Christmas Cowboy

by Claire Adams

  I had a fitting for a new tuxedo. Not that the five in my closet were ill-fitting or out-of-fashion; it was just expected that I have a new tuxedo for the charity ball. After that, I would have lunch at the club and just enough time to get to my new loft apartment in the Meat Packing District. Manhattan's most in-demand interior designer was meeting me there. All I had to do was tell her the look I wanted and she would magically make it all happen while I stayed in the comfort of the Plaza Hotel.

  I felt sick.

  And, I couldn't even blame a hangover. I didn't understand how everyone was able to walk away from the fire and go back to the party as if nothing ever happened. I had stood there at my post in the ballroom and did nothing but marvel at the carelessness I saw all around me.

  In my mind, I stood with Kiara all night, helpless as the flames finished off the last of her family home. If she would have let me, I would have stood there with her until the sun came up.

  "Good morning, Mr. Brickman," the valet said. He whipped open my car door with gentle efficiency.

  I stood up and tugged down my rumpled suit. "Morning," I said over my shoulder as I headed into the Manhattan landmark.

  Sal Cohen came from a long line of tailors whose connections included major politicians, movie stars, and all the best families of New York. His shop was a haven of timeless fashion and effortless respectability. My hands used to sweat when I walked through his doors because I was afraid he'd take one look at me and know I wasn't worthy of his work.

  "Mr. Brickman, we're so glad you could make it. Can I offer you something to drink?" Sal's daughter with her shocking red hair swept out from behind the counter and offered me a seat in a thick, leather armchair.

  "No, I'm fine, thanks."

  A worried frown chased across her face. "I am so sorry, Mr. Brickman. My father had to meet with his next client."

  "Teddy? Is that the Brickman I'm hearing?" a voice from the back room called.

  I cringed. "That you, Roger?"

  "Mr. Dallas was right on time, but if he doesn't mind, then I don't mind." Sal whipped open the heavy, velvet curtains separating the fitting room from the rest of the shop. He gestured for me to join them. "And since you are both being fitted for the same event, I think we can make this work."

  I jumped up on the dais that Sal gestured to before he got too close to me with his ever-present straight pins. "You look like you left at a respectable time last night," I said to Roger.

  Roger gave a pained smile. "I just didn't feel like a party after that terrible fire. How is Ms. Davies?"

  The hairs at the back of my neck bristled. "She's as well as to be expected."

  "I know nothing can really help at a time like this, but I'd at least like to call her and offer my assistance," Roger said. He expertly tied his black, silk bow tie, making Sal grin with pride.

  I shrugged on my new tuxedo jacket and yanked down the cuffs. "She doesn't need your help. I mean, she's very proud, and I think she needs some time on her own."

  Both Roger and Sal raised their eyebrows. Roger chuckled. "Trying to keep her to yourself? That's all right. I'll find out her phone number from someone else."

  I changed the subject to hide the fact that I had no idea how to reach Kiara. Besides driving down that rough driveway, I didn't have a way to stay in touch.

  "You must like museums, right?" I asked. "As an artist, I mean. You have to have favorite galleries and exhibition spaces, right?"

  "Yes," Roger said, confused by the change of topic.

  "You think it’s possible to take an old-fashioned portrait gallery and change it up?" I asked.

  Roger saw where I was going and jumped on the topic. He agreed that he often thought about rearranging his family's historic home in a way to show off all the prized antiques in a new light.

  It was hard to admit, but Roger and I understood each other. We'd been raised in the same world, and we were both anxious to put our own stamp on it. We felt the pressure of all the generations to do something great with our name.

  By the time we left the tailors, Roger and I were talking about where to grab lunch. As long as the topic stayed away from Kiara Davies, we were at peace.

  "My club's just a few blocks—" I cut my sentence off when Whitney leapt onto the sidewalk out of nowhere.

  "Teddy! Oh, and Roger. How lucky am I to run into two handsome gentlemen," she declared with a bright smile.

