A Very Cowboy Christmas

by Kim Redford

  “If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll tell you.”

  Kent laughed harder.

  “Okay. With that attitude, you’ll get the short version.” Dune watched Sydney streak ahead of him, beckoning like pink lemonade on a hot summer day—tart and oh-so-sweet.

  “Hey, Dune, you still there?”

  “Yeah. Got a little distracted for a moment.”

  “Bet I know why. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  “I volunteered to help her with Christmas at the Sure-Shot Drive-In and the cowboy firefighter calendar.”

  Kent didn’t say anything for a moment. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about.” Dune wouldn’t admit it, not yet anyway, but his old friend just might be right. “Celeste broke down on Wildcat Road.”

  “And you just happened along?”

  “That’s the truth of it.”

  “You’ve got all the luck. I used to say it at the rodeos, and I’ll say it again. Once you’re on a winning streak, nothing can stop you.”

  “Sydney’s trying to do everything alone, and she needs help. So I volunteered.”

  “Civic-minded, sure.” Kent chuckled again. “You’re right, she does need help, but we’re all stretched too thin to give her what she needs.”

  “I’ll give her everything she needs.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Kent said in a suddenly serious voice. “I don’t want to see her hurt. She’s still emotionally fragile, whether she’ll admit it or not. And I don’t want you hurt either.”

  “No need to head down that road so fast.” Dune tried to sound disinterested in Sydney, but he knew it fell flat. “I’m going to assist her. That’s all.”

  “Okay. Take the time off, but stay available in case something comes up. I’m glad you’re going to help her get Christmas at the Sure-Shot Drive-in off to a good start. Nobody else has time. Do whatever needs to be done—except leave me out of that calendar. And I’d better not hear about any broken hearts. You got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Bye.”

  Dune glared at his phone, feeling glad the call was over. It’d gone about as well as he’d expected it to go. He’d get the same blowback when Sydney’s brother Slade heard about Dune’s volunteer work. They were as protective as all get-out about Sydney, and he didn’t blame them. He was protective of her, too, but in a different way. He figured he could negotiate that minefield, but how in hell was he going to keep his word to Sydney about corralling cowboy firefighters for the calendar?

  When she turned west onto Highway 82, he followed in her wake. He watched as the fence lines that stretched along both sides of the road changed from barbwire to white round pipe or four-slat wooden enclosures, so he knew they’d moved from cattle country to horse country. One ranch after another flashed by, announcing their names—from whimsical to practical—in black sheet metal cutouts or burned into wood arches that towered over entryways.

  Thoroughbred horses with rich chestnut coats in a variety of shades grazed in some pastures, while in others, brown-and-white painted ponies sought shelter from the sun under the spreading limbs of green live oaks. Crimson barns and metal corrals, along with houses ranging from redbrick, single-story fifties ranch-style to cream-colored stone, two-story contemporaries, had been built well back from the road for privacy and convenience.

  Soon he turned south behind Sydney at a sign with western-style letters that read “Sure as Shootin’, You’re in Sure-Shot!” under the black-and-white silhouette of a smoking Colt .45 revolver.

  He’d never spent much time in Sure-Shot like he had in Wildcat Bluff. Still, he couldn’t help but appreciate that the town had been named for Annie Oakley, the famous sharpshooter and exhibition shooter who’d been called “Little Miss Sure Shot” on the Wild West show circuit back in the day.

  He headed down the asphalt two-lane road that turned into Sure-Shot’s Main Street. The small town still nestled at what had once been the vital intersection of an old cattle drive trail that ran north to south and the railway line that crossed east to west.

  Sure-Shot looked similar to the set of an Old West film. Old Town in Wildcat Bluff was built of brick and stone, while Sure-Shot had a classic wooden false-front commercial district. A line of single-story businesses connected by a boardwalk, covered porticos, and tall facade parapets extending above the roofs were individually painted in green, blue, or yellow with white trim. Small clapboard houses with wide front porches and fancy double-wides fanned out around the downtown area.

