Crazy Woman Christmas
Page 8
She retreated beneath the awning. “What’s going on, Devon?”
“I miss you.”
“She’s what?” Angela’s eyes rounded to saucers, her voice climbing with shock. “No, I forbid it.”
“We can’t tell her she can’t go. She is an adult, Angie. It’s been…” Pete counted back in his head for a moment to Christmas. “…seven months since she met the guy, and they can’t go an hour without talking to one another. Text, call, Skype. They’re jabbering non-stop. And besides, she thinks she loves him.”
Angela’s head dropped to her forearms like a stone and a low moan drifted from the table. “She doesn’t know what love is.”
He leaned close, breathing in the smell of her shampoo. She was a beautiful woman, but stubborn. “Honey, I’ve never seen her this happy. And I remember a time they said the same thing about us. Our daughter is smart, much like her mother. Give her the credit to know her own heart.”
She lifted her head and fear stared back at him. “We don’t know anything about this man, Petr.”
“I’ll take her to Buffalo. I’ll meet him at his ranch in Wyoming.” Pete stroked her cheekbone with his knuckle. “She is our daughter. When we’re done, he’ll be our son. Or I’ll bring her home.”
Chapter Twelve
“Is that it?” Petr Kolceski nodded at the remote dirt road winding its way through the trees. He muttered an indistinguishable word under his breath before shaking his head. “What kind of person lives in a place like this anyway?”
Bianca grinned at her dad’s question. He’d only been asking it repeatedly for the last ten miles. She’d uttered the exact same phrase the night she’d ridden this road with Devon. “We’re almost there.”
He twisted in his seat. “You said that five miles ago. Where does this guy live, anyway?”
She nodded toward the mountains. “Oh, Dad, relax. Enjoy the view. It’s beautiful. Just like I told you.”
“Yes, and you’re right.” Her father squinted out the windshield. His gaze swiveled to the pasture. “Is that a creek?”
A high-pitched whistle pierced the car. His muscles strained in his neck as he studied the water below. “Do you see that? It’s crystal clear.”
“Yeah.” Bianca tried not to laugh at his surprise. “Devon says it’s only muddy in the springtime.”
She slowed at the wooden arch to Devon’s ranch. “Believe it or not, I wish Mom was here, although…” Bianca gripped the steering wheel as doubt clogged her throat. Maybe it’s good that Mom isn’t here.
“No matter what you think, Bee, she wants you to be happy. Besides, she wouldn’t want to miss her women’s club meeting this week.” Her dad gave her a twisted smile. “And I think she and the rat are getting kinda close.”
“Dad!” Bianca punched him in the arm. “Stop being mean to my dog or I’ll sic Chester on you.”
A puzzled glint entered his eyes and he cocked his head to the side. “Who’s Chester?”
“You’ll find out. We’re almost there.” The drive to the house seemed to take forever. Maybe it was the fact her father sat beside her or the anxiety of Devon waiting at the end of the road. Either way, she didn’t think the car would ever find its way to the man’s front door. But at the last gentle curve, dogs met them as they bounded across the drive.
“There’s Chester.” Joy flooded Bianca at the sight of the old Border collie lumbering toward her car. His uneven gait was no match for Pistol’s youthful buoyance and agility. “He’s the slow, grumpy one.”
Her dad’s deep chuckle bounced off the dash. “Now that’s an old, reliable cowhand.”
He untucked his long legs from the small car and stretched. “You really need to get a bigger rig, girl. Twelve-hundred miles is quite a drive for a tin can.”
“Whatever, Dad.” She shut the engine off and darted out to join him. “Hey, boys, where’s your master?”
Pistol jumped at her feet while Chester leaned against her legs. She rubbed the pup’s ears with one hand and gave a hard scratch under the old dog’s collar. “He may be in the barn. Should we check?”
“I think I’ll stay here.” He propped a hip against the hood of the car. “You go on, baby.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” Bianca paused but her father seemed to have drifted off into some other world as he surveyed his surroundings. His expression reminded her of that Christmas morning when the sun lit up the snow-covered landscape and shocked her into Neverland. “I’ll be right back.”
