Christmas with a Cowboy: Includes a bonus novella (Longhorn Canyon Book 5)

by Carolyn Brown

  “I hope it’s just a stomachache and nothing serious,” Bridget said, but she wanted to scream that she should never bring a child with any possibility of sickness to the nursing home.

  “I apologize again.” She got him into the car and drove away.

  Bridget rustled around in the diaper bag and found a package of baby wipes and a plastic bag that she put soiled diapers inside. She carried them over to Maverick and handed them to him. “That’ll help get it cleaned up until we can get home.”

  He did what he could, but nothing could take the stench from his jeans or his boots. “I’m so sorry that you and Laela have to smell this,” he apologized when he got into the truck.”

  “It’s not your fault. Randy’s mother shouldn’t have let him come if there was any possibility that he was sick.” She didn’t care how cold it was—if it wouldn’t have given Laela a chill, she would have rolled down her window.

  “But you got to admit, he was sure enjoyin’ himself, and he was so good with those old folks.” Maverick cracked the window beside him. “This is worse than skunk. Maybe this will blow some of it outside.”

  He drove fast, and in minutes they were home. He rolled the window back up, jumped out of the truck, and yelled over his shoulder, “I’ll see you on the other side of a shower.”

  Bridget nodded and got the baby out of the backseat, carried her and the diaper bag inside, and went straight to the bedroom. She took Laela’s afternoon bottle from the bag and sat down in the rocking chair with her. In seconds, the tired little girl was sleeping soundly. Bridget laid her in the crib and hurried to the kitchen. She slipped a bibbed apron over her head and was busy tying the strings when Maverick appeared in the doorway. He wore a pair of clean jeans, a chambray work shirt, and white socks. Water droplets hung to his hair like dew on a rose, and he smelled heavenly—like soap and a woodsy shaving lotion.

  “Much better,” she said.

  “More cookies?” he asked as she got a beer from the refrigerator.

  “And cupcakes for tomorrow’s Sunday school class.” She stood on tiptoe trying to reach the big mixing bowls.

  Maverick came up behind her and brought two bowls down from the top shelf. He was close enough that she could almost hear the electricity between them crackling. All she would have to do was flip around and remain on her tiptoes—and she did owe him that kiss, but forget that business of a kiss on the cheek, she wanted a real kiss. But he’d been like an old ram with a toothache all day, and in this mood, he might reject her. She waited until he put the bowls on the counter and had taken a step back to say anything.

  “You’ve been in a snit today. Want to talk about what’s really bothering you?” she asked.

  “Nope,” he muttered. “What good would it do?”

  “It would get it off your chest.” She laid a hand on her heart. “In here.”

  “Men don’t get all emotional about their feelings,” he said.

  “They do if they want to get over a pissy mood,” she told him.

  “Let’s just make cookies and muffins,” he said as he brought up the song about Christmas cookies and played it on his phone. “Maybe this will get us both out of our moods.”

  “I’m not in a funk,” she declared, “and when you get ready to talk to me about what’s really eatin’ on you, we might talk about those fifteen minutes of kissin’ and lovin’, but until then forget it.”

  “You want me to sing about the Scotsman?” he asked.

  She couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “I do not!”

  “Okay, then, let’s make Christmas cookies.” He grinned, but the antsy feeling in his chest was still there. He took her by the hand and spun her around in a swing dance move. They’d survived somewhat of an argument. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? But it would be a better one if he’d open up and tell her what was really troubling him.

  While the first batch of cookies baked, Maverick went to the living room and put on a stack of vinyl records, all playing Christmas songs by country artists, going all the way back to Hank Snow and Hank Williams. Bridget had heard many of the songs, but the artists were new to her.

  “What can I do to help now?” he asked.

  “Get out the mixer and whip up the icing,” she told him as she used cookie cutters to make Christmas trees, bells, and Santa Clauses from the dough she had rolled out on the countertop.

