A Cowboy's Christmas Carol

by Brenda Harlen

  “Relationships are more trouble than they’re worth, anyway,” he decided.

  “Is that a lesson that you learned from your father?”

  He physically recoiled from the question. “What?”

  “It seems to me that you’ve spent most of your adult life proving you’re responsible and dependable and nothing like Andrew Cruise,” she said. “And yet now, when you’ve finally met a woman who really matters, you walked out on her, just like your father walked out on your mother.”

  “It’s hardly the same thing,” he protested.

  “Why? Because you’re not married? Because you don’t have any children together? Because you don’t love her?”

  “All of the above,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

  “Well, then, I guess your conscience is clear.”

  “Some real advice might be more helpful than sarcasm,” he pointed out.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “You messed it up without any help from anyone else and you need to fix it the same way.”

  She was right about the fact that he’d messed it up, he admitted as he walked out of the house. But maybe he didn’t need to fix it. Maybe it was better this way.

  Why should he open up his heart and risk having it broken?

  Because you’ve never been happier than you’ve been since you met Daphne.

  He scowled at the thought as he slid behind the wheel of his SUV.

  And anyway, happiness was overrated as far as he was concerned. He’d been perfectly content with his life before he met Daphne, and he could be perfectly content without her again.

  The thought did nothing to reassure him. Not only because he knew contentment wouldn’t be enough, but because he didn’t want to imagine a life without her in it.

  But as he backed out of the driveway, he still wasn’t sure which way to turn. Left would take him home; right would lead him back to Happy Hearts.

  He was still annoyed that Daphne had pushed him to tell his grandmother about the post, but maybe she had a point. Because he might claim that he didn’t want to interfere, but wasn’t his refusal to share the information with his grandmother just a different kind of interference?

  Yes, Daisy was his grandmother and he wanted only to protect her, but it was her life. She should be the one to decide if she wanted to follow up on the posting by contacting the Abernathy family, which she could only do if she knew about it.

  So maybe he would tell her about “Desperately Seeking Daisy” and let her decide what next steps, if any, needed to be taken.

  But first, he needed to see Daphne.

  In the short time that he’d been inside his mother’s house, the sky had grown dark. The forecast hadn’t called for any more snow, but the gathering of clouds suggested otherwise, and he was almost halfway to Happy Hearts when the snow started to fall.

  At first it was just a few lazy flakes dancing harmlessly in the air. But within a few minutes, the snow was coming heavier and faster. Then the wind picked up, blowing the flakes every which way and reducing visibility to almost zero.

  He eased his foot off the gas to slow his vehicle, but without warning, the SUV started to spin and slide on the icy road. He tried to steer into the skid, but even with his knuckles white on the steering wheel, he couldn’t control the vehicle.

  Please stop. Please stop.

  But his pleas went unanswered.

  Damn it, this was a new SUV. He’d paid good money for it less than six months earlier.

  There are more important things in life than money.

  He acknowledged the point with a brief nod as the front wheel hit a culvert and the vehicle started to tip.

  Living was more important than money.

  Telling Daphne he was sorry was more—

  He didn’t manage to finish that thought before his world went black.

  Chapter Ten

  After Daphne returned Billie to his pen, she spent some time with Tiny Tim, rolling the pig’s new soccer ball back and forth with him. Her porcine companion was more than happy to play, a reminder to Daphne that she hadn’t been spending much time with him of late.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you in favor of a stupid man,” she said, putting her arm around the pig’s wide shoulders.

  Tiny Tim leaned into her embrace, almost pushing her over with his substantial weight and making her smile despite the fact that her heart was breaking.

  “I don’t know why I let myself get my hopes up. Maybe Jordan was right, maybe I’m trying too hard to find love.”

  “Love cannot be found where it does not exist, nor can it be hidden where it does.”

  She heard the voice but didn’t bother looking around. It was just Alice, once again making herself known. “Are you quoting Shakespeare to me?”

  “Paraphrasing.”

  “Well, poetic words don’t change the fact that Evan’s a jerk.”

  “He’s not a jerk.”

  “Really? You’re taking his side?”

  “I’m not taking sides.”

  “It sure seems like you’re taking sides.”

  “He’s protective of his grandmother, who’s been his rock through most of his life.”

  “How do you know so much about his life?”

  “You learn things when you hang around the world for sixty years after your death.”

  “Apparently,” she agreed.

  “He’ll figure out what he needs to do,” the ghost assured her. “But it’s not going to be easy, because he doesn’t want to cause his grandmother any pain.”

  “But it’s okay to hurt me?” she asked, swiping at a tear that spilled onto her cheek.

  “Of course not,” Alice soothed. “He just needs some time to understand and accept his emotions, and when he does, he’ll be back.”

  “I don’t want him back.”

  Daphne was grateful the ghost didn’t respond to that, because she didn’t want to be called out for lying.

  * * *

  Evan’s head hurt.

  No, not just his head—his whole body ached.