She patted Chester on the top of the head. “Come on, boy. Where’s Devon?”
The dog took off on a sprint, limping gait and all, toward the barn. Pistol barked and followed, nipping at his heels. Bianca jogged close behind with her heart pounding.
The large door creaked open and she stumbled to a halt. Devon stepped into the summer sun with a saddle blanket over one shoulder and his ratty hat in his hand. Her lips trembled as she clasped her sweaty palms together. She pushed a smile past the anxiety trying to consume her. “Going somewhere, cowboy?”
He plunked his hat on his head and made his way toward her, sidestepping the eager dogs at his feet. “Well now, look who’s here.”
Warm hands encircled her neck. She lifted her chin. “I hear you know a good fishing spot.”
“Is that right?” His silver eyes sparkled and he grinned. “Are you sticking around a while then?”
“Yep.” Bianca slid her hands along his tight but thin waist. “I found a job in Buffalo. That is, if I’m crazy enough to take it.”
A slow smile lifted the corner of his lips. “Well, well, Merry Christmas to me,” he whispered. Hooking an arm around her, he squeezed her close. “Oh, there’s no doubt about it. You’re one crazy woman. I love you, Bianca. Welcome home.”
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge my editor, Susan Baganz for the enormous amount of help, understanding, and nudging when needed to push this book to completion!
Life brings a multitude of changes and most of the time, we don’t see them coming. That is what happened when I began this story. Susan prodded and kept me on task until this book became the tale it was meant to be. She never let me give up.
I also would like to acknowledge my amazing support team of readers and fans. Thank you! The Lord is good and continues to provide His love and encouragement through you.
About The Author
Raised in Louisiana and Wyoming, Renee began writing poetry in junior high school. After having her son, a desire to attend pharmacy school sent her small family to the University of Wyoming in Laramie, and she’s been counting pills ever since. While writing’s her first love, well, after the Lord and husband, she also likes to fish and hunt as well as pick away on her classical guitar.
Once again in the foothills of the Wind River Mountains with her husband, crazy dogs and ornery cat, she serves the community as a pharmacist and pens her stories any chance she can get. She loves to interact with readers and invites you check out her website, blog, and social media.
Website: http://www.reneeblare.com/
Blog: http://reneeblare.blogspot.com/
Group Blog: http://diamondsinfiction.blogspot.com/
Please enjoy this excerpt from Naomi’s Choice by Claire Sanders, available now from Prism Book Group!
“Time to go, folks!” the stagecoach driver yelled. “We’ll be in Loma Verde by noon.”
Naomi Sullivan stepped outside the inn and pulled her jacket tighter across her body. If she’d known how uncomfortable traveling by stagecoach was, she would have found another way. Walking the ninety miles to her grandmother’s ranch would have been preferable to the jolting trip she’d endured yesterday. At least the cowboy who’d made yesterday’s journey unbearable wouldn’t be traveling today.
He’d squeezed onto the bench seat next to her, smiled, and waggled his eyebrows. Her stomach had revolted at his stench and then settled into permanent queasiness at the sight of his brown teeth. She’d scooted as close to
the window as possible, covered her nose with a handkerchief, and feigned sleep for most of the trip.
The driver tipped his hat as she approached the stagecoach. “Morning, miss. Did you rest well?”
Naomi took the hand he offered and climbed into the coach. “Yes, thank you.” It was a lie, but the driver wouldn’t be interested in how awkward it had been to share a bed with a stranger.
Her bedmate entered the coach next. “You’re so fortunate to be near the end of your trip, my dear,” Mrs. Leeland said, settling herself next to Naomi. “I have another day in this contraption and, even though it is voluntary, I feel as though I am in prison. I hope tonight’s accommodations are better than the Blanco Inn. I didn’t sleep a wink.”
Naomi hid her smile behind a gloved hand. The middle-aged Mrs. Leeland had spent half of the night snoring and the other half talking to someone in her dreams.
The last three passengers crowded into the coach. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson and their infant son were on their way to join family in Waco. Naomi smiled brightly at the couple. Mr. Jacobson was every inch the gentleman. His manners were impeccable and he dressed like a successful businessman. Mrs. Jacobson, as fastidious in her dress as her husband, wore a traveling ensemble with a matching bonnet. The Jacobsons were the perfect couple in both style and etiquette.