  He followed her directions and soon had a big bowl of white icing made up. “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now you put about half a cup full of that”—she pointed to smaller bowls on the table—“and drop a little food coloring in each one—blue, red, green, and yellow—so we can decorate the cookies as they cool.”

  Before she could tell him to only use a drop at a time, he’d smeared a bit of icing on her lower lip. When she looked up from the cookie sheet, he had a wicked grin on his face.

  “Oops, my hand slipped when I was removing the beaters from the mixer. Let me get that for you.” He leaned over and his lips were on hers.

  The taste of almond-flavored icing blended with the delicious woodsy scent of his shaving lotion, and sent her senses reeling. Her knees went weak and her breath came in short bursts as one kiss led to another, and still yet another. The only thing that stopped her from ripping off his shirt and leading him to the bedroom was the loud timer reminding her that another batch of cookies should be taken out of the oven.

  “Damned timer, anyway,” he muttered.

  “Or maybe good timer,” she panted as she grabbed a hot pad and opened the oven door. “We could’ve burned the house down if we’d have let that go on much longer.”

  “By the cookies or what would have happened right here on the kitchen floor?” He grinned.

  “Both,” she answered.

  * * *

  Bridget thought about their short make-out session all the way to the church that evening. If five minutes could turn her whole body into a quivering mass of emotions, she wasn’t sure she could stand fifteen minutes like the silly Christmas song mentioned.

  The back door to the church was unlocked, so she and Maverick went straight back to the prop room, where Alana and her dad were already cleaning the next couple of cutouts.

  “Hello, I’m Matt Cleary, Alana’s dad. I’d shake with you but”—he held up wet hands—“and Alana has talked all day about Laela. I’ve seen y’all in church but didn’t get to speak to you in the crowd.”

  “We brought cookies and cupcakes for snacks.” Maverick set a plate on one of the tables beside a small plate of pumpkin bread. “The Christmas trees are the best because I made them.”

  Matt peeled off a couple of paper towels, dried his hands, and then picked up a green tree and bit into it. “I love iced sugar cookies, and this is pretty good for a tough old cowboy’s makin’. Get yourself a piece of Alana’s pumpkin bread, and we’ll take Mr. Santa Claus up to the sanctuary and get him positioned behind the curtain.”

  When the guys left, Alana took Laela from Bridget and sat down in a chair with her, but the baby instantly began to squirm and lean toward the playpen full of toys. “I guess she’s telling us to get busy. Dad says we should get the sleigh ready tonight so the guys can get it positioned next weekend. It’s the biggest prop we have, and it’s probably going to need some touch-up painting done when we get it washed down.”

  Bridget picked up a washcloth and started at the end of the sleigh where Matt had left off. Matt was an inch or two taller than Alana, had silver streaks in his dark hair, and big brown eyes.

  “I see where you got your height,” Bridget said.

  “Didn’t have a chance of being little and cute like you.” Alana nodded. “Mama was almost six feet tall too.”

  “I always wished I could be tall and have blond hair,” Bridget admitted.

  “We all want what we can’t have, don’t we?” Alana smiled as she went to work cleaning the other end of the sleigh. “Have you thought about my job offer?”

  “Yes, but it’
s a big decision,” Bridget said.

  “No rush,” Alana said. “We don’t even need an answer until after Christmas.”

  “Thank you,” Bridget said.

  The guys came back when they still had a bit of sleigh left to wash, and Matt entertained Laela by picking up the toys she threw out of the playpen and tossing them back in for her to throw out again. Maverick ate a few more slices of pumpkin bread and two more cookies. When it was time for them to leave, Bridget and Alana traded plates. Bridget had the leftover pumpkin bread, and Alana took home the rest of the cookies.

  “See you tomorrow in church,” Alana said. “I’m off to the Wild Cowboy for a couple of hours.”

  “Tell anyone I know hello for me,” Maverick said.