  Once upon a time, Sure-Shot had catered to cowboys on their cattle drives from Texas to Kansas and back again. Lively dance halls and noisy saloons, along with the mercantile, café, blacksmith shop, livery stable, bathhouse, bank, and freight depot had all done a brisk business just like the same type of stores had in Wildcat Bluff.

  He felt as if he’d stepped back in time. A few pickups and Jeeps were parked in front of the businesses, but a couple of saddlehorses with their reins wrapped around the hitching post in front of the Bluebonnet Café switched their tails at flies. He had no doubt that riders wore hats, boots, and spurs while they waited for takeout or sat down for an early supper inside the café. Life around here had its own tempo. It might not be fast, but it was steady. At one time he wouldn’t have appreciated that pace, but he’d come to realize it was exactly what he needed to help him get back on track.

  He drove past an open field that in winter was nothing more than the golden stubble of dry grass. In spring the area would be transformed into a colorful swathe of wildflowers that’d range from orange Indian paintbrush to bright bluebonnets to crimson clover. Maybe he’d still be around the area to see it.

  He figured there’d once been a couple of other buildings that had connected the current downtown with the old Sinclair gas station up ahead that stood by its lonesome, because it had the same tall, flat, wooden false front as the other structures. He’d helped save the station—along with other Wildcat Bluff firefighters—from what could have been a devastating fire last spring.

  As he recalled, the station had two sets of faded green, three-hinged doors that opened to make wide automobile bays. The old Sinclair logo had still been readable on the tall false front even if it’d been half worn away by the passage of time and scourge of elements. The corrugated tin roof and outside walls must have been shiny silver at one time, but too much rain had turned the metal a rusty brown. It’d been a sad, forlorn picture of decay.

  Ahead of him, Sydney slowed down and pointed toward the structure. He put on his brakes and looked at the old station in shock. It’d been transformed from eyesore to eye candy.

  “Sure-Shot Beauty Station” was emblazoned in a Western-style typeface in bright turquoise against a white background where the old Sinclair logo had once reigned supreme. Instead of bay doors, the entire front was now clear glass so passersby could see the goings-on inside and customers could watch the goings-on outside. Mirrors dominated the interior walls with the turquoise chairs filled to capacity.

  He just shook his head in amazement and gave a thumbs-up to Sydney, who gunned her engine and tore off down the road.

  He followed, appreciating Wildcat Bluff County more all the time. After seeing the gas station’s transformation, he wondered what Bert and Bert Two had done to the drive-in. Folks around here had the uncanny ability and get-up-and-go to re-create and renew, no matter the century or condition or challenge. Maybe he’d get upgraded and revitalized, too. He chuckled at that idea, even though he knew it might be just what would jump-start him.

  Sydney surged ahead of him, but he kept right on her tail. He passed more empty fields that sported short, golden grass and leafless, gray-limbed trees until he saw the top of the drive-in screen up ahead. Not a bad location, since it was easily accessible from downtown and that was undoubtedly the original intent. Ou
t-of-towners would probably be charmed by the quaint town and its classic drive-in.

  Main Street abruptly ended in front of a huge white screen that towered over the flat prairie around it. Sydney wheeled to a stop in front of the closed gate, so he parked next to her, letting his engine idle as he automatically looked around for fire hazards or other danger.

  The drive-in was surrounded by a two-layer, silver-pipe fence with a wide gate—big enough to allow cars to enter and exit at the same time on either side of the wide screen. The gate was closed by a thick, metal chain wrapped around the end bars and secured with a big padlock. Wheels on the bottom of each side of the gate allowed it to be rolled back out of the way when the drive-in was open for business.

  He didn’t like what he saw. As far as he could tell, he was looking at 1950s–60s style, small-town security—meaning there wasn’t much at all. He hoped there were hidden cameras with a feed into somebody’s phone and laptop, particularly since there’d been a rash of fires involving property owned by the Holloways. At least in case of fire, escape on foot would be easy through the open-rail fence. He wondered if Bert and Bert Two were relying on an occasional drive-by from the sheriff’s department. He hoped that wasn’t all of their security.

