A Cowboy for Christmas

by Rachel Lee

  He sat up again, his blue eyes seeming to be lit from within. “Twenty years I’ve been on this road. Longer if you count the time before I left here.”

  “That’s a long time,” she said carefully.

  He tipped to one side and pulled a wallet out of his hip pocket. “My dad took a photo of me the day I left the ranch to go to Nashville.”

  “How’d your parents feel about that?”

  “Not happy, but I guess they knew they couldn’t stop me. They were afraid for me. Maybe they were right.”

  He opened the wallet, flipped a few leaves, then passed her a photo. It was bent, worn, clipped to fit in his wallet. She took it and held it under the lamp. A tall skinny youth holding a guitar in one hand by the neck looked back at her. “You’ve changed,” she said, not knowing what else to say, except that if she’d met that gangly boy at nineteen she’d have found him every bit as appealing, and she wasn’t going to say that out loud.

  “Yeah.” He took the photo back. “My mom used to complain because I was so thin and my legs so long she had to special order jeans for me from Freitag’s. All legs, she said, and nothing else.”

  She smiled at him. “You were cute.”

  “Debatable.” He put the photo away and tucked the wallet back in his pocket. “I had this yen in me, to make music and have other people like it and want more of it. Even if I’d failed I’d have kept right on making songs. It was like it was in my blood.”

  “Don’t you feel that way anymore?”

  “Not often. It’s like all the gloss, all the advice, all the guidance, other people’s wishes...they put a layer over it all. Gotta please the crowds now, not just me. I’m not saying it’s bad, but it’s different.”

  “That changes it?” she asked tentatively, trying to understand.

  “Yeah, it does. So I come running out here to find that pure creativity again. The kind that just makes me happy. I’m lucky to be able to do it.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “But you don’t have that same freedom. And I got to thinking, stupid as it may be, that I’d like to know what you hope for. What your dreams are. Maybe they haven’t been completely polluted yet by life.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, unable to keep a hint of bitterness out of her voice. “I had simple dreams. Family. Growing old together, grandkids on my knee. I didn’t set my sights very high.”

  His expression gentled. “Actually, I think those might be the highest goals in the world. As I’m discovering.”

  She studied him for a few moments, trying to connect his utterly different experience with her limited one. All she’d ever known was contained in this county. She had no idea what fame and fortune were like and had never yearned for them.

  But there was Regina, and she could totally understand his concerns about her, even though she had no children of her own. So what was he reaching for here? She had no truths to offer anyone. When she’d lost her trust in men, she’d lost a lot of trust in herself.

  “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “it’s not enough to reach the top of the mountain and try to stay there. In fact, it can be cold and lonely up there. Not for everyone, I’m sure, but for me, yeah. So that got me thinking about the journey. The incredible satisfaction that comes from every little success and achievement as you climb closer to what you want.”

  She nodded but didn’t speak. He needed to talk and she was more than willing to listen. There was a deep sorrow in this man, she realized. He might have the world by a string, but there was still plenty of sadness in him.

  “I was thinking, too, about all the times you fall down and have to pick yourself up and start again. The moments when you know what you’re made of. Those are important, too.”

  “Yes.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “You’re working on picking yourself up.”

  She folded her arms, though she wasn’t sure why. Was he getting close to something she wasn’t ready to face? Or was she scared of sharing herself with him? Probably the latter. Sharing herself had gotten her nothing but trouble.

  He waited, then shook himself. “Sorry, none of my business.”

  “Maybe not,” she agreed. “But you’re reaching for something here and I don’t know what it is. I can’t help if I don’t understand.”

  “Funny thing is, I don’t expect you to help. I guess sometimes I just need to hear myself say it out loud. I’m messed up. No real reason that I can see. Somebody as lucky as me shouldn’t feel messed up about much.”

  “You keep saying you’re lucky,” she remarked. “In some ways you certainly are. But in others, not so lucky. I didn’t lose a child in my divorce. I just lost my self-respect, and I can get that back. It’ll take time, but it’s not anywhere near what you’re facing right now.”

  “If that was all of it, I’d agree. But I’m feeling a certain amount of self-indulgent angst, and sometimes it shames me. I owe a lot of gratitude and I know it. So what the hell am I chasing here? My own tail?” He snorted. “Sometimes I disgust myself.”

  With that he rose and said good-night.

  Before he made it out the door, she rose and caught him by the arm. “Rory?”

  He looked at her across his shoulder.

  “Don’t be disgusted with yourself. You’re an artist and you feel something is missing. You’re trying to find it. That’s not self-indulgent, any more than it’s self-indulgent for me to nurse my own wounds until I get past them.”

  He turned slowly toward her. “This day has really messed me up,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  A slow smile dawned on his face. “You’re one helluva woman, Abby. I know you got a whole load of hurt inside you, but you can still find some caring for me and my daughter. Ever heard of sexual harassment?”

  The question caught her utterly by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “You work for me. I’d be wandering into lawsuit territory if I told you how beautiful you are, how sexy you are and how much I want to kiss you. So I won’t say it.”