  Bridget thought she heard wistfulness in his voice. “Do you miss that life?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “Don’t let me and this baby hold you back from what you want to do.”

  “I’m not,” he said.

  His tone said something altogether different, though.

  “So Sean has a girlfriend?” He changed the subject.

  “Yes, but I don’t think she’s right for him.” She told him how her friend was feeling old because of what happened to Deidre. “He wants to settle down, but he’s not ready.”

  “How do you know that?” Maverick asked. “You’re thousands of miles away.”

  “Sean is a player”—she hesitated—“different woman every weekend, and sometimes every night. He has this quilt that he keeps in the trunk of his car. The tales it could tell would curl your toenails. He’s not ready, and I know it in my heart. A commitment is more than picnics by the river and tumbling in the sheets.”

  * * *

  Maverick realized she’d probably just described him as well as Sean. Both of them needed to sow their wild oats before they were truly ready to settle down. He wondered if Sean liked coming home to a woman in the house but still yearned for the chase. Maverick loved flirting with Bridget, and those kitchen kisses had practically set him on fire, but was he ready to settle down with one woman for the rest of his life? He was still on the fence about that.

  “Sean reminds me of you,” she said. “He wants his cake to look all pretty on the table, but he wants to eat it too. I can tell you’re itching to go have some fun.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, but she was right, he did want to get away from Christmas props and kids, and think about the future. Even when Buster came back, the two old folks couldn’t keep up with all the maintenance on the ranch. It was time for him to come home and help Granny. But living with family again would be a big change. Over at Canyon Creek no one asked him where he was going or how late he’d be staying out. Tag and Hud didn’t care as long as he worked hard and completed his jobs.

  “You don’t sound fine. You sound angry,” she said.

  Why didn’t she just leave it alone? If all women were like that—wanting to talk about emotions and analyze his every word—then those one-night stands were beginning to look better by the second.

  “I said I’m good.” He parked the truck and helped take the baby inside like usual. She carried in the diaper bag and the pumpkin bread, dropped the bag in the foyer, and went straight to the kitchen.

  It was definitely time to start singing about the drunk Scotsman, but she took the baby from him, and headed to her bedroom.

  “Good night,” he said.

  “I hope you get up in a better mood tomorrow,” she said.

  “You too,” he said.

  She didn’t even answer him but kept walking.

  “I’m going for a drive,” he said as he got to his feet. “We both need to cool off. Maybe while I’m gone, you can think about us rather than Sean.”

  “I might not be here when you get back,” she threw over her shoulder as her bedroom door slammed.

  “That’s your choice.” Maverick walked out the door and got back into his truck. That was a stupid fight. Iris’s voice was clear in his head. You’ve got to go at this with a carrot instead of a stick. Bridget is struggling just like you with all these emotions.

  He didn’t even bother to argue with his grandmother but drove straight to the honky-tonk. The parking lot was already full at eight o’clock that Saturday night. He went straight for his favorite barstool, removed his hat, and laid it on the counter.

  “What can I get you?” asked Sally from behind the bar.

  “A double shot of Jack, neat,” he answered.

  “Haven’t seen you in here in months! What’ve you been up to?” She poured a generous double into a glass and set it on a paper coaster.

  “Been out near Bowie with the Baker brothers on their ranch. Came back for a short while to help my grandmother out.” He took the first sip and felt the warmth of it go all the way to his belly.

  She topped off his glass when he set it down. “That’s on the house because you look like you lost your best friend.”

  “We had an argument, all right,” he admitted. “Thank you.”

  “Want to talk about it?” She propped both elbows on the bar, giving him a good view of a lot of cleavage.

  “Nope, he don’t, and put whatever he’s drinkin’ on my tab tonight.” Alana got him by the arm.

  “Wait a minute,” Maverick growled. “I’m not leaving my drink behind.” He picked it up and followed Alana to a table.

  “You can drink all you want, but you’ll not be going home with a woman tonight, my friend. If you want to dance, I’m right here. Now tell me what’s wrong,” she said.

