“Next one. The white pine. It’s pretty and smells great.”
I got busy sawing off three big branches. Turned out Max was right; the tree did smell pretty great. Christmassy. Not that I’d admit it.
“Maybe one more branch,” she called, her voice closer behind me, so obviously she hadn’t stayed on the porch like she’d promised.
“Negative.” I might owe her a happy Christmas memory, but I couldn’t afford to let her call all the shots. Too damn dangerous.
I turned back to the house, branches in hand, and, sure enough, Max was moving around the yard picking up branches, bunches of leaves, and pinecones the wind had downed. She’d slid her feet into my work boots from the back porch and was shuffling around with baby steps to keep them from falling off her feet. “Damn it, Max. It’s freezing out here. Get your sweet ass inside now or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you in myself.”
“I’m going!” She shuffled back to the house, barely managing to keep the blanket around her what with her arms full of greenery.
We got back into the house just as the next band of freezing rain hit, tapping away at the windows and tin roof.
“Here you go.” I dropped the branches and shed my coat. “One Christmas tree as ordered. Some assembly required.”
“First, we’re going to need some Christmas music.” Max’s smile was bright and irresistible. She’d stepped out of my boots and dropped her own armful of greenery onto the old pine dining table between the kitchen and the great room. “Second, you think I have a sweet ass?”
“Christmas music coming up.” That I could handle. But I’d ignore all talk about her sweet ass.
I searched for a station on the radio I had on my kitchen counter but with the interference from the storm most of the stations were static. “You have a choice between country music or country music.”
“Gosh, that’s a hard decision.” Max looked up at the ceiling and tapped a finger to her lips as if considering it. “I’m thinking country.”
“Good choice.” I tuned it in as Max moved past me, putting me too damn close to her bare legs again. She stretched the damp quilt over the back of the couch to dry and my view of her legs got even better.
Stop looking at her legs and imagining them wrapped around you, asshole. You owe her a new happy Christmas memory. Not a repeat of the one three years ago.
I was determined to stay on Santa’s “nice” list even though the damn devil on my shoulder kept whispering naughty suggestions.
With my resolve strengthened and Christmas tunes playing softly from the radio, we went to work. We bound the three branches together around a length of rebar with twine and stuck them into an empty tin pail filled with rocks. (Another trip into the freezing cold for me.)
“That is adorable,” Max said, a satisfied grin on her face. “Now we need to trim it. Where do you keep your ornaments?”
“I don’t.” Other than the few Christmases with Max’s family, I didn’t do Christmas. Hadn’t for the last three years.
“So, we’ll make some.” Max shrugged, eying the stack of magazines on my coffee table.
I winced, realizing I’d be sacrificing some of my Farm and Ranch and Working Horses magazines to the cause. Hopefully I could hide all my copies of Tractors & Trucks before she found the scissors.
“Whoa, wait. We’ll make some? Not unless they’re made out of empty cans and barbed wire. This cowboy doesn’t do crafts. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I need to eat.” Anything to get me out of decorations worked for me. Plus, my stomach had reached the growling stage. “How about I cook while you handle the decorating?”
“Works for me. You always were a better cook out on the range.”
“Truth. You burned our chow every time.” The memory of eating burned stew and beans was still fresh. Because after a long day of riding, a cowboy was too hungry not to eat whatever the cook dished out. “I always thought you did it on purpose to get out of cooking, but Logan and Liam said you’d never stoop to an underhanded trick like that.”
“A cowgirl’s gotta do what a cowgirl’s gotta do.” She grinned, but then her smile slowly died and her light blue eyes locked on me. “You always did know me better than your brothers.”
I had. We’d had some weird connection. I’d never even questioned it because it had always been there. Even back when Max was eight and I was ten. And it had only grown deeper over the years until I’d broken the connection by walking away.
Sometimes a cowboy’s gotta do what a cowboy’s gotta do.
Even when it hurt like hell.