  She caught her breath, almost stunned. Then a tight knot formed in her stomach. “You think I’d do that?”

  “You’d be within your rights. But no, I don’t think you’d do that. I just don’t want to make you feel...uncomfortable with me. Don’t want you wishing you worked for someone else.”

  Considering she’d been feeling like a whipped dog for months now, considering he’d just told her something she’d never thought she would hear, not after the way Porter had shredded her, calling her a cow, saying she was a lousy lover and everything else he could think of to hurl at her to diminish her as a woman and a wife. Rory hadn’t made her at all uncomfortable. In fact quite the opposite. He’d made her glow inside.

  On impulse, she rose on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his. “Is it harassment if it goes the other way?”

  When he wrapped his arms around her and drew her snugly against him, she found out that all her imaginings were real. He was every bit as powerfully built as she had thought, his belly was as hard as rock and his arms...ah, the way they hugged her close felt so good she melted inside. Had any hug every felt this good to her?

  He bent his head, and his mouth met hers, just a light touching of lips, as if merely testing her response. Her reaction was instantaneous and full of heat. She never wanted this moment to end, not ever. She felt secure in his embrace, safer than she could ever remember feeling, and the heat of desire only added to the moment as it flickered through her like tongues of flame, lapping at her nerves, ready to burst into a wildfire.

  But with a sigh, he ended the kiss, caught the back of her head with one hand and drew it to his shoulder. “So sweet,” he whispered. “So very sweet.”

  Almost dazed by the awakenings inside her, swamped by hungers and desires she
had tried so hard to bury, she could merely lean into him and try to imprint every single moment, every single sensation on her memory forever. This might never happen again, but she would treasure it always.

  Slowly he released her. She wondered if she was imagining his reluctance in the way he let go. At last she couldn’t escape the need to step back.

  He smiled at her when she dared to open her eyes, then used a forefinger to tip her chin up. “Thank you,” he said, and bent a bit to brush another kiss on her lips.

  She sighed, wanting to grab him and draw him close, but knowing instinctively that would be the wrong thing to do. For both of them. A night of romantic play wouldn’t resolve anything for either of them. In fact, it might only complicate matters. Man, she hated being sensible right then.

  “Good night.” Then he was gone.

  A few minutes later she heard quiet music issuing from the living room piano. Much more peaceful than earlier. Maybe even a bit happy?

  But no, she hadn’t done anything to make him happy. No point in deluding herself. Too many clouds hung over his head.

  Outside, the wind still howled, but night had taken charge of the world. She settled into her chair again, but instead of trying to read, she closed her eyes and remembered those moments in Rory’s embrace.

  They had been heaven. Maybe tomorrow that would scare her, but right now all she wanted was to savor them.

  * * *

  Rory played quietly well into the night, seeking an answer in the notes that spilled from the piano. He still hadn’t reached for his guitar, although it was where his heart ultimately lay.

  Yeah, he was looking for something. And yeah, sometimes he felt like a self-indulgent ass. What could possibly be missing when you were at the pinnacle of your career, wealthy enough to pull a stunt like this and walk away for a while and indulge the desire to write your own music, your own story, just for yourself, even if it never turned into anything marketable?

  Midlife crisis, one of his friends had suggested. Maybe it was. He was about the age, and he’d been headed in one direction at full-tilt for so long, maybe he’d left some other stuff by the wayside. Possible.

  Then there was this mess with Regina. He’d do anything to protect his daughter. If Stella didn’t drop this nonsense, he wasn’t kidding about putting her in the poorhouse. He’d heard just enough from Regina to know that Stella was a lousy mother. Not that he hadn’t already figured out some of that, but before the divorce he’d been able to make up for it.

  Now he had to protect his daughter against her own mother. Somehow that just didn’t seem right. True, but not right.

  And finally there was Abby. The little mouse who’d been looking after his house and, he guessed, him. Imagine Regina asking Abby to take care of him. That troubled him, that his daughter had such worries.

  But Abby troubled him, too. She seemed to have locked up a whole bunch of herself. Of course, he could be wrong. Maybe there wasn’t much there to begin with. But he doubted it. When she cut loose a bit, he saw sparks of the woman she could be.

  Odd how she seemed to reach him. He was no monk, but in his world, beautiful women were everywhere. In a way, he’d gotten immune to what lay on the surface. Abby didn’t fit that image at all. Just a bit plump, which seriously appealed to him, a new discovery about himself. Holding her as he had for just those few minutes had taught him that a soft woman was a much more pleasant package to hold than one who was all bones and implants. A very nice armful indeed.

  But it would be wrong to take advantage of that. She had plenty of healing left to do, never mind that he was her boss. Right now the boat of his life seemed to be riding rough seas, and he’d pulled her into that far enough.

  How much worse if he followed his sexual urges and wound up leaving for whatever reason. He owed her better treatment than that.

  But she fueled the bonfires of his sexual desire, more so than any woman had affected him in a while. He guessed he’d gotten jaded along the way. Jaded and distrustful, and while Abby made him feel strong urges he hadn’t felt in a while, he wasn’t ready to trust.

