A Christmas Cowboy to Keep

by Hebby Roman

  “No! There wasn’t.”

  “Uh huh.” Grayson picked his hat off the table and took the bills she had left in payment, gave them a glance, and folded them into his back pocket. “Well, Tate is quite the gentleman. I don’t think he’d kiss you on a first date. ’Sides which, I don’t think that’s what you’re feelin’. I think what you’re feelin’ is the knowledge that you better clear your plate and get down to runnin’ this ranch before I drop dead. You start by readin’ that book there or your six year old son will know more than you.”

  Carrie huffed out her annoyance as Grayson sauntered to the back door. She glanced at the book, grabbed it, and stood. “Guess I have some bedtime reading then.”

  “Guess you do.”

  Carrie listened as the door clicked shut, then fell back onto the sofa and gazed at the tome in her hand. It was too late and she was too tired to take in anything, but she was resolved to learn and make a go of life out here on her ranch. She struggled to her feet again, and then remembered—the Santa letter was still in her pocket. It was handwritten, and there was a smudge where Tim must have dripped a drink or something, but it was still quite readable. Who takes the time to grab pen to paper and write a response to a little boy they don’t know?

  Dear Tim,

  Thank you so much for your letter and for not asking for any toys. In fact, I would almost prefer it if you would request toys because that would be so much easier to arrange for you than a return to New York. Tim, I think if you give Wyoming a chance, you’ll find it is a great place to grow up and that you will like it here. Your mother is working very hard to make a good home for you and I truly believe you should give it a go. If you don’t like it by next year, write to me again, and I will see what I can do.

  For now, I remain your friend,

  S. Claus

  Well, that’s something! Tim asked to return to New York and this person advised against. Ha!

  She removed her shoes and headed up to slip the letter back where she had found it. Then it struck her. As she reached Tim’s room, she unfolded the letter once more and glanced at it: I think if you give Wyoming a chance, you’ll find it is a great place to grow up and that you will like it here. Your mother is working very hard to make a good home for you….

  Here. Not the North Pole ‘here’ but Wyoming ‘here.’ And ‘your mother’ not ‘your parents.’ So it had been someone local, that much she knew. And had Tim mentioned only her, not parents; what had Tim said? This letter sounded like someone who knew them. But who?

  * * *

  Tate woke up still thinking about his Saturday night fiasco and how he had blown that date. He’d thought about it all day Sunday, all day Monday, and now it was Tuesday and he was still thinking about it. Carrie must think I’m the rudest person on earth, all that cattle talk with the guys and not including her.

  How to make it up to her was the main question. Would she even consider going out with him again? She was quite a little beauty in her own way, all that blonde hair, and those eyes, green like leaves just burst out from bud, dark like pools. And she was fun, and intelligent, and caring—not like Steph at all. Maybe he’d ride over and talk to Grayson, maybe the old foreman knew something, maybe she’d said something to him when she got back.

  Hetty’s hefty knock on his door interrupted his reveries as he settled at last into his office work.

  “Mail’s come.” She waddled over to him and handed him the pile. “And your Mama rang while you were in the shower and asked had you thought where you want Thanksgiving this year, her place or here. I have to tell you I won’t be cooking should you decide it’s to be here. My son down in Casper has invited me and I’m going.”

  “Okay.” He leaned back in his desk chair and tried to give her a smile. “There isn’t much to roasting a turkey, is there?”

  Hetty’s eyes grew wide and her hands found her hips. “Oh, no, nothing to roasting a turkey at all. If that’s all you’ll be eating.”

  He shook his head as she shuffled away and he flicked through the mail. Santa Claus, North Pole. Another letter addressed to Santa and left for him. He flipped it over and sure enough it was return-addressed to Tim Matheson. The Post Office had delivered as requested. Tate picked up an Army knife on his desk and pointed it under the flap. This letter was a lot shorter than Tim’s last.

  Deer Santa,

  How ar you? I am OK but not so hapy sins yur last letter.

  Do yu think I can have a pony?