A guard climbed up beside the driver. He carried a rifle, their only protection from bandits and Indians. Naomi whispered a prayer for a safe journey. There hadn’t been Indian trouble in this part of Texas for a decade, but one guard was scant defense against a gang of thieves.
With a crack of the whip and a shout from the driver, the stagecoach lurched forward. The six-horse team started slowly but managed good speed by the time they reached the open road. Naomi rested her back against the upholstered bench. Four hours, maybe five, and she’d finally be reunited with her grandmother. Naomi closed her eyes and thanked God again for her grandmother. Without Ruth Fairchild, Naomi’s future would be quite bleak.
Mrs. Jacobson nestled her baby against her shoulder and hummed softly. Mrs. Leeland took a small book from her reticule. Naomi had learned the day before she couldn’t read in a moving stagecoach, so she fixed her gaze on the autumnal landscape. The November breeze from the open window smelled of cedar and freedom. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, willing resentment and dismay to loosen their grip on her heart.
Several hours later, she awoke to the baby’s cries. Mrs. Jacobson draped a shawl over her shoulder so she could feed the baby while maintaining her modesty. Mr. Jacobson smiled an apology. “Sorry to have disturbed you, miss.”
“No bother.” Naomi covered a yawn as she straightened her posture. “I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep.”
Mr. Jacobson reached into a vest pocket for his watch. “We should be in Loma Verde soon. Is that your final destination?”
“Yes. My grandmother lives there.”
“My wife and I have two more days of this. I’m glad we’ll stop for lunch soon. I’d like to stretch my legs.”
An unintelligible shout from the driver and the crack of his whip caused Naomi to return her gaze to the window. When the coach began to slow, she and Mr. Jacobson exchanged puzzled looks. “This can’t be Loma Verde,” he said, checking the time on his pocket watch.
Naomi leaned out of the window. What had caused the driver to change speed? “There’s someone on the side of the road.”
“I hope it’s someone the driver knows,” Mr. Jacobson replied. “Stopping for a stranger could be an invitation for highwaymen.”
Naomi clutched her reticule tightly. The guard was still there, his rifle ever-ready for trouble.
As the coach pulled to a stop, the guard hailed the stranger. “Ethan Garrett. What in the world are you doing on the San Antonio road? Isn’t there enough work on your ranch to keep you busy?”
“Nice to see you too,” the man said with a wide grin. “Thanks for stopping.”
“I’ve never been known as a man with too many brains,” the driver replied with a laconic drawl, “but I believe you may have had trouble with a horse.”
Ethan looked at the saddle at his feet. “Figured that out, did you?”
The driver’s hoarse chuckle sounded like a rasp drawn across rough wood. “Throw that one-of-a-kind fancy saddle of yours up top and climb in.”
“Isn’t there room on top for me?” the stranger asked.
“Not this trip,” the guard said. “Besides, passengers without a ticket don’t exactly get first-class seats.”
The driver cackled loudly at his compatriot’s humor. “First class. That’s a good one.”
The unexpected passenger opened the stagecoach door, peered inside, and touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Morning, ladies. My name’s Ethan Garrett. Sorry to crowd you.”
The only man in the coach extended his hand. “Name’s Benjamin Jacobson, and this is my wife and son.”
Ethan shook Mr. Jacobson’s hand and tipped his hat to his wife. “Ma’am.”
In preparation for another assault to her nose, Naomi reached for her handkerchief. Mrs. Leeland began to scoot toward the middle of the bench in order to make room for the new passenger.
“Thank you for the consideration, ma’am,” Ethan said, removing his hat, “but I’ll just make space on the floor. No need to disturb you more than necessary.” The cowboy climbed into the coach, dropped to the floor, and stretched his legs between the passengers’ feet.
“You ready down there, Ethan?” the guard shouted.
The cowboy closed the door behind him. “Ready for anything you throw at me,” he called.
The guard and driver laughed loudly and the coach slowly pulled ahead.
