your clothes and then I'll drive you over.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, her pulse thready.

Stewart followed her into the mudroom, where he took the bread and butter from her arms and set it on the kitchen counter. She kicked off her muddy shoes and, trailing water, padded through the house to the bathroom.

She had an awful feeling that something was terribly wrong. She exhaled with the weariness of a woman who'd been through bad times and knew things could always get worse.

Claudia took a hot shower, got dressed, and by the time she wandered into the living room, she was feeling better. Stewart perched on the edge of the recliner, thumbing through the TV channels. He'd turned on the lamp.

“Anything good on TV tonight?” Claudia asked.

He shrugged, looked embarrassed. “I like
Survivor
.”

“The girls in bikinis,” she guessed.

“Nah, it's the whole Robinson Crusoe thing. Always been fascinated by the idea of being stranded on a deserted island. Not that I mind the eye candy.” He chuckled. “But it's the survival element that intrigues me.”

Claudia clasped her hands in front of her. “I'm sorry for losing it.”

“Completely understandable. You've been through more than anyone should ever have to go through.”

The phrase
losing a child
went unspoken.

They studied each other in the light from the lamp. Stewart had nice eyes—kind, intelligent, forgiving.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked, dangling his car keys from his finger.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said, and then totally shocked herself by going up on tiptoes and planting a light kiss on his cheek. His masculine skin was pleasantly rough beneath her lips.

Stewart ducked his head and moved toward the door like someone had set a house on fire. “It's nothing,” he mumbled.

Good God, Claudia, what were you thinking?

She cringed. It had been a totally innocent gesture but now she understood it had been a grave mistake. Something between them shifted instantly. Their neighborly relationship had been knocked off kilter.

The streetlamps were coming on and the rain had eased off. Stewart escorted her over to his driveway, helped her into the passenger seat of his Lincoln Town Car with comfortable leather seats. When he got in beside her, she realized it was the first time she'd ever been alone in a car with him. It felt weird. Particularly after that stupid, meaningless kiss.

Why had she kissed him?

Neither of them said a word on the short drive over to Lissette's house. Claudia couldn't bring herself to look at Stewart, just kept her gaze averted out the window. Why was she even letting him drive her? She should have driven herself.

Except her stomach was shaky. From worry over Kyle? she wondered. Or the kiss? Maybe it was both. Her lips tingled from the contact. Good grief, she was being so silly.

You're not fifteen. Forget the kiss. Keep your mind on what matters—your daughter-in-law and your grandson.

Stewart pulled up to the adorable Victorian home painted a beguiling sage green. Claudia's gaze fixed on the red dually pickup truck parked at the curb. The front fender was dented in. Lissette had company. An uneasy feeling settled over her. Who did the truck belong to?

None of your business, you nosy old woman.

That's when she noticed the California license plate.

Claudia sucked in her breath. California. The state where Gordon's illegitimate son lived.

Dizziness swirled her head. Could it be he? After all this time?

You're jumping to conclusions. That's a big leap.

She shifted her gaze to Stewart. He was glancing at his watch, and she remembered belatedly that he had a date. Suddenly, retreat felt far safer than knocking on Lissette's door.

“I've changed my mind,” she said, tamping down the dread filling up her lungs. “Please, take me back home.”

Chapter Five

A
wkward silence rode with them on the three-mile trip out of town.

Lissette drove. Rafferty wasn't comfortable in the passenger seat. He was used to being in charge.

John Wayne Boulevard meandered past a feed store, a horse vet, and a shop that sold fancy masonry stone, pot-bellied woodstoves, metal windmills, deer feeders, dog kennels, and stock tanks. A rambling limestone building had a sign bragging: “Best Handmade Furniture in Texas.” They breezed past a Western wear clothing store, a tractor supply, and two places that sold horse trailers. There was the First Horseman's Bank of Jubilee and a tiny newspaper office called the Daily Cutter.

That odd feeling of belonging stole over Rafferty again. If he could have custom made a town to fit his personality, Jubilee would have been it. How much of Gordon Moncrief's DNA had marked him? Where else would he have gotten such a longing for a town he'd never been to?

Lissette branched off John Wayne Boulevard, took Farm-to-Market Road 730. Rafferty glanced over at her. In spite of clunky wading boots and the tension pulling at her lips, she was an attractive woman.

Absentmindedly, her fingers moved up and down over the steering wheel as if she were playing piano keys and producing a soft unhurried rhythm. Her hands moved smooth as water, savoring the texture of leather beneath her fingertips. It was a sensual movement even though he was certain she did not intend it that way.

She was as cool as clouds on a hot summer day—a balm for heated skin. Except Rafferty was suspicious of clouds. Clouds could be all fluffy and inviting one minute, providing respite from the sun, but they could turn on you in a second. Dump gray rain on your picnic. They could harbor lightning, hailstones, tornadoes—all kinds of trouble. Just like today. Wet autumn clouds had blown in out of nowhere, saturating the countryside in sodden grayness.

He let his gaze travel down the column of her long neck to the slope of her slender shoulders, and even, yes, damn him, to the swell of her breast. The long-sleeved, button-down white shirt partially camouflaged nature's generous gift, but he could tell she would rock a bikini.

