Maverick Christmas Surprise

by Brenda Harlen

  “Because I know you lost your mom, too.”

  “I didn’t lose her—she left,” he reminded her.

  “And she didn’t stay in touch after the divorce?” she asked curiously.

  “She died only a few months after the papers were signed.”

  She wanted to apologize again for bringing up such a difficult subject, but he would only deny it was difficult. Instead she said, “I’m sorry you don’t have any memories of her.”

  He shrugged. “And since I don’t, there’s nothing for me to miss.”

  To Beth, that was just as sad.

  “So what were your Christmases like?” she asked, hoping he might share some happy memories.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Presents under the tree, a big turkey dinner. Christmas cookies,” he said, and smiled then. “Our housekeeper made these amazing cookies decorated with icing and colored sugars.

  “I thought we’d miss out this year, but she sent a box in the mail. There must have been six dozen cookies, and they were gone within two days.”

  “Not just between you and your dad?”

  “No,” he admitted. “The note said we had to share, so we did.”

  She smiled at the obvious regret in his tone. “What about your tree—have you always had a real one?”

  “Is there another kind?”

  She tapped a finger against one of the branches, watched the tip bob. “They do smell good,” she confided.

  “You don’t get a real tree?” he guessed.

  She shook her head. “My apartment’s on the sixth floor, and it just seems like too much hassle to drag one into the building, cram it into an elevator, then haul it down the hall and into my apartment, leaving a path of needles along the way.”

  “A path of needles would make it easy for Santa to find you,” he pointed out.

  “Instead, I have a sign that goes in the window that says Santa, Please Stop Here!”

  “You don’t think Saint Nick knows where he’s supposed to stop?”

  “I don’t like leaving some things to chance.”

  “And what was on your wish list for Santa this year?” Wilder asked her.

  “Oh, um, just...you know...the usual stuff.”

  “You didn’t make a list for Santa, did you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  His gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “But there was something specific you wanted,” he guessed.

  “I just wanted to spend Christmas with Leighton and Cody—to be part of the happy memories of his first Christmas.”

  “You do know he’s not going to remember his first Christmas when he’s older?”

  “I know,” she admitted. “But I’ve been taking pictures of every event and milestone, to make a scrapbook of his first year, so that he’ll be able to look back and know, even if he can’t remember.”

  “You should have asked me to take a picture of the two of you in the sleigh,” he told her.

  “I was so mesmerized by the sleigh and the horses, I didn’t even think about it,” she confided.

  “Next time,” he promised.

  But they both knew there might not be a next time, because Beth’s days at the Ambling A were numbered—seven to ten—and the countdown was on.

  She carefully sipped her hot chocolate and wondered why she didn’t seem as excited to anticipate her return to Dallas as she’d been only three days earlier. Goodness knows, she would be happy enough to get back to a place where she didn’t need long underwear to step out the front door. But when she did, she might actually miss interacting with Wilder and Max and the various other Crawfords who’d been in and out of the main house at the Ambling A during her brief time there.

  She pushed the uncomfortable thought aside and sipped her drink again, savoring the warm sweetness as it slid down her throat. “This is really good,” she told Wilder.

  “The key ingredients are real cream and dark chocolate,” he confided. “And marshmallows on top, of course.”

  “Of course,” she agreed.

  “Speaking of marshmallows, you’ve got some right here,” he said, and indicated the location on his own lip.

  “Oh.” She instinctively sought out the sticky spot with the tip of her tongue. “Did I get it?”

  Instead of answering, he reached over and brushed his thumb over the curve of her bottom lip. The callused pad scraped against her soft skin, causing her breath to back up in her lungs and sending tingles through her veins.

  She lifted her gaze to find his fixed on her mouth, his head tilted toward her, and for the space of a single heartbeat, she actually thought he was going to kiss her.

  And, oh, how she yearned for his kiss. Just the thought of his lips pressed against hers made her tummy feel tingly and her knees grow weak.

  But instead of shifting closer, he abruptly pulled away.

  “It’s gone now,” he told her.

  And then Cody was awake, allowing her to focus on the baby and ignore the twinge of what might have been disappointment.

  After she’d snapped a few pictures of Cody propped up against the pile of presents, Wilder took her cell phone and assumed photographer duties while she helped her nephew open his gifts.

  There were sleepers and outfits, a pair of high-top running shoes (and of course Wilder questioned the purpose of running shoes for a kid who couldn’t even walk), board books and bath books, wooden puzzles and cuddly toys, learning toys and silly toys.

  “Let’s try these on you,” Beth said, tugging off Cody’s socks and replacing them with the foot rattles he’d just opened.

  One was red-and-orange and decorated to look like a giraffe; the other was black-and-white like a zebra; both had noisemakers sewn into their ears. She put them on his feet and helped him kick his legs to demonstrate how they could make sound.

  Cody rewarded her with a gummy smile.

  “What’s this one?” Wilder asked, picking up a smallish square box wrapped in Santa paper with a red bow.