8
Max
While Locke cooked us dinner, I sat at the kitchen island making ornaments, chock full of comfort and joy. Because:
I wasn’t cooking. I loved to eat, but hated to cook. (In case it wasn’t clear, of course I burned food on purpose all those years ago. I never once used being female as an excuse to get out of the crappy jobs, but I had no trouble using trickery.)
The view was awesome. I got to stare at Locke’s smoking hot butt and muscled shoulders as he worked at the stove, grilling up steak and home fries in his cast iron pan.
I’d found plenty of items around Locke’s house to fashion into decorations. An old burlap sack I planned to cut into strips and knot together to make a long ribbon, magazines to make colorful paper chains with just scissors and a stapler, and plain white computer paper folded up and cut into delicate snowflakes with paperclip hooks.
“So, we talked about me, but how about you?” I glanced up from cutting the burlap strips, trying for casual conversation. Casual in delivery. But information I felt desperate to know. “How have you been?”
“Fine.” He leaned against the counter next to the stove and shoved his hands in his jean pockets with a shrug. “Doing fine.”
“Still working daddy’s ranch.” I smiled, but he dropped his head to stare at his feet. “I know he appreciates that you’ve stayed.”
“I can’t ever pay your father back for what he did for me and my brothers,” he said, looking back up at me with sharp intensity, his gray eyes sparking with shards of silver. “I wouldn’t leave, especially not during this rough patch. This drought’s been going on two years now.”
“Dodo said Liam and Logan left,” I said.
“Yeah, they did. But they didn’t want to.” He straightened and turned back to the stove to stir the potatoes around, also conveniently hiding his face from me. “Your dad helped me give them the push they needed to go to college.”
“Like a pep talk?” My dad was a man of few words, so when he did speak, people listened.
“Not so much. I asked Jed to fire them, so he did.”
“What?” I blinked up at him. “Why would you do that?”
“They’re too smart to stay ranch hands. They both graduated last spring with honors.” Locke’s face flashed with pride before sliding into a frown. “Only the fools came back to work the ranch. I finally had to get your dad to fire them again. Come January, Logan’s heading off for his MBA and Liam will start veterinary school.”
I was happy for Liam and Logan, but frustrated that, once again, Locke put his brothers’ needs in front of his own. He was only the oldest by a few minutes, but he’d always taken being oldest seriously. Too seriously.
“You’ll probably see them both at the Christmas parade tomorrow. Liam is Santa this year.”
“It’ll be good to see them.” I used to be good friends with all three of the brothers, but once Locke rejected me, my visits home were rare and quick. In the beginning, it had been too painful. Then I’d tried to prove I didn’t need Locke in my life. Three years later, I was mature enough to admit that had been a lie I’d told myself out of pride. Pride wasn’t worth a hoot if it meant not having Locke in my life, so I’d come back.
“What about you?” I asked, because he’d yet to reveal anything about himself.
“Me? You won’t catch me in the Santa suit.” Locke grimaced as he flipped the
steaks over. “Not my thing. I doubt I’ll even be at the parade.”
“Who are you, the Grinch?” I had vivid memories of the four of us riding side-by-side in the parade, our horses dressed fancy in soft scented pine and sleigh bells. “But I meant, what about you going to college too? You’re just as smart as your brothers. Didn’t you ever—”
“No.” He gave a firm shake of his head, busying himself with grabbing plates down from the cupboard. “My place is here.”
“Oh. I saw a stack of books in your closet. Textbooks. I thought maybe you—”
Locke swiveled his head abruptly, hitting me with an annoyed, narrow-eyed look. “Why were you poking around in my closet?”
Poking around? To smell his shirts, duh. But that was something some crazy stalker would say, so probably not a good idea to go with the truth.
“Poking around sounds so....” I stared down at the magazine pages I was cutting into strips while my brain scrambled for a good excuse.
“Nosy? Invasive?” He suggested, although thankfully there was the slightest edge of humor in his tone.
Hmm. Seemed like a perfect time to change the subject.