  Yur frend,

  TIM MATHESON

  Now here was a boy after his own heart.

  * * *

  Tate could see her up ahead in a huddle with Grayson and another hand. Like him, they were all on horseback, her sorrel impatiently pawing the earth. Her hair was hanging loose from her knitted cap and strands kept blowing across her face, which she flicked back as if she were swatting flies. Her demeanor betrayed her disappointment in something, or possibly anger, but whatever it was, she wasn’t happy.

  “I kept telling your uncle, and I’m telling you now Missie—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Grayson, call me Carrie. I told you the first day—”

  “Fine then. I told your uncle Tom, and if I told him once, I told him a million times, he’d make more money with Black Angus. These Hereford looked good back in the eighteen hundreds when folk didn’t know any better. All they saw then was a sturdy breed with tiny horns that wouldn’t take up space in the cattle cars. But now we’re looking at putting beef on dinner plates in New York and San Francisco and they want quality, and Black Angus is what they want.”

  Tate sat there, his reins loose in his hand, and listened. He wondered if Carrie would say hello, but she seemed too concerned about Grayson’s lecture. He leaned forward with a smile and just added, “I’d agree.”

  Carrie tilted her head and gazed at him as if she didn’t recognize him at first. “Hello,” she finally said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  He couldn’t figure if that was a pleased statement or a regretful one.

  “You want to add your two cents then.” She seemed to sit more upright in the saddle and gave him a look of which there was no doubt: not pleased to see him.

  “Only if you want me to.”

  “I better get back to the herd. Tate gonna start in how great Black Angus is, we’ll be here all day,” the younger hand stated. He pulled up his reins and rode off with the merest tap on his hat in Carrie’s direction.

  “See, that’s because Tate knows good beef when he sees them. Nicely marbled beef. I’ll leave you to listen to Tate if you won’t listen to me.” The foreman slanted his hat down against the wind.

  “Grayson, I didn’t say I wasn’t listening. I just don’t feel qualified to decide. I keep thinking there was some reason Uncle Tom wanted to keep the ranch on Hereford.”

  “Sure there was.” Grayson pressed his hat lower on his brow as a few snowflakes started to drift down. Overhead, the steel sky forecast more snow and the sharp bite of dry air confirmed it. “Pig-headedness. Pure and simple. He was the most pig-headed man I ever met. Ain’t that right, Tate?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m not commenting on that. I already seem to be in hot water.”

  “Ha.” Grayson’s gaze moved from one to the other. Then he rode off without another word.

  Tate gazed at Carrie. The snow fell a bit more steadily now but she didn’t seem to mind getting wet. He reached across and moved a strand of hair plastered to her face, instantly wished he could kiss her, but sat back.

  She said nothing.

  After a long hesitation, he finally said, “I came to apologize actually. About the other night.”

  She still said nothing.

  “You’re obviously not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

  “Apologize? I should apologize; I never thanked you for the lovely evening.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  Carrie’s brow scrunched. “Noooo. Anyway,
I thought we were talking Black Angus versus Hereford.”

  Tate smiled. “Yeah, well. Maybe we can go inside for that talk?”

  “I thought you Wyoming people were real hardy souls. No?”

  Tate’s horse shook his head as if answering in the negative but his rider just sat back. “Okay, you going to let me do this? I’m sorry about what happened in the dancehall—the guys all talking ranching. Me talking with them. Leaving you out. I knew you were annoyed, but there didn’t seem any way to stop them or get rid of them without being rude. So I guess I ended up being rude to you instead.”

  “Oh. I didn’t actually think you were rude. I thought you thought I was a moron.”

  Tate almost recoiled with the thought. “A moron? Not at all.”

  “You introduced me as a rancher and there I was not knowing a single thing about ranching or what you were discussing.”

  “Carrie, we’ve all been brought up on ranches. We’ve lived and breathed horses and cows and ranch life from Day One. 4H. FFA as kids. If anything, they were all amazed you’d taken it on. I was really proud of you. Well, if I had the right to be proud of you.”