  She took the box from his hand and glanced at the tag that read: To Mommy Love Cody.

  “Oh.” She managed a smile. “It’s a ‘Mommy’ Christmas ornament, dated for the year Cody was born.”

  She set it aside and reached for a bigger and flatter package. After carefully prying the tag off the wrapping, she handed the gift to Wilder.

  “What’s this?”

  “A present.”

  “I know you didn’t buy this for me.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she acknowledged. “But it’s something I’d like you to have.”

  Curious, he slid a finger beneath the fold of paper to break the tape. The flat, unmarked box didn’t give anything away, so he lifted the lid and peeled back the tissue inside to reveal a beautiful brushed silver-tone frame engraved with the words “Cody’s First Christmas.” Inside the frame was a photo of the baby, asleep in the crook of Santa’s arm.

  “What a great picture,” he said, sincerely touched by her gesture. “This was another gift for your sister?”

  “Yeah, but I can get another one made for her,” Beth said.

  “Is this because you now believe I’m Cody’s father?” he asked.

  “Do you believe it?” she countered.

  He looked at the little guy now sitting between his outstretched legs.

  Did he believe it?

  Were his residual doubts simply a manifestation of his reluctance to take on the responsibilities of fatherhood? Responsibilities that he wouldn’t be able to duck if and when he was confirmed to be the baby’s father. Not that he’d had much success ducking anything since the baby had appeared on the doorstep and his father had made his own determination about paternity. But doubts aside, the more time he spent with Cody, the less terrifying he found the idea of being his father.

  “Well,” she said wit
h a shrug, obviously having given up on waiting for an answer. “If it turns out you’re not his dad, you can give the picture back to me.”

  “For now, I’m going to put it right here,” he said, propping the frame up on the side table.

  Beth looked at the picture there and smiled. “Good choice.”

  Then she stood up and began gathering the discarded wrapping.

  “Somebody lost a sock,” Wilder noted, tickling the baby’s bare toes as he reached to pick up the giraffe.

  Cody giggled.

  Beth gasped and spun around, clutching an armload of crumpled paper against her chest. “What did you do?” she asked Wilder.

  “Me?” Had he done something wrong? “I just tickled his toes.” Then he did it again, to demonstrate for her.

  Cody responded with more giggles.

  “Oh.” The word was barely a whisper from her lips as her eyes filled with tears. “That’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh.”

  “Really?” Wilder asked, surprised.

  She nodded.

  Wilder brushed his fingertips over the bottom of the baby’s foot, to see if he was ticklish there. The baby answered with another giggle.

  Beth sighed. “Is there anything as sweet as that sound?”

  Though she probably wasn’t expecting an answer to her question, he heard himself responding, “It’s pretty great.”

  “It makes me happy to know he’s happy,” she said.

  “Of course, he’s four months old, so his biggest concerns are a hungry belly or wet diaper,” Wilder pointed out.

  “And sore gums,” she reminded him.

  “Still, he’s not lying awake at night worrying about the market price of beef,” he said, as he worked the sock onto the baby’s foot, stroking his fingertip along his sole and sending the little guy into a fresh wave of giggles.

  Beth laughed, too, and their gazes met and held for a long moment of shared understanding and unexpected connection.

  Then Cody kicked his feet again, shaking the rattles, and the moment was broken.

  Chapter Ten

  Wilder lay awake in bed for a long time that night, thinking about the day he’d spent with Cody and Beth. He couldn’t help but admire Beth’s devotion to her nephew and the way she overcame her own reservations to embrace opportunities and new experiences for the little boy. Everything she did seemed to be motivated by his best interests, even before her own wants and needs, her actions a stark contrast to those of her sister, who’d apparently had no qualms about abandoning her child.

  Of course, Wilder knew from experience that maternal instincts weren’t really instincts in the true sense of the word. They weren’t as universal as the compulsion of birds to build nests. While a lot of parents might instinctively bond with, nurture and protect their children, giving birth to a child didn’t automatically create or foster such instincts. If it did, his mother never would have walked away, leaving Max to raise their six sons on his own.

  Had his father had stronger instincts to care for his children? Or had he only done what needed to be done because his wife’s abandonment had left him with no other option?

  More important, would Wilder be able to learn everything he needed to know to raise his son—if it turned out that Cody was his son? And why didn’t he share Max’s conviction that the baby was a Crawford? Was it because he didn’t want to be a father to the little guy? Or was he afraid that he would fail in his efforts to be what Cody needed?

  “Fatherhood changes everything,” Max had told Wilder, when they were alone at the Ambling A after everyone else had gone on Christmas night.

  Apparently that was true whether he wanted anything to change or not. And even without any confirmation that he was a father.

  At first, he’d been panicked at the idea the kid was his. Now, after spending only a few days with Cody...well, he wasn’t quite ready to start handing out cigars with blue bands that proclaimed “It’s a Boy,” but he wasn’t quite so terrified anymore, either. Of course, cigars might be premature, anyway, as he was still waiting on the results of the DNA test.