  He squinted his eyes and lifted a hand to shield his gaze against the bright circle of light that appeared in the distance. A light that slowly spread outward, revealing a figure at its center. The woman—draped in an old-fashioned nightdress with billowy sleeves and ruffles at the collar and hem—came closer, until she stood only a few feet away and solemnly said, “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

  “I’ve seen several different versions of A Christmas Carol,” he said, unimpressed. “And I’m not Ebenezer Scrooge and you look nothing like the nefarious Marley, so who are you really?”

  “You know who I am,” she told him.

  And suddenly he did know. “Alice Milton.”

  The shimmery apparition nodded.

  He couldn’t see her clearly, but her features were consistent with those of the woman in the photos Daphne had shown to him: long blond hair flowing over her shoulders and wide eyes set in a narrow face.

  “But we never knew each other,” he pointed out, trying to figure out why she, of all people, would appear to him in what was obviously a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

  “Still we are connected,” she said.

  “Because I could hear you crying?” he asked dubiously.

  “I’ve been crying for almost sixty years, waiting not just for someone to hear but someone to help. No one ever heard me—not until Daphne...and then you.”

  “But I’ve never seen you before. Why am I seeing you now?”

  “I’m here to take you on a journey, to remind you of the joys you experienced in Christmases past and reflect on the choices you’ve made since then. Because your name might not be Scrooge, but your obsession with money is the same.”

  “Wanting my business to be successful doesn
’t make it an obsession,” he argued.

  “You’re a con artist,” she said. “Selling ghost stories to those willing to pay the price of admission without believing in ghosts yourself.”

  “I’ve recently been rethinking my beliefs,” he assured her.

  “Come,” she said, offering her hand. “There is much for you to see.”

  “Are you taking me into the light? Am I dying?”

  “No, but you’re killing my patience.”

  “A ghost with a sense of humor,” he mused.

  Alice took his hand and led him down a long, dark hallway. There was no light, except that which surrounded the ghost. At the end of the corridor was a door that slowly opened as they drew nearer.

  The tableau was familiar: a winter wonderland scene set up in the center court of a shopping mall, a long line of excited and impatient children, a fancy throne-style chair upon which was perched a plump old man in a red velvet suit.

  He recognized his mother first, then glanced at the child holding tightly to her hand. It was him. About five years old then, Evan guessed. Probably not his first visit with Santa, but his earliest memory of the jolly elf.

  As they inched forward in the line, the little boy’s heart raced with excitement—and maybe just a hint of fear. Because Santa knew who was naughty and who was nice, and as much as he tried really hard to be nice, there had been a few times when his actions might have tipped over to the other side of the line.

  But Santa had been kind, and after the visit Evan had eagerly counted down the days until Christmas, excited to see what presents might have been left for him under the tree.

  The scene shifted then to that eagerly awaited morning, the setting a child’s bedroom, complete with a rumpled spread on the bed, a random sock peeking out from beneath it, and an overflowing toy box in the corner. A man and a woman appeared in the doorway.

  “What kid sleeps in on Christmas morning?” his mom asked.

  “Only ours,” his dad responded.

  The sound of their voices roused the child, who sat up in bed and blinked sleepily.

  “Merry Christmas, Evan,” his mom said.

  His eyes popped open wide then. “It’s Christmas? Did Santa come?”

  “Let’s go take a look,” his dad suggested.

  He slid out of bed and raced out of the room.

  The scene shifted again, and Evan took a step back.

  “I’ve seen enough.”

  “Not yet,” Alice said.

  He wanted to look away, but instead his gaze moved around the room, from the boughs of holly to the ceramic snowmen decorations and presents under the tree. It was Christmas again, but this year, there was no joy in his heart.

  The three stockings hanging over the fireplace told him everything he needed to know. His father was gone.

  “Look, Evan!” Four-year-old Vanessa’s eyes sparkled with happiness. “Look at all the presents! Santa must’ve knowed I was really good this year!”

  “Yeah, ’cause some old guy keeping tabs on little kids isn’t creepy at all,” he said.

  “Don’t,” his mom admonished sharply.

  Evan folded his arms over his chest and slumped down on the sofa.

  “This one’s for you,” his sister said, sliding a festively wrapped box across the floor toward him.

  “Thanks,” he said, but made no move to reach for it.

  “Aren’t you gonna open it?” Vanessa asked.

  “Let’s see what you got first,” he said instead.

  It was all the encouragement she needed.

  He sat and watched while she opened her gifts, envious of her happiness. Santa hadn’t brought everything on her list, but he’d hit the major highlights and Vanessa was overjoyed.

  Evan was angry and frustrated, and the real reason he wasn’t interested in opening any of the presents with his name on the tag was that none of them was big enough to be hiding his dad, and that was the only thing he’d asked Santa for that year.

