It made her fun. It made her easy to talk to.
“I have a problem,” she confessed to Layla. “My ex sent me a text and said I won’t get any alimony from him because he’s filing for bankruptcy.”
Layla clicked her tongue. “Boy, he’s really pulling out all the stops, isn’t he? Is he broke?”
“I don’t think so.” Amy thought for a minute. “It’s not the first time he’s filed for bankruptcy, either, I don’t think. He’s done it before with other businesses. He makes one, lets it run into the ground, then folds it and starts a new one. I don’t know for sure because he never let me touch the finances, though.”
“Mmm, a tax dodger. I’ve seen that before.”
“You have?” She was surprised.
“Yeah. It’s a shitty way to do business, but you see people do it more often than you’d like.”
“So what can I do?”
“Well . . .” Layla sighed. “Not much? Wait until his bankruptcy is filed and go before the judge to make them shake the pennies out of him? Lawyer up? Actually, lawyering up is the best idea.”
“I don’t have the money for a lawyer! He knows that.”
“Which is probably why he’s doing it, Amy,” Layla said sympathetically. “He knows you won’t fight him. Or if you do, it’ll cost you so much money that you won’t come out ahead anyhow. This is a dick move, a big one, and he knows it.”
She wanted to cry, but Blake wasn’t worth her tears. “So what do I do?”
“Document everything. Batten down the hatches. Keep shopping the clearance aisles.” Layla paused. “And . . . I’m sorry. We’ll keep track of things paper-wise and appeal, but for now, it’s business as usual.”
As in, no money.
Well, at least she had some jewelry to pawn. It was the one silver lining in all of Blake’s garbage.
* * *
* * *
Caleb tossed hay with the pitchfork, mucking out the stalls. It was dirty, filthy, sweaty work . . . but it was also the kind of work that allowed your mind to wander while still getting a lot done, and so it was perfect for him today. He tossed the old hay into a wheelbarrow, filling it, and as he did, he thought about Amy.
Kissing her in the light was even better than kissing her in the dark. In the light, he got to see the expressions change on her face, the way her eyes got all soft with pleasure, the way her hands fluttered before she touched him, the way she sighed with bliss when he pulled away from her. It made him want to keep kissing her, over and over again. He was utterly besotted. Just thinking about kissing her made him want to toss the pitchfork away and drive over to her place and just stand on her doorstep until she let him in again.
But something was bothering her. She’d gotten a text that had killed her smile, and he wanted to know what it was. He wanted to know who he had to beat up. It wasn’t that he was a violent man. But when it came to Amy . . . he’d do anything to protect her smile. Frowning to himself, he stabbed at another forkful and tossed it in the direction of the wheelbarrow.
“Do you mind?”
Jack’s voice cut into Caleb’s thoughts. He straightened and turned, seeing his brother standing just behind the wheelbarrow, manure-filled hay dusting the front of his plaid shirt and his dark jeans. He scowled under his cowboy hat, and a few steps behind him, at the entrance to the stall, was Hank, the oldest brother. He wore practically the same thing Jack did, but his beard was big and scruffy and he wasn’t wearing the manure . . . which explained why he was smirking and Jack wasn’t.
“Didn’t see you there,” Caleb said by way of apology. “I was thinking.”
Jack shook off his shirt. “Obviously.”
“Got something on your mind?” Hank asked.
Caleb felt himself flush.
“That answers that,” Jack teased. “So, how’d it go?”
Caleb turned and shoved the pitchfork into the dirty hay again. “How’d what go?”
Hank just snorted.
“Oh, come on,” Jack said. “We’ve lived with you all your life. We know how you work. You’ve been avoiding both of us ever since the whole Santa thing on Saturday night.”
“Avoided my texts,” Hank added, grumbling. “You know I hate texting.”
“That’s right,” Jack continued. “Fess up. Tell us what happened on Saturday. Did you get your girl? Did you ask her out?”
Caleb felt his face turn even redder. He stabbed at the hay again, as if he could somehow squeeze more onto his pitchfork. “Maybe.”
“You jackass. Just spit it out.” Jack stepped forward and grabbed the handle of the pitchfork, trying to get Caleb’s attention.
He let Jack take the tool away from him, and a smile of pride curved his mouth as he looked at his expectant brothers. “I kissed her.”
Hank smacked his fist against the wooden stall door in pride. “Damn right you did. I knew you’d get the guts for it.”
“You did?” Jack looked stunned. “And she liked it?”
“She didn’t complain,” Caleb drawled. “Not the first time or the fifth time.”
“Fifth?” Jack’s eyes widened and he hooted with laughter. “You scoundrel. Tell us all about it.”
So Caleb leaned against the empty stall and told his brothers about his Saturday night. About how she’d almost gone out with Greg and he’d rescued her. How they’d ended up kissing, and how he’d gone over there again this morning and made pancakes with her. It was a brief summary, probably briefer than it should have been, but it didn’t feel right to tell his brothers all the details. Some stuff you kept private. They could know the gist of things but not everything.