  Maybe he’d feel more of a connection to the kid if he’d known that he existed before he was four months old. If he’d had the opportunity to help Leighton prepare for his arrival. If he’d been there when their baby was born.

  He was angry that she’d taken that opportunity away from him. That she’d chosen not to tell him about the pregnancy, to cut him out of the life of his child—if Cody was his child.

  And he was still angry the next morning, and continuing to mull over these thoughts, as he sipped his coffee.

  “Are you okay?” Beth asked.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Because you’re gripping the handle of that mug so tight it’s a wonder it hasn’t snapped off in your hand.”

  He uncurled his fist and set the mug on the counter.

  “Wilder?” she prompted.

  “I guess I’m just realizing how much I missed out on, not knowing that Leighton was pregnant.”

  “I think, in the beginning, she didn’t reach out to you because she wasn’t sure she was going to keep the baby,” she admitted.

  He swallowed. “She considered ending her pregnancy?”

  “No.” Beth immediately shook her head. “Never. She always planned to have the baby, but she didn’t know if she would keep him.”

  “You’re talking about adoption,” he realized.

  Now she nodded.

  “But...why?” he wondered.

  “Because she wanted her baby to have a better life than she could give him as a single mother. She wanted him to have a family.”

  “She didn’t have to be a single mother. If Leighton had told me she was pregnant, I would have offered to do the right thing.”

  “Because getting married for the sake of a baby is the right thing?” she asked dubiously.

  “Sometimes it is,” he said.

  “Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell you,” Beth remarked.

  “What does that mean?” he challenged.

  “I can’t imagine any woman being swept off her feet by such an offer, and it definitely wouldn’t have swayed my sister.”

  He scowled at that. “You think she would have said no?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to know how she might have responded,” Beth said. “But I think the fact that she didn’t tell you she was pregnant proves she didn’t trust you would support her choices.”

  “But she trusted you?” he challenged.

  “I did support her,” she said.

  “And yet, when she got to the point where she felt overwhelmed by her responsibilities, she brought the baby to me,” he pointed out.

  He was right, and that truth was like a slap to Beth’s face.

  She’d thought she was doing what was best for her sister. She’d offered her a sympathetic ear and a strong shoulder; she’d listened and counseled and encouraged. And all the while she’d been promising her support, she’d also been pushing her sister in the direction Beth wanted her to go. Of course it’s your choice if you want to give your baby up for adoption. But if you decide to keep him, I’ll be there for you. Whatever you need. Whatever he needs.

  Leighton had been honest in expressing her reservations about working as a bartender and raising a child on her own. She’d wanted to do the best thing for her baby—to give him a real family. But Beth had pointed out that they were a family; she’d assured her that they could be everything he’d ever need. And so Leighton had been persuaded to keep her baby.

  But sometime during the past four months, she’d apparently had a change of heart.

  Or maybe she’d begun to suspect her sister was wrong.

  Either way, there was one fact that Beth could no longer deny: it was her fault Cody had been left on a ranch in Montana.

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  “We were just talking about the big New Year’s Eve party at Maverick Manor,” Max said, when Beth returned to the main level after putting Cody down for his nap. “It’s the fancy hotel off the highway owned by Nate Crawford—you might have seen it on your way into Rust Creek Falls.”

  “Isn’t everything in this town owned by a Crawford?” Beth asked.

  “Not quite everything,” Max said. Then he winked. “At least, not yet.”

  Beth smiled, though she suspected he wasn’t entirely joking. The Crawford patriarch struck her as a man capable of world—or at least small-town—domination.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “The party.”

  She looked at Wilder, as if he might be able to give her a clue as to why his father was asking, but he only shrugged.

  “Sounds like fun?” she said.

  “Great. I’ll tell Nate to add your name to the guest list.”

  “Oh,” she said, startled by the suggestion. “I meant it would be fun for you—not for me.”

  “You don’t like parties?” Max challenged.

  “She doesn’t know how to have fun,” Wilder said.

  And though the twinkle in his eye assured Beth that he was only teasing, the remark too closely echoed her sister’s oft-repeated criticism for her to slough it off.

  “That’s true,” she said, aware that her tone was as stiff as her smile. “So while it’s thoughtful of you to invite me, I have to decline.”

  “Don’t say no,” Max protested.

  But she didn’t stick around to discuss the matter any further. There was no point, when she knew she wouldn’t change her mind.

  She instinctively headed toward the guest room, just as she’d retreated to her bedroom when she was a child, as if closing the door could shut out the taunting voices that called her names.

  “Worrywart.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Killjoy.”

  “Little Miss Perfect.”

  Sticks and stones may break my bones...

  The childhood rhyme echoed in her head as Beth reached the top of the stairs.

  Maybe names didn’t leave physical scars, but they did hurt. The barbs stung even more when they were tossed by her sister. For as long as she could remember, Beth had adored her little sister, but she’d also been aware that her affection wasn’t returned. So she’d tried harder to be liked by her sibling, to be included in her activities, to be part of her life.