  Not that he believed in Santa anymore by then, because he was ten and only little kids believed in Santa. But his mom had insisted that they take Vanessa to the mall to see the fat man in the red suit and Evan had decided that, since he was there anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  The man in the fake beard had seemed as uncomfortable with the request as the boy, and Evan had known, even as he walked away with a broken candy cane in his hand, that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted that year.

  So while his father’s absence on Christmas morning wasn’t really a surprise, it had extinguished the last vestige of hope that lived in the little boy’s heart. And when his grandfather had called him out for his attitude, he’d picked up the first thing he could grab and threw it at the wall with all of his might.

  It was one of Vanessa’s new toys, and when it broke, she cried.

  Later, he’d gone into the kitchen to get a drink and found his mom sitting at the table, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. And he knew that her tears were his fault, too.

  “Thanks for the walk down memory lane,” he said to the ghost. “But I think we’re done here now.”

  Alice shook her head. “Your journey has only just begun.”

  * * *

  Daphne wasn’t surprised when her father showed up at Happy Hearts following his wife’s visit to the farm. She was surprised that it had taken him only nine days to do so.

  And she was annoyed that he’d caught her on what was already a crappy day, on her knees in Gretel’s stall, applying a clay treatment to an abscess on the cow’s belly.

  But he let her finish the task and wash up before he said, “I’m sure you can guess why I’m here.”

  “Hello, Dad. How are you?”

  Cornelius’s mouth thinned. “Is the chitchat really necessary?”

  “No, it’s not necessary, but it’s considered courteous,” she admonished lightly.

  “I’m doing well,” he said tightly. “How are you?”

  “Busy,” she said. “But happy—and surprised—to see you.”

  The words weren’t just lip service—she was happy to see him, perhaps foolishly willing to hope that his presence at Happy Hearts meant that he was taking an interest in her work. But she was apprehensive, too, that this visit would take an unfortunate turn, as most of their recent interactions had done. She really didn’t want their relationship to end the way Alice and Henry Milton’s had—with the last words they’d exchanged being harsh ones.

  “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” she suggested.

  “Because I need you to take that—” he made a face, as if struggling to find the right word “—ratlike creature back.”

  “Are you referring to the Chihuahua that your wife recently adopted?” She lifted her coat off a hook by the door and slid her arms into the sleeves.

  “You know I am,” he said, pulling the door open for her.

  She blinked against the brightness of the sun reflecting on the snow. “What seems to be the problem?”

  In the distance, Barkley gave a happy bark and immediately began loping across the field toward her.

  “It’s not suitable,” Cornelius said bluntly.

  “For what purpose?”

  “For any purpose,” he snapped. “It’s barely even a dog—proven by the fact that it was beaten up by a cat.”

  “A feral cat,” she pointed out.

  “I don’t care. I don’t want it.”

  “Then it’s a good thing Button isn’t yours,” she said.

  “The name’s just as ridiculous as the animal,” he grumbled.

  “Because an animal without a pedigree isn’t worthy enough to live on the Taylor Ranch?” she challenged. “And if something—or someone—isn’t worthy, you simply get rid of it. Out of sight, out of mind, righ
t?”

  The vein in his neck began to pulse. “Can you please just come out to the ranch and get the damn dog?”

  “No, I can’t,” she told him. “An animal isn’t like an unwanted sweater to be exchanged, and Jessica and Button both seemed very happy when they left here together.”

  “I don’t know how you did it, but I’m sure you conned her into taking the ugliest mutt you had just to embarrass me.”

  “You might find this hard to believe, Dad, but not everything is about you.”

  “There’s no way she chose that dog.”

  “Actually, she did,” Daphne said. “And I’ll admit, it surprised me, too. But maybe she’s learned that what’s in someone’s heart is more important than their appearance.”

  Other than narrowing his gaze, he let that pointed remark slide.

  “When she said she wanted a dog for the ranch, I expected her to come home with something more like—” he pointed to the Lab now trotting along at her side “—that.”

  “His name’s Barkley,” she told him. “And he’s mine.”

  “Do you have any more like him?”

  “I’m not taking Button back,” she said again. “And I suspect that you knew I wouldn’t or else you would have brought her with you.”

  “Jessica took it shopping,” he said. “She wanted to buy it an ugly Christmas sweater.”

  Daphne didn’t even try to hold back the smile that curved her lips. “I’d love to see that.”

  “Stop by on Christmas and you will.”

  It wasn’t the most gracious invitation she’d ever received, but she decided that she would give it some consideration, especially since her plans with Evan seemed to have fallen through.

  “In the meantime,” he continued, “maybe you could show me what other dogs you’ve got?”

  “You really want another dog?”

  “Jessica’s right—a ranch needs a dog,” he said.

  “Then let’s find one for you,” she agreed.

  She took him around the shelter, not just to introduce him to the animals that were available but to show off the facilities. Because she was proud of what she’d built here, and maybe it was naive, but she hoped he’d be proud, too. Not that she ever expected him to say as much, so she was pleased when he remarked positively on the organization and cleanliness of the space.