Some stuff was just for Caleb’s memories.
“Proud of you,” Hank said. “Does this mean I can tell Becca what’s going on? She’s been up my ass trying to figure out who Amy’s Secret Santa is. It’s been killing me not to tell her.”
Caleb frowned. He liked Becca, but she ran a beauty salon, and Hank sometimes grumbled that people just showed up there to gossip. “Keep it quiet for a bit longer. I’m not sure if Amy wants anyone to know she’s with me.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re the third-handsomest Watson in town.”
He just snorted.
It made sense to let Becca know. Heck, he wanted to tell everyone in town that he was with her. Everyone in the world, even. His brothers—and Uncle Ennis—already knew that he had a massive thing for the schoolteacher. What would be so wrong in letting the world realize that she was interested back?
But he kept thinking about that text she received. The one that she wouldn’t show him. The one that made the sparkle in her eyes die. Maybe it was because of something to do with him. Maybe she didn’t want people knowing they’d kissed.
So for now, he needed to be silent about being with Amy. He needed to just keep wooing her until she wanted them out in the open. Until she was the one that suggested they tell the world.
He wasn’t going to mess up what they had for anything.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Amy forgot all about Caleb’s note until the end of the night, when she was getting ready for bed. She found it tossed onto her pillow, and the realization that she still had to open it and read it somehow improved her mood.
It had really been in the dumps all afternoon. She’d moped about Blake. It wasn’t the money as much as the fact that he was deliberately maneuvering to keep things away from her. He was making things complicated because he wanted to force her hand, and by doing nothing, she felt like she was subtly letting him win. He wanted her to either fold or fight him and spend her money. If she did neither . . . the one that lost was her. But she was losing all around, wasn’t she? More than that, she just hated that Blake was trying to weasel back into her life.
Bad enough that he’d texted her and would pop up in her �
�recents” every time she looked at her phone.
Even worse that he’d sent jewelry as a gift to mock her. He probably wanted her to get all excited about the pricey gifts and then pull the rug out from under her. That sounded like the kind of head games he loved.
But Blake’s efforts had shattered her hard-won peace and sense of pride. How long was this going to go on after her divorce? It had been a year since the divorce had been finalized, longer since they were “together.” She’d been in Wyoming for more than six months. How long could she expect him to keep cropping up? Five years? Ten? Would she ever be free of his controlling ways?
The thought was depressing.
She’d spent most of the afternoon walking the dog. Just up and down the street with a short leash, because he was blind and didn’t know they weren’t going very far. He still loved the walk, his tail hesitantly wagging the entire time, and she let him stop to sniff every bush, every tree, every parked car. Donner’s happiness at such a simple thing made her happy. She loved this silly dog. His gray muzzle, his cloudy eyes, his wiggidy-waggedy tail—all of him made her so stinking happy.
Really, it had been a wonderful day when he’d landed on her doorstep.
Thinking about her dog made her smile, and she patted the bed as she sat on the edge. “Come up here for snuggles, good boy.” She patted the blankets and Donner hopped up, trusting her, and wiggled happily over to her side. She tucked him against her, petting him, and pulled Caleb’s note out. The envelope was green, and when she pulled it out, the paper was white and red, edged with candy canes and reindeer. He’d gotten Christmas stationery just to write her notes? Her heart melted a little at the thought of the big, burly, silent cowboy going to the store and picking through the stationery aisle. It made her appreciate his efforts all the more.
She opened the letter and began to read.
Amy,
Not sure what to say. My original plan was to have a special holiday poem written about how beautiful and wonderful you are. How I’ve been unable to get you out of my mind since the moment I first saw you. Maybe throw in some Christmas trivia just to fill space. I don’t know. If you’re reading this, you know I’m not good with words. I’d rather recite a few facts about how the first Christmas trees in history were pagan symbols, but that kills the mood.
I’d much rather talk about you. You’re the kindest woman I’ve ever met. The prettiest, too, but I think it’s better to be kind. You’ve always been patient with me even when I stumbled over my words and acted like a fool around you, and I’m grateful. You’re an easy woman to have a thing for. A popular one, too, it seems. I never thought I’d have to fight another Secret Santa for your attention, but here we are. I’d do it again, though.
(Confession: Throwing Greg’s keys away was a lot more fun than it should have been.)
This isn’t the most romantic letter. I wish it was. Now that you know I’m your Secret Santa, it’s hard for me to confess everything I wanted to say, knowing that you know it’s me writing this. All I’ll say is that I’ll do my best to make your Christmas merry and bright.
Yours,
Caleb Watson
PS—If you want the Christmas facts, let me know. I can probably go on far too long about that sort of thing.
She clutched the note to her chest, utterly touched. Then she read it a second time, just absorbing the words. He thought she was wonderful. He thought she was kind. And pretty. And she laughed every time she read the line about Greg’s keys.
For a man that claimed to not be good with words, he certainly did charm her with his.
Amy read the letter a third time, then picked up her phone.