  Now he was doubly glad that he’d volunteered to help Sydney and come along to check out the place. He didn’t think much of the idea of her being here alone. Help wasn’t too far away, but oftentimes, seconds made the difference between life and death. She was strong and capable, so she’d probably be fine on her own, but he never took chances with lives.

  When she opened her car door and stepped out, one tantalizing leg after the other, she rocked a little in her high heels, proving she was used to the steady gait afforded by cowgirl boots. He let his gaze travel up her long, long legs. She was wearing shiny hose that gleamed like oiled skin in the sunlight. Was she wearing a garter belt to hold up her nylons? He burned at the thought.

  She gave a little wave before she made a grand gesture with an outstretched arm as if she were a classy model showing off the best features of a new car at a county fair or other vehicle exhibit.

  No doubt about it, he was buying whatever she was selling. He just hoped it involved lacy underwear with a sexy vintage twist. He chuckled at the idea. Pretty quick, she’d have him in such a frame of mind that he’d be humming Dean Martin tunes while wearing a narrow tie and fedora—while at the mercy of a classy broad named Sydney.

  He had to get his mind back on business or forget trying to help. But he had no intention of throwing in the towel, so he turned off his engine, stepped outside, and walked to the back of his truck. He leveraged up, tromped across the black rhino bed liner that kept anything he tossed back there in place, opened the lid to his tool chest, and rummaged around in an assortment of stuff till he found a pair of pliers that’d fix Celeste.

  He shut the lid, jumped down, and walked over to Sydney, holding up the pliers. “Let me tighten that bolt.”

  “Thanks.”

  He raised the Caddy’s hood, glanced around the engine to make sure nothing else wrong caught his attention, then quickly tightened the bolt and called it good. He lowered the long, sleek hood and patted the excellent paint job. “Ought to be fine and dandy now.”

  “That was quick,” she said.

  “Nothing to it.” He walked back to his pickup, opened the passenger door, and tossed the pliers onto the floorboard. He’d deal with them later when he had time. Right now, he was focused on Sydney, so he quickly joined her by the closed gate.

  She grinned as she pulled a set of keys out of her purse and jingled them in the air. “Are you ready for your first view of the new and improved Sure-Shot Drive-In?”

  “I’m breathless in anticipation,” he teased her.

  “Oh!” She put a hand on one hip. “I’m not sure you’ve got the right attitude to see everything.”

  He grinned mischievously. “If you’ll show me everything, I promise I’ll have the right attitude.”

  She gave him a narrow-eyed look of rebuke while a smile hovered on her lips. “If you’re going to be bad—”

  He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m yours to command.”

  “Just remember that when you’re Mr. December.” She cocked a hip, bent low over the gate, and inserted her key into the lock.

  He decided—right then and there—that the folks of Wildcat Bluff needed a cowgirl calendar a whole lot more than they needed a cowboy firefighter calendar. He could see something on the order of the vintage Pangburn’s Western Style Chocolates boxes with their delectable cowgirls displayed on the covers.

  And he’d make Sydney his year-round cowgirl pinup.

  Chapter 5

  Sydney opened the padlock, pulled the chain loose from one side of the gate, and then hooked the open lock onto the chain. She rolled the gate back far enough so they could walk onto the drive-in grounds.

  “Do you think that gate is the only security here?” Dune asked as he walked toward her.

  “Security?” She hadn’t even thought about it. She glanced down at the padlock, then around at the fence that was more decorative than anything. She felt a chill run up her spine.

  “Yep. This may be a retro drive-in, but we don’t live in such innocent times nowadays.”

  “We’ve never had trouble at Christmas in the Country. Why would you think we’d get it at Christmas at the Sure-Shot Drive-In?” She didn’t want to think about security, not now when everything was coming together so well. She glanced down and adjusted her long pouch purse by its plastic handle over her arm. She’d found it by sheer luck in a resale shop and fallen in love with the colorful flowers captured forever under clear plastic and accented with a gold-colored metal frame with a top snap lock.

