Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style

by Lori Copeland

  “Fruitcakes and leftovers.” Russ drew Beth into his arms, and leaned against the seat, grinning. “That’s what life’s all about.”

  Christmas, Texas Style

  KIMBERLY RAYE

  TORONTO NEW YORK LONDON

  AMSTERDAM PARIS SYDNEY HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM ATHENS TOKYO MILAN MADRID

  PRAGUEWARSAW BUDAPEST AUCKLAND

  Dear Reader,

  There’s nothing like Christmas in the Lone Star State! Where else can you be cozied up on Christmas Eve, roasting marshmallows and drinking hot cider to ward off a sudden freeze, then outside on Christmas Day, flipping turkey burgers on the grill and lathering on the sunscreen? (Okay, so maybe California, but you wouldn’t hear the neighbors drawling that slow-as-molasses “Merry Christmas, y’all” that’s so near and dear to us Texans.)

  Boston girl Winnie Becker gets to discover the charm of a Texas Christmas firsthand when she decides to turn her life around. She packs up and moves to Texas, determined to find her inner vixen—that ultrafeminine part of her that likes clothes, makeup and sexy-as-sin thongs. Instead, she discovers Trace Honeycutt, six feet plus of hunky male determined to steer clear of all vixens and, especially, their thongs. Trace has been there and done that—the last thing he needs in his life is a woman.

  But Christmas is a time for miracles, even in Texas. Especially when two matchmaking grandpas set their sights on getting their stubborn grandchildren together.

  I’m proud to be writing for Harlequin Duets, and I hope Christmas, Texas Style brightens your holiday season. I’d like to know what tickles your funny bone. You can drop me a note at P.O. Box 1584, Pasadena, TX 77501-1584.

  Wishing you and yours a very happy holiday, complete with plenty of sunscreen and mouthwatering turkey burgers. Merry Christmas, y’all!

  Once again, for my editor, Brenda Chin.

  You will never know how much your enthusiasm,

  your dedication and your great sense of humor

  mean to me.

  All my thanks!

  Prologue

  “IT’S YOUR MOVE.”

  The voice echoed through the main barn of the Rest Easy Retirement Ranch where all but two residents had gathered. Clem Harvey and Charlotte Moore were bedridden—Clem, from hip surgery, and Charlotte, from the fifth face-lift that had her eyebrows riding in her back pocket. Both were being briefed on the unfolding events by way of Mort Windburn’s neon green cyber talkies—a Christmas present from his greatgrandson.

  There were only two things that warranted full attendance at the Rest Easy—tapioca and dominoes.

  The pudding fest had been last night.

  Necks strained, bifocals glittered and several pairs of false teeth clacked encouragingly as everyone waited to see what Jasper Becker was made of.

  Not much compared to the man facing off with him. Ezra Honeycutt was not only a resident and part-time riding instructor, but the best domino player ever to soak his teeth at the Rest Easy.

  Nobody had ever beaten Ezra Honeycutt—the Ezra Honeycutt, ex-rodeo cowboy and the meanest, hardiest bronc buster that ever graced the circuit—and Jasper should know. He never missed an episode of Bonanza, nor the ESPN rodeo clips that followed

  Ezra wasn’t busting broncs anymore. More like trick ponies—old, arthritic trick ponies, since the Rest Easy was home to retired horses, as well. Even so, Ezra wasn’t a man to tangle with unless you expected to lose.

  Which was exactly why Jasper Becker had agreed to a winner-take-all game. He’d expected to lose. Anticipated it. But now, with his conscience niggling him and a dozen pair of cataracts trained on him, he wasn’t so sure.

  It wasn’t as if they were playing for the usual contraband cookies. The stakes were high.

  “My arteries are hardening,” Ezra said. “Stop stalling, you old coot, and move.”

  Jasper wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and reached for one of the three dominoes in front of him. He hadn’t been this nervous since he’d faced off with that kamikaze back in WWIL Trembling fingers hesitated just inches shy of the game piece.

  “What if Trace is a late sleeper?” he asked Ezra. “My Winnie’s a morning person.”

  “He’s up at the crack of dawn,” Ezra assured him. “Now move.”