  I glanced at her town car, double-parked, and wondered how long her driver had sat there waiting for me to appear. It wasn't so much a chance encounter as it was an ambush.

  "You know, this is just perfect," Whitney said, squeezing Roger's arm. "You'll both appreciate how the whole of Manhattan is talking about your party last night. That whole bonfire mishap has been built up to a wild, bohemian party of epic proportions. Isn't that great?"

  "I'm sorry, what?" Roger and I said together.

  "Everyone who was there is bragging about it. People are calling it the party of the summer." Whitney fluttered her eyelashes at me.

  "That's horrible," Roger said.

  "Kiara's house was burned to the ground," I ground my teeth. "People think ruining someone's life just added some extra excitement?"

  Whitney's smile froze as she recalculated. "Well, I was going to suggest you top it with a big bash at your new loft."

  "I can't, Whitney. I'm heading back out to Long Island," I said.

  She caught my arm and held on. "I have an idea," she announced. "We can say it was all the riffraff. What you really should do is invite the cream of the crop, like Roger here, to your estate for a formal weekend. Lawn games, luncheons, boating, riding, and seven course meals."

  "I'm busy."

  "You have a chance to shape the expectations for our entire generation," Whitney told me. "Set the tone, Teddy. You want to show the world that you are the real product of your breeding."

  It was so wrong that it took my breath away. Whitney knew as well as I did that my breeding was questionable. My mother was an art student, with hardly any family at all and no real connections. My parents had never married, and it was by my father's good graces that I was acknowledged at all.

  That was exactly why Whitney believed she held sway over me. She had decided I needed her and her impeccable family tree to pull me out of disrepute. It didn't matter that my fortune outweighed hers by billions; Whitney thought of me as a fixer-upper, and she wasn't going to listen to any objections from me, of all people.

  All I could do was shake my head and mutter about being late for meeting my interior designer.

  "It's a great excuse to head back out to Long Island," Roger said. "Perhaps we could invite poor Ms. Davies."

  "Poor Ms. Davies," Whitney sniffed. "She'll feel so out of place; it would actually be more of a mercy to leave her alone."

  "We can at least take a picnic over to check on her," Roger countered.

  That settled it. If Roger was determined to go anywhere near Kiara, then I would make sure I was the one in charge. "Fine. You twisted my arm. I'll let my housekeeper know about this weekend. I'll arrange everything," I said.

  Whitney promised she would call him and settle all the details for me, despite what I said. I made my excuses and was grateful when the valet drew my car up first. I left Roger listening to Whitney's excited plans. It wasn't the first time she had planned my weekend for me and, if it was up to her, she'd be overseeing my estate and life for the rest of my days.

  She had never been subtle about her plans for me. Between my inheritance and her pedigree, Whitney believed we could become society royalty.

  The only thing Whitney miscalculated was my desire to belong.

  I slipped into the comforting silence of my car and had the same thought I’d had thousands of times before: I could just leave. My father had given me an ultimatum about my life: either play the part or get out. He didn't think of it as a choice, but I did, all the time.

  As if I had called him up with my thoughts, my phone rang, and it
was my father. I ignored my cell phone and kept driving. Then the car phone rang, and I knew he wouldn't leave me alone.

  "Hello. You caught me on the road, and remember how dangerous you told me it was to talk on the phone while driving?" I asked.

  My father's gruff voice boomed in the small car. "Are you actually following the schedule your poor, confused assistant gave me, or is this all rubbish?"

  "I'm on schedule," I said and then winced. "Well, twenty or so minutes behind, but still on track."

  "You need to tighten things up, Teddy," my father said.

  I sat up straighter in the driver's seat and then scowled at myself. It was amazing how I could hate my father and everything he represented at the same time as idolize and want to please the old man. Just the sound of his gruff voice was enough to send me straight back to when we first met. I worried that I was always going to be the five-year-old boy in a scruffy, studio apartment who saw Mr. Brickman as a Roman god. He’d appeared out of nowhere and changed my life, and then told me he was my father.