  Maybe because she wasn’t ready to, either. Trust needed to be a two-way street.

  He played on quietly, seeking the solace that music had always offered him. From his youngest years, when he’d been given a guitar by his grandfather, he’d been hooked on music. Mostly self-taught, but after months of building up calluses on his fingertips, the rest had come naturally. All of it, even the first time he sat down at a piano and learned which keys made which notes. It was in his blood, a talent that must have come from somewhere, although he couldn’t guess. The first few years in Nashville, he’d faced his share of difficulties, but they’d been the ones everyone faced: closed doors and disinterest. Living hand to mouth, taking whatever work he could find, just to support his need to play and sing. Then luck had walked through the door one night when he was playing at a small bar, and life had transformed.

  He’d had great times, bad times and some learning to do. It’d be nice to think he’d learned the important things, but he wasn’t always so sure.

  Then had come the nagging feeling that something was missing inside him. Not just his daughter, although he missed her like hell, but something else. The music was no longer answering all the questions in his heart and soul. It was no longer his music.

  Sometimes he thought he’d become a parody of himself, even as he knew he ought to be on his knees giving thanks that he’d been blessed in so many ways.

  He’d come back to his roots, although not exactly. He wasn’t spending his days helping his folks on their ranch. He didn’t need to anymore. But he could walk out the door and find the other things that had fed him—the mountains, streams, plains. Even the sigh of the wind and the way the tumbleweed rolled, the sounds that it made if you got close enough to hear the swish and crackle.

  He couldn’t have said how that turned into music, but it did. Wide-open nature somehow made him wide open, too.

  Then of course Stella had put her foot right in the middle of it all. Why should he have expected anything else? He wondered what she really wanted, because he was certain it wasn’t Regina. The girl was an accessory to her, like a fine diamond necklace. Something to be shown off, then put away.

  He stopped playing, drew a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. Not a good time to get angry all over again. He’d start hammering the keys and wake Abby. Wouldn’t do any good anyway.

  He ought to get some sleep. Tomorrow he’d pick up Regina and find out what was going on with her. She might be treating this as if it wasn’t a big deal, but two things had given her away: turning off her cell so her mother couldn’t call and asking Abby to take care of him.

  Asking someone to take care of him. That seriously troubled him. He was her father, it was his job to take care of her and she shouldn’t have to be worrying about him, not at her age.

  Damn Stella.

  “Rory?”

  He looked over to see Abby in the doorway, still dressed in dark green sweats. He suspected she slept in them, not a bad choice on a night like this when chilly drafts sometimes crept through the house. Like spectral fingers, they touched him from time to time.

  Beside her stood Rally, his head lowered, tail down. One unhappy dog.

  “Something bothering you?” he asked.

  “Rally is miserable. Then you stopped playing and I grew concerned. How are you?”

  “Oh, as right as any man can be, under the circumstances. I stopped playing because I was near to pounding the keys again, and I thought you were asleep. Is the dog bothering you? I can take him to my room.”

  “He might need a walk, but mainly I think he’s lonesome for Regina.”

  He clucked his tongue and the dog came toward him, too slowly. Reaching out, he scratched Rally behind the ears and around his neck. �
�You’re blue, too, boy? Seems like there’s a lot of lonesome in this house tonight.”

  “I had that thought earlier,” Abby said. “A lot of loneliness, especially this time of year with the holidays and all. Anyway, I guess I can step out with him if you’re sure he’ll come back.”

  “The way it’s blowing out there, he won’t even want to leave the porch.” He shook his head. “Fool dog ain’t so foolish, are you, boy? You want your Regina. So do I.” He stood. “I’ll take him out back. You can go back to bed, if you want, and close your door. I’ll keep him with me.”

  She gave a little shake of her head. “Sleep seems elusive tonight. I was about to break down and have some coffee. You want me to make enough for you?”

  He realized he did. Sleep was going to be elusive for him, too. “Thanks.”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “Is it a couple-of-cups night or a full-pot night?”

  He had to smile back, even though everything inside him was aching for something or other. Her, his daughter, the answers to cosmic questions. He could only shake his head at himself. “I think it’s a full-pot night, for me anyway.”

  She went to the kitchen while he walked down the hall with Rally. He didn’t do his usual happy dance, either because he was so low or because he could hear what was waiting outside. Rory grabbed his jacket off the peg and stepped into frozen hell.

  Snow felt like icy needles. The wind had taken on renewed life. He couldn’t blame Rally for snapping at the snow. Whatever helped.

  The dog hesitated, then dove off the porch, went a few steps and did his business in record time. No pausing to sniff at anything. He wanted warmth and the indoors tonight.

  When they got back inside, Rally darted down the hall to the kitchen. Already Rory could smell the brewing coffee and he followed the aroma straight to Abby. He saw she’d also pulled out some Danish she must have bought at the grocery, and it was sitting on a plate with a knife on the table. She sat in her usual chair.