“Dinner smells great.” I stood, closed my eyes, and stretched my arms up over my head trying to get the kinks out of my back after being bent over the crafts. “Want me to get us drinks?”
No response. Yikes. Guess he was pissed—understandably so—about me invading his privacy. Own it and apologize. I opened my eyes, sucked in a breath, and turned to face Locke head on.
But it turned out the man didn’t look pissed at all. He was eyeing my legs the way I eye a piece of chocolate cake. That was to say a look of eagerness, yearning, and yay, I say unto you, sometimes even lust. (I might have a small problem when it comes to chocolate cake.) Nice to know the man wasn’t as disinterested as he pretended to be.
“Locke?”
“What?” His gaze jerked up. “I’m sorry, what’s that?”
“I’ll get us drinks.” I opened the fridge, glancing at him over my shoulder. “What do you want?”
“I’ll take a beer.” He dished the food onto plates while I grabbed a long-neck bottle of beer for him and a glass of milk for myself.
Sitting down at the table with Locke to share a meal felt both familiar and surreal. Familiar because we’d shared many a meal cooked over a campfire out on the range driving cattle or sheep. Surreal because for the last three years it felt like I’d never see him again. The distance between us felt wide and insurmountable like we stood on opposite banks of the Brazos River.
I inhaled both the meal and the company.
“This steak is delicious.” I forked another bite into my mouth. Sooo good.
“Nice to see some things haven’t changed.” He grinned at me. “You always did love your food.”
“That is not a lie.” I steered the conversation to some of the happy memories we shared. “Remember when that calf stole my peanut butter sandwich and I chased it down for ten minutes?”
“You got it too,” he said, laughing at the memory. “You should have seen the look on your face when you held up the sandwich bag and saw the cow drool drip off.”
“Y’all laughed your chaps off at me.” I smiled, because what I remembered most was Locke had shared half his sandwich with me while all the other cowboys were still laughing.
There were more funny stories but also catching up with where some of the cowboys ended up. A lot of cowboys moved around, hiring themselves out to ranches all over Texas and even further. But even with the nomadic life, it was a tight-knit community, especially on the rodeo circuit.
“That was wonderful.” I sat back, wiping my lips with my napkin. “Thank you.”
Locke nodded, stood, and cleared our plates over to the sink.
“Do you mind helping me finish with the decorations?” I asked while we both made short work of cleaning up the kitchen. “All you have to do is operate the stapler. Stapling isn’t considered crafting at all. It’s a very manly job.”
“Sure. I can handle a stapler.”
“My hero.” I sighed, fluttering my eyelashes at him until he laughed and shook his head.
We ended up sitting on the floor in front of the blazing fire with the supplies spread out around us. Locke methodically looped and stapled the magazine strips into paper chains while I sliced and diced with the scissors until I had a flurry of snowflakes.
“I think we’re done,” I said, looking around at the homemade tree decorations with pride. “Time to put them on the tree.”
Locke stood and reached down to help me up. The touch of his hand was like a bolt of lightning from my fingertips down to my belly. I stood mesmerized by the heat in his eyes, so close to mine. I bit my lower lip and Locke’s eyes dropped to my mouth, focused and fierce. My lungs struggled to work as if instead of exchanging oxygen and carbon dioxide they’d switched to honey and peanut butter.
It took all my self-command, but I stepped back, breaking the connection.
“How about if I wind the burlap ribbon on and you hang the paper chains on the branches between?”
Locke cleared his throat, but his voice still came out rough and deep. “Works for me.”
It went fast since the “tree” only stood about three feet tall and two feet wide. After the ribbon and chains, I hung the snowflakes while Locke added more logs to the fire.
“What do you think?” I stood back, looking our makeshift Christmas tree over.
“Nice.” He stared at the tree for a long quiet moment. “Very nice.”
“Yeah.” It was almost perfect. “It just needs a topper. You don’t happen to have a star or an angel lying around, do you? Or something with glitter or a big red bow?”
“Not hardly,” he said, looking thoughtful. “But hang on a sec...”