AMY: Hi, it’s Amy. You there?
He might not answer, she told herself. He might be watching a movie, or doing things with his brothers. He might be handling whatever it was that cowboys handled on a ranch. It was silly of her to just—
Her phone dinged with a response almost immediately.
CALEB: I’m here.
She felt a thrill in the pit of her belly and texted him back, one arm wrapped around her sleeping dog.
AMY: What are you up to?
CALEB: Reading.
AMY: What are you reading?
CALEB: Salt: A World History
AMY: That’s . . . interesting?
CALEB: It was at the library. I just like history books. Learning how other people lived.
AMY: Some teacher out there taught you right. : )
CALEB: Actually I was homeschooled by my father.
AMY: He was a teacher, then.
CALEB: Guess he was.
AMY: Soooo . . . I read your note.
There was a long pause.
CALEB: Did I embarrass myself?
CALEB: I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.
CALEB: If you do, I can have Hank come and pick you up in the morning and I’ll fix your car when you’re not there.
CALEB: I don’t want you to feel pressured to talk to me.
AMY: Stop panicking. It was a wonderful note.
CALEB: I think my heart stopped for a full minute, just so you know.
She laughed aloud.
AMY: Why would you think I wouldn’t love this note? It’s very thoughtful.
CALEB: I can’t remember a thing I wrote in it.
AMY: You did mention pagan Christmas trees.
CALEB: Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I probably rambled.
AMY: It was cute rambling. I liked it.
AMY: Does this mean I can look forward to twelve days of rambling instead of the poems you had set up?
CALEB: I should confess most of my poems were along the lines of “roses are red” and less Shakespearean.
AMY: I’m not much of a Shakespeare girl anyway. And I still want you to come by in the morning.
AMY: Not your brother. I still like you. : )
CALEB: I like you, too.
CALEB: I probably wrote that in the letter.
AMY: Once or twice. : )
AMY: Should I let you get back to your book?
CALEB: I’m in no rush. How was your day?
AMY: Shitty, if I’m being honest.
CALEB: My fault?
AMY: Nope. Just other stuff. I hope tomorrow will be better.
CALEB: I’ll do my best.
That made her smile. Sure, there were crappy things going on in the world, and she had an awful ex-husband . . . but she had a happy, warm dog in her arms and a handsome cowboy texting her and writing her letters.
All in all, it was still pretty good.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Amy was humming the next morning and awake before dawn. She knew Caleb was an early-riser type, so this time she wanted to put on her makeup and fix her hair before he showed up. The playful side of her was tempted to stay in her robe, though, just to watch his face get red and his body react to that. She loved the way he stiffened and watched her like a hawk. For all that he was a gruff, silent sort, he absolutely could not hide his emotions lately when it came to her.
It was refreshing, after years of being married to a man who liked nothing more than to manipulate her. She knew where she stood with Caleb.
The day was a good day. He’d taken her to work that morning, utterly silent, but she hadn’t minded his quiet. She had her students make holiday cards for family members, and when class was over, she didn’t linger to decorate her classroom or work on lesson plans. School was out on Friday for the Christmas holidays, so she just needed to get through the week. Easy peasy.
Caleb was there waiting for her when she got out of school, and to her delight, he was in her car. It was freshly cleaned and vacuumed, and the engine purred like a kitten. For Day 2 of their dates, they grabbed a couple of fancy coffees from
the bakery in town and a dog biscuit for Donner, and then spent the next few hours driving and looking for Christmas lights. It was a magical evening, really. They listened to Christmas music and laughed, and Caleb seemed to be more talkative, though she suspected the darkness probably helped. They didn’t make out—it was hard to make out with a collie sitting between you on the front seat—but it was a nice date anyhow and she was sad when they turned into Painted Barrel and began to head to her house.
Her happy bubble disappeared the moment they pulled up to her place. A sports car was parked in her driveway. A familiar sports car, one that she’d been hauled out of just a few days ago when her “date” was mauling her.
Greg.
Caleb made a disgruntled sound in his throat. “What the hell’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. Her gut was knotting in that uncomfortable way. She hated confrontation. Hated it. This was churning up all kinds of bad memories, and she wanted to cry. How was it that she attracted the ones that never seemed to go away? First Blake and now Greg. She just wanted to be left alone by everyone.
Everyone except Caleb.
Worst of all, she couldn’t get away from Greg because she was his renter. Even now, she could see the light on in her house, the lights on her Christmas tree twinkling. “He’s sitting in my living room,” she whispered, and it felt like a violation. He had a key. She knew he did; he was her landlord. Didn’t matter. It felt . . . uncomfortable. He might as well have been going through her damned panty drawer.
Caleb let out a hard breath. “I’m going to take care of this for you. Stay here.”
For some reason, those words reminded her of past arguments. Of Blake “handling” everything so she wouldn’t have to do a thing. So she could be the little housewife and not look at a bill or have a thought in her head except how to please her husband.
Her Christmas Cowboy Page 14