His gaze drifted back to those fingers, still moving over the leather steering wheel wrap. Clearly she was unconscious of the slow tempo she'd set up, staring out through the windshield, but Rafferty was certain the restless habit was a relief for her, perhaps a contrast to her whirling mind, an attempt to slow down her mental process.

She turned her head and caught him staring at her. He whipped his gaze forward. She pulled up to a twenty-acre plot of land strung with barbwire fence where a lone quarter horse waited in the field. At the sound of the truck engine, the horse lifted its head and started moseying toward the red pole barn.

“I'll get the gate,” Rafferty volunteered, and hopped from the truck.

He unlatched the gate and swung it open so she could drive through into the pasture. Lissette parked and got out. Rafferty closed the gate. Kyle was asleep in his car seat. Rafferty reached for the umbrella on the floorboard and opened it up as he softly closed the passenger side door so as not to awaken the boy.

Side by side they headed toward the pole barn through the slog of mud. She'd been smart to wear waders, even though they made a sucking sound with each step as she plucked her feet upward. His cowboy boots would need a thorough cleaning when this was over.

They stepped into a particularly thick morass and when Lissette trudged forward, her left boot stayed rooted in the quagmire.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as the submerged boot jerked her backward. Arms flailing, she grabbed at his elbow with both hands.

The wind snatched the umbrella from him, tossing it over his shoulder. He struggled to maintain his balance, to keep Lissette from falling into the mud puddle.

“Whoa,” he exclaimed. “Whoa there.”

But gravity had other ideas and Rafferty lost the battle.

Lissette tumbled onto her butt in a graceless heap, momentum dragging him down on top of her.

T
he next thing Lissette knew Rafferty was straddling her. His knees plowed into the mud on either side of her waist. His crotch settled right against her navel, only the material of her cotton blouse and his blue jeans between them. He looked as startled as she felt. As if he too had just had the air knocked from his lungs.

Disoriented, she gaped up at him. A hot, sensual, searing sensation streaked through her lower abdomen. She'd never experienced anything like it.

Cool mud oozed at her back. She was barely holding herself up on her shoulders, trying to keep her head from getting slimed along with the rest of her. Her knees were bent, revealing to the world at large what kind of panties she was wearing—whimsical, yellow, polka dot boy-cut panties. Her personality might be understated, but when it came to lingerie, Lissette let her freak flag fly.

She tried to reach around and tug the hem of her skirt down, but Rafferty Jones was an immovable object.

“Are you okay?” he asked, not seeming to realize she was trying to effect some kind of dignity here. His gaze drifted as he assessed her, lingering on her mouth before sliding down her neck to fix on her breasts. His eyes narrowed and a slight smirk tugged at his lips.

Good grief, he was ogling her!

That's when she realized one of the buttons on her blouse had popped open revealing a lacy yellow bra that matched her panties, and Rafferty had noticed.

“Get off me!” she snapped, more embarrassed than angry. Her mud-encrusted fingers flew to do up the button.

“Polka dots.” He grinned. “I'm a big fan of polka dots.”

“Got a thing for Minnie Mouse, do you?”

“Love of my life.”

“Get off,” she repeated through clenched teeth. Okay, now she was just irritated. She knew he couldn't help seeing her bra, but he could help grinning like a loon about it.

“Hey, you're the one who pulled me down on top of you,” he pointed out sensibly.

She pressed her muddy palms against his chest and shoved.

His laughter rolled out across the pasture as he tumbled off her. She tried to scramble to her feet, but the mud refused to let go.

Somehow, Rafferty managed to stand, damn him for being more nimble. He put down a hand to help her up, even as he continued to chuckle.

“Stop laughing. It's not funny.”

“It's sort of funny.”

“No it's not. I'm covered in mud. You're covered in mud. We're going to ruin the interior of the truck.”

“Mud washes off,” he said philosophically. “Take my hand.”

She didn't want to take his hand, but she couldn't seem to extricate herself on her own. Blowing a strand of hair from her eyes, she glared and sank her palm into his.

A quiver shot straight through her body. She tried to deny it and let go of his hand as soon as she was steady. She looked everywhere but into his bemused brown eyes.

His pants were covered in mud from the knees down, but she'd fared much worse. She could feel ooze caking her back from her shoulders to her feet, and her blouse was smeared with mud from where she'd buttoned up.

Primly, pretending nothing at all had happened, she lifted her head. “You can stand here making like a hyena all night if you wish, but I'm going to feed the horse.”

“Hang on a minute,” he said, taking hold of her elbow. “Let me help you get some of that muck off.”

She opened to her mouth to tell him she was just fine, that she didn't need his help, but before she could get the words out, he was running the back of his hand over her fanny, scraping off the gunk. A picture of what they must look like to someone passing by, both of them covered in mud, Rafferty trying in vain to clean her with nothing but his hand, finally struck Lissette's funny bone.

Laughter erupted from her throat, spilled into the gathering twilight. A nearly full moon broke through the cloud covering as it started its journey up the sky. The vapor lamp above the pole barn flickered on, shining a purplish glow over them. Rafferty's laughter joined hers and soon they were holding on to their sides and every time they looked at each other they dissolved into fresh gales of giggles.