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  My father cleared his throat, never a good sign. "I heard about your little get-together out on Long Island."

  I almost rear-ended the white delivery van in front of me. "What did you hear?"

  "Everything," my father said with absolute certainty. He kept close tabs on international business and never missed a beat. There was no way he didn't know exactly what had happened. "You have got to find a way to make things right. I will not have this gossip be a blight on our good name. Do you hear me?"

  His voice filled the small car like thunder. "Yes, sir."

  "I will not have people thinking that you are a careless and spoiled young man not fit to do anything but stand around and host parties that devolve into debauchery."

  "No, sir."

  "And what is this I hear about a fire?" my father asked.

  I swallowed hard. The tone in his voice sounded laser-focused, and I wondered if he already had his sights set on the Davies property. How was I going to tell him the truth and at the same time as dissuade him from putting forth an offer to buy the Davies out?

  "There was a small mishap with the bonfire, but luckily no one was hurt," I told him.

  "I heard our neighbors' cottage was burned to the ground, and you're telling me that's lucky?" my father asked.

  I hesitated, thinking he was testing me. I was supposed to be hell-bent on expanding our legacy, so I answered, "Yes?"

  "Theodore, what is wrong with you? Get to my office this instant. We need to discuss this whole situation." He hung up with a resounding smack, and my ears were still ringing when I pulled up in front of his skyscraper.

  As per usual, my father was on the move, and I had to join the throng of dark-suited men who struggled to keep up with him. My father commanded them like an army, and they slowly peeled off to rush down other hallways. By the time we reached the imposing double-doors of his penthouse office, there was only his executive assistant left.

  "You have exactly six minutes, sir," she said as she tossed me an irritated glance. My father was very important, and I was more inconsequential than a gnat to her mind.

  My father flung open the doors. "We just need five," he said.

  She nodded and closed the doors behind us. My father loped behind his massive desk, but could not stop moving long enough to sit down. He paced back and forth as I stood awkwardly on the wide, Turkish rug that dominated his office.

  "I grew up with Bran Davies," my father finally said, crossing his arms as he stopped to pin me with a sharp look.

  "I had no idea you knew him."

  My father nodded. "Bran enlisted before you were born. He's a Marine, but more than that, he's a damn fine man."

  "So, you want me to be careful about offering to buy his land?"

  My father's arms dropped. "No. You have it all wrong. I can see why you think that, but don't. The Davies have been our neighbors for generations, and no one has more right to be there than they do. I respect Bran Davies too much."

  I groped for one of the straight-backed, leather chairs that faced my father's desk and sat down. "So, you don't want to try to buy the property."

  "I want to make sure we help them," my father said.

  I snorted. "Maybe you should try telling them that."

  My father's laugh shocked me more than his opinion on our poor neighbors. "You met Charlie Davies, the son?"

  "No," I said, scrubbing my chin cautiously, "I met the daughter. Kiara."

  My father's eyes narrowed, and I fought the urge to stand and put the leather chair between us. "She's there all by herself?"

  "I tried to offer. I mean, Darren, who really caused the accident, offered to pay for her stay at the bed and breakfast nearby. She turned us down." I stood up as my father charged around his desk.

  "Nonsense. You will offer Kiara Davies the entire south wing. She is to be welcomed in our home until this mess can be resolved. Do you understand me?" My father leaned close, and I felt beads of sweat pop out on my forehead.

  "Yes, sir. I will head out there now."

  "Good; walk with me," he said and hauled me towards his office doors.

  Right on time, his executive assistant opened the doors and began listing the highlights of a conference call my father had missed. I marched along next to him, still in shock.

  My father, the poster boy for classism and the exclusivity of high society, had dropped everything to help the Davies. The five-minute conversation was enough to create a bubble of hope in my chest.

  "So, when are you going to marry this Whitney girl?" My father’s question grabbed my attention.