  He stopped beside her. “I’m not talking about the events. I’m thinking about how the Holloway buildings have a way of getting torched.”

  “What?” She dragged her gaze from her handbag to his face.

  “I don’t want to see this place get burned down.”

  “But those other structures were abandoned and in bad shape. The drive-in has been refurbished and is in excellent condition.”

  “I hope that makes a difference.”

  “We’re talking apples and oranges here—no comparison.”

  “Maybe so, but I’d feel better if we had a few security cameras around at the least.”

  “Bert and Bert Two may have already considered it.” She supposed Dune had a good point, even if she’d prefer not to go there.

  “We can check with them.”

  She nodded in agreement as she rethought the situation. “I suppose cameras at the entrance and exit wouldn’t hurt, but I doubt folks sitting in their cars watching movies will want eyes on them.”

  “Yeah. But if it was me, I’d at least get cameras installed at both those points and the snack shed, too.”

  “Good point.”

  He pointed at the fence. “That’s not going to stop anybody.”

  “I doubt it’s meant to keep out more than cars.”

  “Someone on foot could easily get inside and cause a lot of damage. Cameras wouldn’t stop them, but at least we might get a face to run down.”

  “Let’s follow up with Bert and Bert Two.” She gestured toward the drive-in screen. “For now, why don’t we take a look around the place?”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for security while we’re at it.”

  She nodded, although she hadn’t counted on security being an issue. It still wasn’t high on her to-do list, because she had so many other vital matters on her mind, even if Dune was stuck in a security groove—like a needle going round and round on a vintage 45 RPM vinyl record. She smiled at that thought, suddenly feeling mischievous. She turned back toward him. “I’m thinking the first thing to do is contact Morning Glory.”

  “About s
ecurity?” He cocked his head as he wrinkled his brow in puzzlement.

  “I bet she’d be happy to bring sweetgrass and sage to cleanse the snack shed with a good old-fashioned smudge.” She knew Dune would know just what she meant, because he’d lived in Wildcat Bluff long enough to be aware that Morning Glory—the perennial, classic sixties love child—watched over the county from Morning’s Glory, her herbal, incense, and candle store where she made specialty items such as lotions, creams, and shampoos.

  “Good idea,” he said dryly as he gave a quick eye roll. “I’m sure sage and sweetgrass will stop arsonists in their tracks.”

  She chuckled, knowing she’d gotten to him. “We can use all the positive energy we can get out here. I’m desperate for this Christmas event to be a success.”

  He spread his open-palmed hands wide. “I’m not saying another word. Nobody wants to get in trouble with Morning Glory.”

  “I’m sure she’d be disappointed if we didn’t ask her to smudge.”

  “Suits me. I’m for covering all the bases.”

  Sydney wished she’d thought of a traditional smudge earlier, but she’d just had too much else on her mind. Morning Glory would’ve been hurt if she hadn’t been included in the important event. She had the biggest heart in the county, and she could always be counted on to help folks even if not quite in the way they might expect.

  And that brought her thoughts full circle to Dune. Maybe he’d latched on to the idea of security because he didn’t really want to help her with the calendar or the drive-in. She couldn’t blame him for having second thoughts. It’d be a lot of work, but the happiness on folks’ faces and the funding for fire-rescue would make it all worthwhile.

  He needed to be in or out, because from here on, they were committed to working together—not turning back, not giving up, not giving in. If he was going to reject her, now was the time to do it before they got in deeper. She couldn’t afford to be let down later when she had no time to start over. She felt a little stab of panic at the thought of losing his help. If he said he didn’t want the trouble or hassle she’d brought him, she’d accept his decision. But she knew she’d feel disappointed, because he’d drawn her in, shown her there could be more in life, and made her want to grasp it with both hands. Still, she steeled herself for reality.