It felt strange. Laughing like this.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed so hard. Long before Jake had died. When had she stopped laughing?

Didn't matter. She shouldn't be laughing like this. Today, she'd learned her son was going deaf and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Nothing funny about that.

A clump of clouds slid in front of the ascending moon, blunting the light, turning the horizon the color of ashes. Somewhere, frogs sang to the rain gods. She could hear Rafferty's breathing—short, shallow, same as her own.

Their laughter died away and this time, when their eyes met, she could make out the faint lines tugging at his mouth. His handsomeness was stunning. She watched him run a palm over his five o'clock shadow, heard the soft rasp of whiskers.

Her body started trembling and his arms went around her. She did not want to cry. How nutty to be laughing one minute, crying the next. But it felt so good to rest her head on his shoulders, feel his grip tighten on her waist. Hear him whisper, “It's going to be okay. I promise, it's all going to be okay.”

She clung to that promise even as she realized he did not have the power to offer such assurances. She swallowed back the tears, swiped at her eyes, even as she knew she was streaking her cheeks with mud. It was too late to worry about that.

Too late for so many things.

“We need to feed Slate,” she said, stepping away from him.

Rafferty dropped his arms, looked as uncomfortable as she felt. How could she both want him near and wish he'd disappear? Reconciling the two feelings seemed impossible. She did not know him, but she wanted to.

Futilely, she smoothed her skirt, squared her shoulders, and moved toward the stallion waiting patiently underneath the shelter.

Rafferty went around to the back of the truck, took out the bag of oats they'd bought at the feed store, and carried it to the metal barrel with a clasp closing mechanism that stood in one corner of the pole barn. “Is that where you store the oats?”

She nodded.

“Who normally loads the barrel up for you?” he asked.

“I'm not a china doll, Mr. Jones,” she said, hearing the snippiness in her voice. Why was she being disagreeable? They'd just had a good laugh together. Then again, maybe that was why. She wanted to get things back on formal footing. They were getting too damn cozy. “I don't know what you must think of me.”

“Rafferty,” he corrected easily. “I am your brother-in-law, after all.”

Yes. Her brother-in-law. She'd do well to remember that instead of noticing how even mud couldn't hide the fact that his butt looked good in jeans.

Rafferty took the ring clasp off the barrel, opened the bag of oats with a pocketknife, and dumped them in. He found a metal scoop on a shelf and poured oats into the feed trough. The horse nuzzled Rafferty's elbow.

“Hey there,” he cooed, scratched the stallion's nose. The headlights from the truck were directed at the interior of the pole barn, illuminated the damp evening. “He's curious and unafraid,” Rafferty told her. “It's a good quality in a cutting horse. How old is he?”

“Three, I think.”

“Right age. Has he ever competed?”

“Jake had been training him whenever he was home and he'd planned on showing him in the Fort Worth cutting horse futurity this year. He'd already paid the entry fee. Of course that was before he reenlisted.”

“Does the horse have papers?”

“Yes.” She waved a hand. “Somewhere.”

Rafferty ran a hand over the stallion's flank. The animal continued calmly eating his food. He wasn't skittish. “Hmm.”

“Hmm what?”

“He's a good horse. You could get a tidy sum for him.”

“Selling him is on my to-do list. How much do you think I could get?” She didn't know why she asked Rafferty's opinion. She could have thrown a ripe peach underhanded in any direction and hit a cutting horse cowboy who would have willingly given her an assessment.

Rafferty shrugged. “All depends on his genetics. Plus a well-trained cutting horse will sell for more than one who isn't trained. If he's won a purse or two, that would increase his value as well.”

She poked her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “How much would it cost me to have him trained?”

“Somewhere in the neighborhood of three to four thousand.”

Lissette gulped. “That's an exclusive neighborhood.”

He shrugged. “A good friend might do it for less.”

“Too rich for my blood. Unless I was certain I could recoup the investment when I sell him. My focus is bringing in as much money as I can, not laying it out. Could I make the money back on him?”

“Maybe not. These things are iffy.”

For a minute, the only sound they heard was Slate munching oats and the frogs' raucous croaking.

“If you could find Slate's paperwork, that would help me come up with a ballpark figure for you,” Rafferty said.

“I don't want to put you to any trouble. I know you need to get on the road. It might take hours to find the paperwork.”

“You givin' me the bum's rush?”

“You have your normal life to get back to.”

“Neither of our lives are going back to normal,” he said.

They stood there in the blue-white beam of the truck's headlights, muddy and tired. She saw the weariness in his eyes now that she hadn't paid attention to before. His emotional burdens were different from hers, but burdens all the same. She reminded herself that Jake's death was still fresh for him.

A long moment ticked by. The breeze gusted against her damp clothes. A yellow wedge of misty moon shoved a window through the bunched black clouds peeping coyly over Rafferty's shoulder. A green glow, the color of dolce verde gorgonzola, flickered gently across his face. His features held an impassive lightness. Firm, yet laid-back. Thoroughly alpha in appearance, but underneath an appealing, quiet kindness.