A Cowboy Christmas

by Marin Thomas

  “Mom and I got a head start on our holiday baking.” She laughed nervously, and her breasts jiggled. He resisted the urge to rub his eyeballs, which suddenly felt too big for their sockets.

  “There were a dozen cookies—” she glanced at the reindeer head “—but I gave the others to the dog, so he wouldn’t attack,” she said.

  “He acts mean, but he won’t bite.”

  “If you say so.” Cassidy flashed a quick smile, showing off her pretty white teeth and full lower lip.

  He really needed her to leave. When she didn’t…“I’m busy. If that’s all you—”

  “Wait!” She stepped in front of him, blocking his getaway route. His damned foot itched again and a sense of foreboding settled in his bones like a bad case of rheumatism. He brushed past her and had almost escaped when…

  “Logan, I’m pregnant.”

  The heel of his boot caught the edge of the step, sending him sprawling onto the porch. The cookie plate flew from his hand, bounced off the front door, then slid to a stop under the swing. Twister vaulted over Logan’s body and snarfed up the broken reindeer head.

  “Oh, my God. Are you all right?” Cassidy rushed to his side.

  Shrugging off her touch, he crawled to his feet. His shins stung and his chin hurt like hell where he’d banged it against the step. But the worst pain settled in his chest—a tight squeezing pressure that threatened to suffocate him.

  “Please listen, Logan.”

  His legs wouldn’t move—his traitorous feet had frozen in place.

  “Bethany mentioned to me how badly you’d both wanted a child…” Cassidy ceased rambling and for a moment Logan believed he might catch his breath, then she continued and his lungs pinched closed again. “I know how devastated you were—” her voice dropped to a whisper “—that Bethany was carrying your baby when she died.”

  Lack of oxygen numbed his brain and Cassidy’s words sounded garbled as if water had flooded his ears.

  “I…” She paused, then rushed on. “Plan to keep the baby.”

  Unable to trust himself to say anything appropriate, he remained stone-faced. After a tense stare-down, she spun on her boot heel and trotted to the hatchback. The car sped off, leaving a cloud of dust lingering in the air and Logan with a knot the size of Texas in his chest.

  DON’T YOU DARE CRY.

  Cassidy stopped the car at the entrance to the Bar T Ranch and rested her head against the steering wheel.

  She’d put off telling Logan about the baby for three months because she didn’t want to say anything until the risky first trimester was over. She’d expected the cowboy to be shocked by the news, but not so…so cold. Even now the memory of his flat stare left her shaky.

  Her eyes watered and this time a tear dribbled down her cheek.

  Logan still mourned Bethany—the love of his life. The girl he’d dated all through high school and had married after graduation. Like clockwork Bethany had scheduled a haircut once a month when Cassidy opened her salon five years ago. Not long after, Bethany had confided in Cassidy about her miscarriages. They’d mourned each time the young woman had lost a baby and celebrated every time the home pregnancy test showed a plus sign.

  What broke Cassidy’s heart was Bethany’s teary confession that all she’d ever wanted was to give Logan a child. Then when Bethany had finally succeeded in carrying a baby through the first trimester, she’d been killed in a car accident on the way to a doctor’s appointment in Midland.

  No one, no matter how pure or goodhearted, avoided life’s cruel twists and turns.

  A tiny part of Cassidy had hoped for a hint of excitement from Logan. After all, he’d wanted a baby for years. You’re such a fool. He wanted Bethany’s baby—not yours.

  Well, she possessed enough enthusiasm for both of them. Cassidy would be twenty-eight in January and she had always wanted to marry and have a family. Her situation with Logan might not be ideal, but a baby was a blessing no matter how the child was conceived, and she was determined that Logan’s cool reaction wouldn’t dampen her joy.

  Lifting her foot from the brake, she drove east toward the trailer park on the outskirts of Junket where she and her mother lived. She suspected Logan wished Mr. Claus was in the business of granting “do-overs.” If so, he’d probably ask jolly old St. Nick to erase that September night she’d strolled into the bar to let her hair down after a stressful day of caring for her mother.

  Billie’s Roadhouse was known for its live bands and big dance floor. That particular evening Cassidy had been on the hunt for a cowboy to dance with into the wee hours of the morning.