  Carrie sat even taller in her saddle. “Proud?”

  “Yeah!”

  “I felt like a damn fool. I couldn’t follow a single thing all of you were saying, didn’t understand a single word, and you’re saying you were ‘proud’ of me?”

  “No one expects you to know everything after just...what?...two weeks? Three?”

  “Grayson does.”

  “Oh, Grayson. I’ll bet you anything if I got Grayson on his own he’d be telling me how brave you were to take this on.”

  “And how he’s worried what will happen if he drops dead. Or leaves.”

  Tate couldn’t help but laugh. “Grayson will never leave. They’ll have to carry him out feet first. Well. I wondered if—”

  “Can we ride in? Maybe have some hot chocolate or something? I’m freezing. And Tim will be home shortly and I’ll have to get him off the bus.”

  He studied her, disappointed that he hadn’t finished his mission to ask her out yet.

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  They sprinted up to the corral and a ranch hand offered to see to Carrie’s horse. She watched Tate loosen his cinch and tie up.

  “Oh, put the poor thing in our barn.” She frowned.

  Tate nodded to the cowboy. “Brian, would you mind?”

  Carrie led the way in her back door. “Gee, you know my hands better than I do.” She unzipped her parka but left it on. She tossed her gloves on the counter.

  “Some of them have worked for me on occasion. Anyway, I see most of them around, been over here with your uncle.”

  He watched as she grabbed out some milk and a saucepan, reached for the container of drinking chocolate and mugs.

  “We’re not denying your son his treat, are we?”

  “Nope. Plenty where that came from.”

  “Good.”

  “What was my uncle like, then. You knew him. Grayson doesn’t talk much about him, or won’t. What kind of man was he?”

  “A good man. A solid friend and neighbor I’d say, though he knew what he wanted in life and, well…I think that’s about it.”

  Carrie glanced up at him for a moment, then went back to the chocolate preparations. There was silence except for the sound of the spoon as she measured out the chocolate powder.

  “You didn’t let me finish out there.”

  She twisted to glance at him over her shoulder. “I didn’t? I’m sorry. What did I interrupt?”

  “I was asking you out.” He waited for some reaction but couldn’t see any. “I want to make up for the last time, for the dancehall rudeness.” Tate stuffed his gloves in his pocket.

  “Oh.” She turned back and studied the mugs, though the set of her shoulders told him she was relaxing. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “No, I don’t. But I want to. Very much. Saturday?”

  “Saturday. Oh, if I can get Grayson to babysit again.”

  Tate couldn’t help the snort that came out. “Grayson will do just about anything you ask him, I’d reckon. He thinks the world of you. And Tim.”

  Carrie swung around, astonishment written all over her. “He does? How do you know that? I mean, I could see he was fond of Tim, but I thought he sort of was putting up with me because of my uncle.”

  “Nahhhhh. I don’t think so. I think he’s genuinely fond of you. At least that’s the impression I get. We had a chat on Monday when he rode over to ask...me something.”

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  “Nope.” He took one of the proffered mugs. “So what would you like to do Saturday? I think we better decide in advance so there are no wardrobe mishaps, right?”

  She laughed a bit as she lifted the mug to drink, her eyes focused on him as she drank. “You tell me,” she said at last. “Then I’ll dress accordingly.”

  Tate took a long swallow, just to keep his hands off her if nothing else. Those eyes! “I’d like to take you out to dinner,” he said at last. “A nice long leisurely dinner in a quiet booth at the Grill where we can get to know each other better, talk without anyone interrupting again. And I’d like to look at you in that little black dress all evening.”

  “The little black dress, huh? Is that a request?”

  Tate took another swallow of the chocolate. In slow motion he brought the mug down, then back up again, all the while keeping his gaze on her. “Most definitely,” he said at last. “But I think I might lose the six inch heels in this weather.”

  “Done.”