  Jasper bypassed the double sixes for a three-and-two combination, and paused. “What about pets in the house? Winnie likes animals, but she’s allergic to cat hair.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ at Trace’s place but a teddy bear some kid give ’im for good luck when he rode over in Salt Lake City. That and the occasional mosquito. Your Winnie ain’t allergic to mosquito hair, is she?” Ezra chuckled.

  Jasper tried to calm his pounding heart. Maybe he should go for the double fours. Yep. Winnie had been four when she’d spent her first summer with him. She’d been so cute and lively and had taken to his favorite Bonanza reruns like a chip off the old block.

  His fingers fell short. “What about Trace’s cleanup habits? The good Lord didn’t put my Winnie on this earth to spend her days picking up after—”

  “The boy’s got two good hands,” Ezra cut in, “and he darned sure knows how to use ’em.”

  “But will he?” Jasper pressed. “Some men leave the domestic stuff to women and treat them subservient.”

  “You been reading Cosmo again, ain’t ya?”

  The air seemed to pause. Even old Mrs. Barnhardt who suffered from chronic asthma managed to halt, midwheeze.

  “Hell, no.” Jasper shifted in his chair. At Ezra’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Maybe I did read an article, but it wasn’t my fault. I had the prunes for dinner. After two handouts on osteoarthritis, the back of a denture cream tube and the potty privilege pamphlet, a man’s eyes get desperate.”

  A compassionate murmur drifted through the group.

  Ezra frowned. “You gonna hem and haw, or get to it?”

  “I’m thinking.” Jasper fingered the double sixes. “So what if Trace hates pancakes? Or squeezes the toothpaste from the middle? Or what if he leaves the seat up?”

  “If he can lift it, more power to him!” Old Mr. Connelly waved his cane in the air and a hoot of agreement echoed around him.

  “He don’t leave the seat up,” Ezra muttered. “Now move.”

  “I’m getting to it.” Jasper grabbed the double sixes again. “What if Trace has cold feet? There’s nothing worse than a pair of cold feet rubbing up against you in the middle of the night.”

  “He can wear socks to bed.”

  “In the summertime, socks can be awful itchy and—”

  “Move, or we call it off right now.”

  “All right, all right. I just want to be sure we’re doing the right thing.”

  “Trace is a good man,” Ezra assured him.

  “And Winnie’s a good woman,” Jasper added.

  “Which is why it’s a damned shame for either of ’em to spend Christmas alone because of their own stubbornness,” Ezra said.

  Agreement floated through the group.

  “You said it.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Together, that’s how they ought to be.”

  “You cain’t get more right than that,” Ezra told him.

  Jasper shifted his attention back to the dominoes, then eyed Ezra’s single one sitting there, waiting to be played. This was it. He could lay down the double sixes just the way Mort was signaling him to do and let Ezra domino, or he could hold him up for at least two more moves.

  More time to think. To worry. What kind of grandfather played with his only granddaughter’s future?

  The desperate kind who wanted great-grandchildren to show off to his domino buddies. Why, everybody at the Rest Easy—except for Ezra, that is—had a wallet full of pictures. All Jasper had was a snapshot of Winnie’s last dog, a poodle that had kicked the bucket six years ago.

  He gripped the double sixes and salved his conscience by repeating Ezra’s reasoning on the subject. “It ain’t like we’re toss
ing ‘em in the river. We’re just going to lead ’em to the water.”

  “Damn straight,” Ezra said. “You tell Winnie you won her a house in a domino game, my house, and lure her to town. If she’s as heartbroken as you say, she’ll jump at the chance to get away from that twotiming ex-fiancé of hers. Then we’ll cook up an excuse for her to get together with Trace, like he’s a poor, lonely lost soul who needs a friend.”

  “Winnie’s always had a weak spot for lost souls. Took in every stray when she was a kid, her last poodle included.”

  “We’ll make sure she thinks Trace is the biggest stray this side of the Rio Grande. She won’t even consider turnin’ her back on him.”

  “What are you going to tell Trace?”

  “I ain’t quite figured that out yet, but I’ll think of something. Now stop fussing. This’ll work,” Ezra told him for the umpteenth time. “Then it’s ‘hello, great-grandbabies.”’