  My shoulders slumped as we paused outside his private elevator. "Who says I'm marrying her?"

  My father chuckled. "She seems to think so. Please tell me you see what a good idea it is."

  "Maybe," I sighed.

  The smile on my father's lips faded as the elevator doors closed. "Your mother and I never married."

  "Whitney's not pregnant."

  "I would have married her right away, right when she found out, but your mother didn't want to entrap me. She lied, and she left. You were five years old when I found out," he said.

  I crossed my arms. "How is that any reason to get married?"

  "I would have married your mother," he said, his voice gruff again. "She resisted for years. Then, finally we were on our way to get the marriage license when the accident happened."

  The wave of grief that washed over me every time my mother's death was mentioned was softened this time by a new thought. That was the summer I came to stay at the Brickman Estate permanently. My father had been confined to a wheelchair while he recovered, so I was free to roam alone.

  That was when I first met Kiara Davies.

  "I gotta say, that's not the best story if you're trying to encourage me to get married," I said.

  My father pursed his lips to stop from smiling. "I suppose your mother and I were a little more romantic, a little more fairytale-like than your upcoming nuptials."

  "Why are you saying it like it's going to happen? Aren't I supposed to be the one who proposes?" I asked.

  The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, but my father paused. "Your legacy and her bloodline. It is a match of royal proportions. What could possibly be stopping you? Whitney is well-educated, quite the conversationalist, and she's not at all hard on the eyes."

  More like the soul, I thought. "What if I don't want a marriage that sounds like a business deal?"

  "Then, I'd say good luck backing out now." My father strode into the foyer and the dark suits flocked to try to get a word in his ear. He waved them back and spoke to me as if we were still completely alone. "Take it from me, Teddy. You're a marked man. I struggled to escape the same thing my entire life. I'm still struggling now."

  I fought off the urge to pull a face. Women of all ages and types of beauty threw themselves at my father daily. He had never married after my mother died, but he s
eemed to be the only person content with that decision. There had even been rumors that a princess had come all the way to New York City just to offer her daughter's hand in marriage.

  "Some struggle," I snorted.

  "You're starting to feel the same way," my father pointed out. "That's why you should listen to me and just accept that this beautiful woman wants to make you her husband. You'll be better for it in the long run."

  "Fine," I snapped. "I'll consider it. But, I've got a lot of, ah, things I need to take care of first."

  "Kiara Davies is top of the list," my father reminded me.

  I clung to her name like a lifeline. "Yes, sir. I won't even consider looking at engagement rings until the Davies' cottage is completely rebuilt. I'll head out to Long Island now and put myself entirely at Ms. Davies' disposal."

  My father paused and arched an eyebrow at me. Then, he smiled. "You do that, Teddy. Oh, and good luck. If Kiara is anything like her family, she won't accept the slightest whiff of charity."

  "I'm diplomatic," I said. "I'll make it seem like it was her idea."

  I could have kissed my old man. Not only did his orders give me the perfect excuse to spend more time with Kiara, they also gave me an excuse to avoid Whitney and her hard drive towards the altar. Suddenly, the day seemed sunny and light, even though we were in the middle of the financial district and deep in the shadow of my father's skyscraper.

  I felt so relieved that I even opened the car door for him. He stepped forward and clapped a hand over mine, trapping me there. My stomach dropped as the look in his eyes went from parental patience to business advisor.

  "You can't take too much time, Teddy. You need to think ahead. Your birthday is coming up, and it's a big one," my father said.

  "Yeah, yeah, I remember. I will do my best to deserve my trust fund," I said.

  My father shook his head and gripped my hand. "You never read the paperwork, did you? For God's sake, Teddy. If you aren't married by your next birthday, you will only get a small portion of your trust fund, and the rest will go to charity."

  I yanked my hand away. "There are always strings attached," I spat.

  "Not strings, my boy. Insurances. That trust fund will never be used to bankroll a playboy. Your mother wanted more for you."