  Dance with—not have sex with.

  When she’d spotted Logan drinking shots at the bar she’d gone over to say hello. The silly, drunken grin he’d flashed had put her dancing plans on the back burner. The bartender had held out Logan’s truck keys, assuming she’d arrived to haul his inebriated carcass home. She could have said no. She could have phoned Logan’s friend, Fletcher, to come get him.

  But you didn’t.

  Her and Logan’s fate had been sealed the moment she’d grasped the truck keys from the bartender. Afterward, she’d spent weeks making up excuses for her behavior that night.

  Logan had been too drunk to drive.

  Logan had needed to eat, and she’d insisted on cooking him a meal.

  Logan needed to sober up, so she’d helped him shower.

  Logan needed a babysitter—in case he’d vomited—so she’d rested on the bed with him.

  Her intent had been to slip away before dawn, but then he’d called out Bethany’s name in his sleep and Cassidy had woken to his hand on her breast, his eyes shimmering with grief and pain. Logan had hit rock bottom and Cassidy hadn’t had the heart or willpower to turn him away.

  Forcing the memories aside, she flipped on the blinker and entered the Shady Acres Trailer Park. She could count on one hand the number of shade trees throughout the twenty acre patch of flat Texas dirt. The owner of the property had invested little money in landscaping. Most of the park’s tenants struggled to make their rent payment and what extra money they earned went toward food and clothing, not flowers or bushes.

  Years ago Cassidy’s mother had planted a cherry tree in the small yard alongside their trailer. Today the tree stood twenty-five feet high and in April its pink blossoms added a touch of beauty to the stark neighborhood. Best of all, the tree provided much needed shade for the aluminum shed Cassidy used as a hair studio.

  At half-past one in the afternoon the kids were in school and the neighborhood was quiet. She slowed the car as it passed over the first of two speed bumps and noticed the Millers had strung Christmas lights on their trailer. Cassidy took great pride in being the first Shady Acres tenant to decorate for Christmas. She’d made a habit of hanging her lights over Thanksgiving weekend. But her mother’s temperament had been more difficult than usual this holiday and Cassidy hadn’t had the energy to dig through boxes of decorations. After she parked next to the single-wide and got out of the car, her neighbor greeted her.

  “Hello, Cassidy.”

  “Hi, Betty.”

  Betty’s cousin, Alice, appeared. “Sonja’s been inside the whole time you were gone.”

  “Mom’s frosting Christmas cookies. We’ll bring a dozen over later today.”

  The little old ladies had claimed to be related when they’d moved into the park eight years ago, but no cousins Cassidy knew held hands like her neighbors. She didn’t care what kind of relationship the women had. After Cassidy’s mother had been officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago, Betty and Alice had offered to keep an eye on Sonja when Cassidy ran errands. She owed her neighbors a debt of gratitude.

  When Cassidy entered the trailer, she found her mother exactly where she’d left her—sitting at the card table in front of the TV. Pieces of broken cookie littered the tabletop and smears of colored frosting marred her mother’s blouse.

  “Who’s that?” her mother called, gaze glued to the
TV.

  “It’s me, Mom.” She approached the table and inspected the cookies. “I like that one.” She pointed at the snowflake coated with an inch of silver-colored sugar crystals.

  “I made that for you.” Her mother smiled.

  “Mmm.” Cassidy took a bite and choked on the sweetness. When her mother’s attention drifted to her favorite game show, Cassidy went into the kitchen, tossed the rest of the cookie into the trash and checked the clock. She had fifteen minutes to prepare for Mrs. Wilson’s hair appointment. “I’ll be in the salon if you need me, Mom.”

  Cassidy went outside to the shed, propping the doors open with potted plants. She’d saved her paychecks from a chain hair salon she’d worked at in Midland for two years to buy the aluminum building and beauty-shop equipment. Then she’d paid a fortune for a plumber to hook up a sink. She used extension cords and an outlet strip to plug in the hair dryers and curling irons and the two lamps she’d set on end tables. Between her mother’s social security checks and Cassidy’s income from styling hair they managed to make ends meet.