  Jasper latched onto the thought. “Okay, so we’re manipulating things. We’re still not actually forcing them into anything, right?” Jasper slid the double sixes into place.

  “Hell, no. Just leadin’ ’em to water.” Ezra played his final domino. “It’s their business if they’re thirsty. Of course, I’m gonna do my damndest to see that they are. I ain’t waited seventy-five years to be the only cowpoke on the ranch without his own brag book.”

  1

  “IT’S A GREAT OPPORTUNTY.” Winnifred Becker taped up the box she’d been packing, hefted it to the side of her bedroom and stared at her best friend. “The chance of a lifetime.”

  “Catching a red tag sale at Neiman’s, finding the lost poodle of a famous actor, entering a lonely hearts contest with a super hunk as the prize—now those are great opportunities.” Nina Russell plopped on the corner of Winnie’s bed amid a clutter of travel brochures and discarded clothes. “You can’t do this. You can’t leave a wonderful job and all of your friends to go traipsing clear across the country.”

  “Twenty hours a day at a nursing home, surrounded by seventy-somethings hardly qualifies as wonderful.” Winnie shook her head. “As for friends,” she glanced around her small efficiency located just two blocks from the University of Boston where she and Nina had roomed together during college, “this is my going away celebration and you’re the only one here.”

  “I’m the only one you invited. Besides, it’s two and a half weeks before Christmas. Everybody’s off at one party or another.” At Winnie’s raised eyebrow, Nina added, “Or in bed after a hard day of macramé.”

  “It’s crochet. We haven’t offered macramé since Mr. Witherspoon mistook one of the beads for a hard candy and almost broke a tooth.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit you’re not surrounded by the hippest crowd. But if you want excitement, join a singles club or find a hobby.”

  “I intend to, once I get to Nostalgia.”

  “I meant here. Texas is a thousand miles away.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “But it’s Christmas, Winn. You shouldn’t be all by your lonesome in some rinky-dink Texas town.”

  “It’s a city, the fastest-growing in the state, as a matter of fact.” At least according to Grandpa Jasper, and he should know, he’d been living deep in the heart for over six years now since he’d retired from the Navy. “A Houston in the making. Besides, I’d be all by my lonesome right here. My parents are still stationed in Germany and my brother, Josh, is in South America.”

  “You’ve still got me.”

  “And you’re leaving tomorrow on a three-week cruise.”

  “You could come with me. I’ll buy your ticket. My Christmas present to you.”

  “And be a third wheel? You and Jake deserve some time alone. A real honeymoon.” Which they’d never had in the two years since their wedding because Nina owned one of the fastest-growing bakeries in Boston and spent every waking moment up to her elbows in flour and sugar.

  “Besides, this move is a good thing,” Winnie went on. “I’ll be closer to Grandpa Jasper.” He was the only relative she had who wasn’t roaming the globe thanks to the Navy. “The Rest Easy Retirement Ranch is only four hours from Nostalgia, and while he’ll be busy on that Christmas trail ride, I can at least spend New Year’s with him.” Winnie fought back a wave of doubt and steeled her determination. “The timing is perfect. A new year, a new beginning. A change.”

  That was the real reason Winnifred Becker was packing up and moving a thousand miles away. She needed a change.

  She stared at her best friend sprawled across her beige comforter. Beige, as in boring. Blah. Her life in a nutshell. Her gaze shifted to the neat little piles of standard white cotton briefs lining the drawer she’d just pulled out. Before she could stop herself, she upended the contents into a cardboard box.

  She didn’t want neat. She wanted exciting. She needed it. Now more than ever.

  “This is about Arthur, isn’t it? Forget him. The guy was, is, and will always be a geek. He wears polyester suits and slicks his hair back with Dippity-Do, for crying out loud. My grandpa dresses better. It’s no surprise you dumped him. What’s surprising is that it took you so long.”

  “I didn’t dump him because he was a geek.”

  “No, you dumped him because he was a geek and a commitment-phobe, both of which are his problem. Not yours.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

  Now, if she only believed it.

  She eyed the next drawer filled with her comfy clothes—a few pairs of men’s boxers, some hole Tshirts and a knee-length Bart Simpson T-shirt. Typical Winnie. Comfortable. Drab. Sexless. Geeky.