  * * *

  Carrie stood in the back doorway for a while. She watched as Tate mounted up and rode off, tapping his hat to her as he passed. She had a little guffaw at the way all the men did that, how old-fashioned it seemed, yet so courteous, so welcome. She almost skipped back to the sink to rinse the mugs. Another date with Tate! Well, yeehaw! That’s a surprise. Now to deal with Grayson over the babysitting.

  As she walked down the ranch road to get Tim from the school bus, she considered her approach to the old foreman. Straightforward? Pleading? Make a deal? She stood and watched the bus approach, still undecided as Tim hopped off, his little backpack open and with a trail of artwork hanging out.

  “Watch it, Button. You’re losing something.”

  He turned around so she could pull out a crayon drawing of Santa. Carrie held it up and looked at it, a traditional picture of a man in red with flowing white beard, surrounded by what she guessed were supposed to be reindeer, one with a red nose, and elves.

  “Wow! You really went to town on this, huh? That’s terrific. I’m going to hang this on the fridge.”

  “We spent all day on that just about. It was boring.”

  “Well, everything seems to be boring to you.” She took his mittened hand and started back toward the house, with a brief stop to collect their mail. The cold prickled her face as snowflakes drifted down. “Did you have a good day anyway?”

  “Davy says there is no Santa!”

  “No Santa!” Carrie stopped in her tracks and glanced down at her son, horror sending an icy finger up her spine. Could the end of childhood be approaching? “Why, of course there’s a Santa! Who do you think brings all the gifts if you’ve been good.”

  It was obvious Tim was chewing this over: had he been good? And more important, was there a Santa? He looked up at her with pleading eyes. “I try to be good, but I’ve had a bad time.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. Because all my classmates have ponies and I don’t and I live on a ranch so it’s not fair.”

  Carrie considered this heavy hint as they entered the house. “Well. We’ll have to see what Santa brings, won’t we?”

  As Tim flung his bag down and wobbled out of his heavy outer clothes, Carrie got his hot chocolate on to heat. She glanced at the mail. Then she did a double take. “Tim, you have a
nother letter from Santa! Proof there is a Santa. You can show this to Davy, see.” No sooner had she held out the letter than Tim seized it and dashed to his room.

  The plot thickens! Who is writing to my son?

  A rush of cold air followed by the back door banging shut announced Grayson. He stomped his boots and squinted at Carrie from under his hat. She yanked off her outer clothes and waited.

  “That new hand is gonna have to go.”

  “And howdy to you, too, Grayson.”

  “You want me to stand on niceties? All right, Ms. Matheson, how you doin’? You feelin’ well? You have a nice ride today? Did you know that new hand has to go?”

  “No, I did not. But the hiring and firing is your domain so if you say he has to go—which one is the new one anyway? Well, never mind, if you say he has to go, he has to go.”

  “Just so’s you know. You learn to make coffee yet?”

  Carrie grumbled as she turned to clear out old coffee and get some fresh made for him. “It’s not the way I make coffee, it’s the brand. You seem to prefer this thick, black, peel-your-insides brand I believe, while I prefer a nice medium roast Colombian.” She kept her back to him while he settled at the table. Just as she was trying to figure a way to ask him about Saturday, Grayson started in.

  “New cook ain’t bad. Better than some. Not your cooking of course. You may not know the first thing about coffee, but you sure know how to cook. That stew was first rate.”

  Hmmmmm. There was a long silence. Was that an attempt to wheedle a dinner invitation?

  “Well, thank you, Grayson. That certainly is a compliment coming from you.” She set the coffee down in front of him.

  “So what did Tate have to tell you ’bout them Herefords versus Angus,” he changed the subject suddenly.

  “Well, as a matter of fact—”

  Tim came rushing out of his room, a huge smile on his face as he virtually jumped into Grayson’s lap.

  “Tim! Be careful! Grayson has hot coffee, you’ll get scalded.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. He’s fine.” The foreman gave him a little jiggle on his knee as if Tim were riding. Then he scanned Carrie. “As a matter of fact? I guess he asked you out again. I’m guessing he never got round to tell you ’bout the difference between Angus and Herefords, he just plain sweet-talked you the whole time and now you want me to baby-sit again.”