He disappeared into a room down the hall and returned a few minutes later with a packing box. Being the nosey-parker I was, I peered in to look as he opened it.
“Holy cow, that’s a lot of rodeo trophies. Why don’t you have them on display?”
“Why? They don’t mean anything. I only compete for the prize money.” He dug through the box, grunted, and pulled out a shiny, rhinestone-studded mini-horseshoe. “Is this sparkly enough for you?”
“Heck yes, it is. I love it. Talk about bling. I can’t imagine why you don’t have this beauty hanging over your mantle.” I laughed up at him and he reached out and tugged a strand of my hair. Just like he used to. “This…this will be perfect. And it’s light, so it won’t make the top droop.”
Locke attached it to the top of the tree with some twine and we both stood back to admire it.
“One Christmas Eve meal and one decorated tree.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I think we’ve ticked all the boxes. The way I see it, that’s one Christmas Eve paid in full.”
“Not so fast, cowboy. There seems to be one Christmas Eve tradition you’ve forgotten…”
9
Locke
A Christmas tradition I’d forgotten? No. I hadn’t forgotten one damn thing. A tingle of warning ran along the back of my neck as Max walked over to the pile of branches and leaves she’d brought inside. She searched through them before selecting one out and examining it, turning it over in her hands.
Aw, hell. Could I be that unlucky? Of all the back yards, in all the trees, in all the world, that poisonous parasitic plant had blown into mine. I wouldn’t bet my horse on me having the fortitude to resist her once my lips touched hers. I was a desperate man in a desperate situation.
From the moment I opened my front door to her today, I was on unstable ground. I was a drought-parched forest and she was a living flame. I was barely banked embers and she was a strong wind. Was this the part where I’d cave? Where I’d crumble? Where I’d selfishly take everything she wanted to give me?
“I’ll give you a hint…” She walked slowly toward me, closing in until we stood only a foot apart. She tapped that damn plant against my chest and I was
already there—wrapped up in the memory of a kiss. “It’s one of my favorite Christmas traditions. One you and I seemed to enjoy once…”
My gut clenched at the memory of our kiss under the mistletoe. Everything about that night was etched into my soul.
“I’m surprised you’ve forgotten it,” she said, closing the space between us. She went up on tiptoe and lifted her face to mine until her lips were but a breath away. Her luscious curves brushed against me, stealing the air from my lungs and nearly stopping my heart. “I hope you’re up for it.”
Blood surged south. Yep, I was up for it. Not a surprise since Max always had this effect on me. It was becoming damn hard to do the right thing.
“You did promise me one perfect Christmas.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. “So we absolutely cannot skip this tradition.”
I felt a sudden strong passion about traditions. I didn’t want to skip anything. I wanted to start at her toes and work my way up her body, losing myself along the way. In her sweetness, her heat, and her kiss.
“What I want—no—what I need to do to make this Christmas Eve complete is…” She blinked up at me and pulled me closer until her lips brushed mine as she whispered, “Eat a piece of Dodo’s Christmas cake in front of the fire.”
Wait, what?
Before I could even process what had just happened, Max had shoved the mistletoe into my hands and spun away into the kitchen where she began serving up slices of cake. She had a sexy smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes while I stood waiting for the feeling of relief to hit.
The problem was, it didn’t. Definitely not a good thing. Damn. I dropped the mistletoe onto the couch and busied myself with stoking the fire. Adding another mesquite log, I watched the flames flash higher, brighter, and hotter. I was afraid that’s where things were heading. Toward a flash point. Every moment with Max was pulling me deeper. Swirling higher, brighter, and hotter. Out of control.
“Here you go.” Max handed me a dessert plate with a big slice of cake. She grabbed a couple of throw pillows—one of which she’d hidden the keys in—and made a little nest of pillows before settling herself down onto the wool carpet, patting the spot next to her. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite.”
How the Devlin Stole Christmas: A Billionaire Cowboy Prequel ~ Those Devilish Devlins Page 4