  A tear slid free and she dashed it away.

  “Hey,” came Nina’s comforting voice. “Don’t do that. A guy who didn’t even kiss you until the tenth date, who didn’t even make a move on you until year number three, isn’t worth the tears. He’s probably not even into women. Why, I bet he’s got a major case of closet-itis and you just got caught in the cross fire.”

  “He’s getting married.”

  “What?”

  Winnie sniffled. “He’s getting married.”

  “Married?”

  “Married.”

  “Arthur?”

  “Arthur.”

  “But you just gave him his walking papers two weeks ago.”

  “Two weeks and three days.” The anniversary of their first date.

  Winnie had been expecting a ring. After all, she wasn’t getting any younger and neither was Arthur and, well, eight years of dating and waiting was a long time.

  Obviously, not long enough.

  He’d handed her his usual coupon for a free income tax filing with his firm, and Winnie had handed it right back. She didn’t want a man who couldn’t commit, even if he was gainfully employed with a nice, fat mortgage and his own burial plot.

  “He’s perfect for you,” her mother had told her time and time again during their monthly long-distance phone call. “He’s so settled.” Meaning he wouldn’t be carting Winnie around the world the way her father had repeatedly uprooted her mother.

  While Gwen Becker loved her husband, she wanted better for her only daughter. Stability. Roots. Both came packaged as Arthur, the reliable, mortgaged-to-the-hilt accountant.

  What her mother hadn’t known was that Arthur had unresolved issues when it came to commitment.

  Namely, Winnie.

  That truth had hit home when he’d called her a few days ago and told her the news. He’d met a woman. The woman. Ladonna Latrelle, the professional temp and ex-cocktail waitress who’d walked into his office to fill in while his sixty-something secretary had bunion surgery. And they were getting married.

  “I can’t explain it, Winnie. I’ve never met anyone like her. She’s so vivacious, so bolt, so sexy, so… exciting.”

  Winnie sniffled and wiped at another tear. “I’m okay with it. After eight years of me in my baggy sweats, no makeup and no courage, I don’t blame him for being swept away by another woman.” Wi
nnie hadn’t exactly been a man-eater in the bedroom. Or the living room. Or the bathroom. Or any of the other places Arthur had told her he and Ladonna had gotten friendly. “I wish him well.”

  The rat.

  “John has a cousin who knows this guy who’ll break Arthur’s kneecaps for twenty bucks,” Nina offered.

  Winnie blinked back a sudden blur of tears. “What do I get for fifty?”

  “Kneecaps, two fingers of your choice and both big toes. Throw in an extra five and he’ll do it slowly. Real slow.”

  A vision of Arthur, his face contorted in pain, his black nerd glasses twisted and broken, his usually slick hair mussed, flashed in Winnie’s mind. She smiled. “Unfortunately, I can’t spare the cash. I’ll need money to live off of while I’m looking for a new job.” An exciting job where her office didn’t smell like vitamins and disinfectant.

  Not that she regretted the past eight years as the director at Whispering Winds, a small nursing home on Boston’s east side. Saying goodbye had been the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. She loved each resident, and she’d learned every trick when it came to cheating at Bingo. But a girl could only play so many cards before she woke up one morning and realized that during all those B14’s and N35’s, life had passed her by.

  “I thought you were getting the house for free,” Nina said.

  “I am.” Winnie wiped at her face. She was not going to cry again. Not another tear. Not over Arthur and Miss Vivacious Latrelle. “Sort of. Grandpa Jasper won the place in a domino game, but I couldn’t accept such high stakes, even though I know how seriously seniors take their dominoes. I offered to pay rent.” Because this was a chance of a lifetime and she’d be foolish to pass up the opportunity for a total makeover, both inside and out. ”But all Ezra Honeycutt—he’s the owner—wants is a friend for his grandson.”

  “Grandson? As in short and cute and into Barney?”

  Winnie shook her head. “He’s my age, recently divorced and has trouble meeting people.”

  “You mean women.”

  “Ezra says he’s shy.”

  “And probably butt-ugly.”

  “Maybe, but it doesn’t matter.”