  “I don’t know what in the hell I want,” he admitted.

  “Well, you better decide because the best thing to ever come across your path is living with you on the Callahan Ranch,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “I just want to sit here and enjoy a few drinks.”

  Two of his old drinking buddies dragged chairs across the wooden floor and joined him. “Haven’t seen you in months,” Lane said.

  “Heard you’d been back at your granny’s place.” Will raised a glass. “Here’s to good drinks, good times, and wild women.”

  “To it all.” Maverick threw back his drink and slammed the glass on the table. “It’s been a day I’d like to forget.”

  “Has that Irish woman I heard y’all got out at the ranch been givin’ you fits?” Will Jackson asked. “If so, then we should do some tequila shots. It’s purely for medicinal purposes if your heart is hurtin’.”

  “Medicinal, my ass.” Lane Freeman chuckled. “Just because you’re a preacher’s son and say you’re drinkin’ for the medicinal value in the liquor, it don’t mean we are. Alana, get us four shot glasses and a bottle of Patrón. By the time we get the bottle finished, we’ll have Maverick right as rain.”

  “Hell.” Will chuckled. “We might even send him home with Sally. They say the girls all get prettier at closing time.”

  “Get your own drinks,” Alana said. “I’m not your bartender.” She waved at a couple of women coming into the bar and leaned down to whisper in Maverick’s ear. “I’m keepin’ my eye on you.”

  Will pushed back his chair and wove his way through the line dancers and the drunks to the bar, and brought back a full bottle of tequila. “Before you get plastered, I promise that I won’t let you go home with Sally, even if I have to throw you in the bed of your truck to sleep it off until morning.” He poured three shots and passed them around.

  Maverick threw back another shot and held out his glass for a refill.

  * * *

  The next morning he awoke stretched out on the sofa. He was still dressed but he had a raging hangover and his boots were gone. Ducky was curled up so close to his face that the doggy breath gagged him. He pushed the critter to the side, sat up too fast, and held his head in his hands. “Where are my boots, and how’d you get in here?” The dog’s tail thumped against the floor and sounded like someone pounding on a bass drum. “Did you eat my b
oots?”

  The cat made a leap from the recliner to his lap, and the jar when she landed made his head hurt even worse. He needed aspirin and hot coffee, but he didn’t want to stand up to go get either.

  “Last night was downright stupid of me.” He set Dolly to the side. She hopped down, and with her tail held high, went to the door.

  “You want outside?” he asked.

  As if the dog understood what he said, he ran to the door and barked. “Hush, dammit! You’ll wake the baby and Bridget, and I’m too hungover to fight with her anymore.”

  With his hands still on his head, he stood up and let the animals outside. Then he padded barefoot to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and chewed up two aspirin. He checked his phone and found two messages. One was from Alana: How you holdin’ up this mornin’? Will drove your truck home, and then I took him home.

  The other was from Bridget about midnight: You are a bloody jackass, and I don’t like you right now.

  “Well, darlin’, I still love you,” he said. “But I’m in no shape to argue.”

  * * *

  Bridget slept poorly and awoke to the sound of Ducky barking. She hadn’t let him in the night before, so what was he doing in the house?

  “Maverick!” she whispered. She was out of the bed in one jump and stormed down the hallway in her bare feet without even stopping to put on slippers. The hardwood floor was so cold she felt like she was walking on a layer of ice, but she didn’t care.

  “There had better not be a woman in his bed this morning, or I’m packing my things and calling a car to take me to the airport,” she muttered as she threw open his bedroom door without even knocking.

  The bed hadn’t even been slept in, but she heard a rattling in the kitchen, so she spun around and muttered on the way across the foyer. “You are a lucky duck this morning, cowboy, because if there’d been a woman in your bedroom, I would’ve been on the first flight back to Dublin.”

  She found him with one hand on his head and the other trying to pour a mug of coffee. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”