“How far are we from Loma Verde?” Mr. Jacobson asked.
The cowboy rested his hat on his knees and ran his fingers through dark hair. “By coach, about a half-hour. Walking, however, would have taken me most of the afternoon.”
“What will you do about your horse?” Mrs. Jacobson asked.
“I left him to graze and rest his leg. I’ll come back after I get a fresh mount. A trip to the farrier will set him right.”
“Do you live in Loma Verde?” Mr. Jacobson asked.
“Yes, sir. My parents settled there in ’37, just after this area became a republic. Now, we’re the twenty-eighth state.”
Mr. Jacobson grinned at Ethan. “Don’t tell me you’d rather Texas had remained an independent nation. My father says we had nothing but nine years of debts and immigrants.”
Naomi sighed quietly. Why did men enjoy talking about politics? Her father had hosted many heated debates in their drawing room while Naomi refilled coffee cups and smiled demurely.
As the men talked on, Naomi examined the newest passenger. His legs were too long to stretch along the coach’s floor, so he must have been at least six feet tall, if not more. He wore dusty, heeled boots, the kind popular with all men who spent time on a horse, and his wide-brimmed straw hat was the flat-crown style worn by Mexican vaqueros. Her gaze moved to his hands and, to her surprise, they were clean. She took a deep breath and detected a mild odor of perspiration. Clean sweat. Not the onion-like smell of unwashed clothes and dirty bodies.
He had an ordinary face, shadowed with a few days’ growth of beard. He smiled frequently while debating with Mr. Jacobson, and his eyes shone with intelligence. But he was a cowboy, nonetheless. Another man who drifted from ranch to ranch, picking up whatever work he could find and then losing all of his money in the nearest saloon.
Mr. Jacobson and Ethan were still arguing the merits of statehood when the stagecoach slowed again. “Are we in Loma Verde?” Mrs. Leeland asked Ethan.
Instead of answering her question, Ethan grinned broadly and made a show of sniffing the air. “I smell carne asado and fresh-baked bread. Lunch is ready at the Loma Verde station.”
Mrs. Leeland frowned. “Carne what?”
“Roasted meat,” Ethan explained. “The Garcia family runs the Loma Ve
rde station and they’re mighty fine cooks.”
“I’m too hungry to be particular,” Mr. Jacobson said. “As long as it’s recognizable, I’ll eat it.”
The coach slowed to a stop. Ethan reached behind his head, opened the door, and climbed out. Then he offered his hand to the ladies. Mrs. Leeland and Mrs. Jacobson disembarked, leaving only Naomi and Mr. Jacobson in the coach.
“After you,” the gentleman said.
Naomi tried to move. There was no reason to suspect Ethan Garrett would behave improperly. Mrs. Leeland called, “It’s all right, my dear. Mr. Garrett is nothing like that ill-mannered brute from yesterday.”
Naomi’s face warmed. Surely Mrs. Leeland wouldn’t embarrass her by telling Ethan what the cowboy had done.
Mrs. Leeland, however, was apparently anxious to relate the tale. “You should have been here, Mr. Garrett.”
“Why’s that, ma’am?” Ethan asked.
“We ladies had to suffer a most impudent lout. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Jacobson? A vagabond of the worst type, a drifter of unseemly morals, took liberties with Miss Sullivan when we stopped for the night.”
“Come now,” Mrs. Jacobson said with a laugh. “You make it sound much worse than it was.”
Naomi took a deep breath, gathered her skirts, and reached for Ethan’s hand as she stepped off the stagecoach. Then she squeezed her eyes shut, as if to make Mrs. Leeland and her overdramatic retelling disappear.
Naomi glanced at the young mother and sent her silent thanks. But Mrs. Leeland was caught up in her own lurid retelling. “That drifter, who hadn’t used soap and water for at least six months, stood beside the coach step and offered his hand as politely as any footman. He helped me and Mrs. Jacobson alight with nary a hint of impropriety, but when Miss Sullivan took his hand…”
Mrs. Leeland paused for dramatic effect and Naomi walked away from the passengers. She couldn’t stop Mrs. Leeland, but she didn’t have to listen to Ethan Garrett laugh at her.