  Her mother had been forced into early retirement because of health problems and so far Cassidy hadn’t had to touch a dime of her mother’s savings—money Sonja had set aside during the twenty-five years she’d worked at the fertilizer factory between Junket and Midland. Cassidy would use that money to put her mother in a home when the time arrived that she needed constant care.

  Mrs. Wilson pulled up in her Lincoln Town Car. “Right on time, Mabel.” The retired schoolteacher was never late.

  Mabel set her purse on the loveseat Cassidy had found in a secondhand store the previous summer. “How’s Sonja?”

  “Mom’s doing well.” She refrained from discussing her mother’s worsening condition. If people learned how quickly Sonja’s disease was progressing they’d encourage Cassidy to put her in a home sooner rather than later.

  “Go a little darker on the rinse, dear. I don’t want the color to fade before the Smith’s party on the eighteenth.”

  After months of pleading with the older woman to experiment with a different hair color, Cassidy had given up. Mabel insisted on using old-fashioned blue hair rinse. Cassidy draped a cape across Mabel’s shoulders. “How’s Buford?” Her husband had retired from the state highway patrol this past summer.

  “He’s being an ass.”

  “What’s he gone and done now?” Listening to her customers vent was part of the job. Cassidy mixed the hair color, then cleaned her trimming scissors while Mabel droned on.

  “He’s refusing to allow Harriet and her new husband to join us for Christmas dinner.”

  “I thought Buford liked your sister.”

  “It’s husband number four he hates.”

  Harriet exchanged husbands as often as women switched lipstick colors.

  “Mitchell’s a lawyer.” Mabel twisted in the chair and said, “You know how much Buford hates lawyers.”

  Poor Buford. He’d earned a reputation of having the highest percentage of nonconvictable arrests during his tenure on the force. Cassidy changed the subject. “How do you like teaching Sunday school?”

  “Aside from a few rambunctious boys the kids are well-behaved. They need a substitute teacher for the first-grade class if you’re interested.”

  “Not right now, Mabel.” Cassidy had stopped attending church months ago after her mother had stood up in front of the entire congregation and announced that if she didn’t go to the bathroom right then she’d pee her pants.

  While Mabel chatted about the children’s holiday play, Cassidy slipped on a pair of latex gloves and worked the blue dye into Mabel’s hair, then set the timer for an extra ten minutes and placed a magazine in her lap. “I need to check on Mom.”

  When Cassidy entered the trailer and peeked around the kitchen doorway, she discovered her mother fast asleep in the recliner. Relieved, Cassidy poured a glass of lemonade for her customer, then returned to the shed.

  “Thank you, dear.” After a sip, Mabel said, “I hear there’s a new doctor in Midland who specializes in brain problems like your mother’s.”

  “Really?” Old people were afraid if they spoke the word Alzheimer’s out loud they’d contract the dreaded disease.

  “I’ll find out his name before my next hair appointment.”

  “That’d be great, thanks.” Her mother’s insurance didn’t cover experimental tests or medicines. Cassidy had spent hours on the phone with insurance representatives, each call ending with “I wish there was more we could do, but unfortunately…”

  The timer dinged and Cassidy rinsed the dye from Mabel’s hair. Next, she trimmed the ends, then retrieved a pink plastic tub of rollers from the storage cabinet. She’d put in the final roller when a truck pulled alongside the Lincoln.

  “Why, it’s Logan Taylor,” Mabel said.

  The cowboy sported the same somber expression he’d worn earlier in the day when Cassidy had stopped by his ranch.

  “How long have you been cutting his hair?” The gleam in Mabel’s eyes warned Cassidy not to say too much, lest she give the woman the idea that she and Logan had a thing going—which they didn’t.

  “Logan isn’t one of my clients.” Mabel opened her mouth, but Cassidy cut her off. “Time for the dryer.”

  “Hello, Logan.” Mabel wiggled her fingers in the air.

  Feeling Mabel’s eyes on her, Cassidy offered a weak smile.

  Logan cut through the yard, stopping outside the shed doors. “Mrs. Wilson,” he greeted the older woman. Then his gaze shifted to Cassidy. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.” She tucked Mabel’s head under the dryer, flipped the switch to high and lowered the hood. Hoping the noise would drown out whatever Logan had to say, she stepped outside the shed.

  His shadow fell over her like a dark, menacing storm cloud. He didn’t speak, which gave her a chance to study him—shaggy, dark hair, cheeks covered in beard stubble and dark smudges beneath his brown eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed his unkempt appearance earlier?

  Because you had other things on your mind.

  “About that night…” He removed his Stetson and twirled it around his middle finger. “I had too much to drink—”

  “That’s why I drove you home.” That was the truth—sort of.

  The cowboy hat spun faster. “So…did I or did you…”

  “Neither actually.” He hadn’t asked her to stay nor had he asked her to leave. She hadn’t offered to stay nor had she offered to leave. “It just happened.”

  Her heart ached at the abject misery in the man’s eyes. The fact that he failed to remember their lovemaking should have hurt or angered her, but she felt only sympathy for him.

  “I thought you should know about the baby.” She sucked in a quiet breath. “In case you wanted to be involved in the pregnancy.” She’d hoped, prayed, fantasized that Logan would step up to the plate and be a father to their child, regardless of his feelings toward her.

  His gaze wandered around the yard. “Are you…”

  The words were barely a whisper and Cassidy had trouble hearing above the hum of the hair dryer. “What did you say?”

  Right then Mabel shut off the dryer at the same time Logan raised his voice. “Are you sure the baby’s mine?”

  Mabel gasped.

  Cassidy stared in shock.

  Logan groaned.

  Oops. The cat was out of the bag.

  Chapter Two

  The blood drained from Cassidy’s face, leaving her skin as white as the siding on the trailer. She swayed to the left, then to the right. Fearing she’d topple, Logan grabbed her arm and hauled her to the trailer steps a few feet away. “Put your head between your knees.” He pressed his hand against the back of her neck, ignoring the silky texture of her hair.

  “Oh, dear. You’re feeling poorly.” Mrs. Wilson rushed to Cassidy’s side, her plastic cape flapping in the air.

  “I’m fine,” Cassidy mumbled between her legs.

  Logan’s nose curl
ed at the smell of ammonia rising from the older woman’s head. No wonder Cassidy felt sick—breathing toxic fumes all day.

  “Listen, dear. I’ll leave and—”

  “Give me a minute, Mabel.”

  “If you’re sure…” Mrs. Wilson retreated to the shed and ducked her head beneath the dryer.

  “I’ll get you some water.” Logan stepped past Cassidy and entered the trailer’s kitchen, then searched the cupboards for a drinking glass.

  “Cassidy? Are you makin’ all that racket?”

  Crap. “It’s Logan Taylor, Mrs. Ortiz.” He poked his head around the doorway. “Cassidy needs a drink of water.”

  “Oh.” The older woman glanced across the room. “I don’t know where Cassidy is.”

  “She’s outside.” He resumed his search.

  A few seconds later…“Cassidy? You makin’ all that racket in there?”

  “Logan Taylor, ma’am.” He wondered if Cassidy’s mother knew about the baby. Logan found a glass, ran the cold tap, then headed outside. “Here.” He handed Cassidy the drink, before retreating to the bottom of the steps.

  “I don’t bite.” She flashed a crooked smile.

  If not for the pasty color of her complexion, he’d have two-stepped toward his truck and gotten the heck out of Dodge. “Do you need me to take you to a doctor?”

  The smile vanished. “I don’t need you to do anything, Logan.”

  Fearing his presence upset her, he said, “Maybe we should talk later.”

  Cassidy glanced at Mrs. Wilson. “That might be best.”

  How long did old biddy hair take to style?

  “Give me a couple of hours,” Cassidy said, reading his mind.

  He doubted Mrs. Wilson had enough hair on her head to require two hours of teasing. The former schoolteacher flipped off the dryer and began removing her curlers. “I’ll take you out to dinner later,” he said.

  Color flooded Cassidy’s cheeks. “You’re asking me out on a date?”

  A date? He’d already gotten her pregnant, wasn’t it a little late for a date? “Uh…” He shook his head. “I was thinking along the lines of a business meeting.” He didn’t dare become too friendly with Cassidy—she was just too attractive for his peace of mind.