Christmas Kisses with My Cowboy

by Diana Palmer

  So while the wrapping party was a way for her to help other children have a magical Christmas morning, it also served as a way to connect. She was pulling so much overtime to make this holiday special for her own family, she hadn’t had a day off in over a month. Faith was desperate for some down time with her friends. And in addition to wrapping, there was also going to be wine and chocolate.

  Something she dared not mention to Mrs. McKinney for fear that she and her Silvered Singles posse would crash the party.

  “Wrapping party?” Viola harrumphed. “Your generation is nothing but a bunch of special snowflakes, needing emotional support and twenty sets of hands to wrap a present.”

  “There are over five hundred donations to wrap before the auction.” Including 100-plus bikes, skateboards, and other high-end gifts, many of which were donated by the Beaumont Foundation—founded by the oldest and wealthiest families in town.

  “When I was committee chair, all I got was paper bags, twine, and a bottle of bathtub gin to keep me company. And these two hands did just fine.”

  Faith decided not to point out that Mrs. McKinney’s hands were the size of ham hocks, or that she’d wound up sleepwalking into town in nothing but her slippers and nightcap the day after the auction.

  “You’re an army of one, Mrs. McKinney,” Faith praised. “As for the extra shifts? I’m not looking to add exotic dancer to my résumé quite yet.”

  “Good, because I ain’t hiring anyone. Like I told that cheat Mr. McKinney, the night I strung him up on Town Hall’s flagpole, the only woman who’s ever going to swing on Mr. McKinney’s pole again is me.”

  To prove how serious she was, the older woman pointed toward the cement headstone at the base of the pole, which read:

  AUTHOR J. MCKINNEY

  A MAN WHOSE POLE IS PERMANENTLY CLOSED

  FOR BUSINESS

  BORN 7.1.1941–DIED 2.17.1983

  HUSBAND, LOVING FATHER

  &

  DEVOTED FORNICATOR

  The pole was a piece of fourth-generation history left over from the previous establishment, a strip club—and a reminder to unfaithful husbands everywhere. The inscription was the result of Mrs. McKinney’s discovery that her then-husband, an accountant by trade, wasn’t handling people’s money as much as he was exchanging it for dollar bills at his “gentleman’s” club.

  “Then you might want to stop prancing around town in that elf getup.”

  “Who told you about that?” Faith’s body heated as if a spotlight was suddenly shining down on her.

  What had she thought would happen? She knew better. Knew Noah wasn’t to be trusted.

  There were two things Faith didn’t do: trust or secrets. Her childhood hadn’t allowed for either. Trusting someone meant being vulnerable, and sharing secrets created an intimate bond. But she’d had no choice but to trust Noah to keep his word, because her good sense didn’t allow for intimate coffee meetups with cops. Which brought her to the third thing she didn’t do.

  Cops.

  So if he’d breathed even a single word about her being Sweet’s Secret Samaritan, then he’d better watch his pistol. Because when Faith got hold of him, he wouldn’t have anything left to holster.

  “Mister was in here this morning flapping his lips about how you were moonlighting. He offered up a hundred dollars to anyone who’d reveal where you’re dancing. He’s thinking about hosting the next Moose Lodge get-together there, then announcing his candidacy for club president. He thinks your”—she waved a pie slicer at Faith’s cleavage—“jingle bells will give him an edge over Mr. Woodrow Rayborn in the race.”

  “First, I’ve never danced, well, that way. And second—” Faith leaned in and lowered her voice. “Does Ms. Luella know about this? Because I don’t want her putting a hit out on me or dumping a load of coal on my porch.”

  Faith shivered at the idea of letting Mister anywhere near her jingle bells. Not only was he one hair from bald, but he was also the long-standing gentleman friend of a woman who’d once tie-dyed an entire flock of sheep because their owner implied Ms. Luella’s knitting was so inferior it was a waste of wool.

  “Ms. Luella isn’t who you need to be worried about.” This time the pie slicer was aimed at Faith’s throat. “You know I don’t tolerate moonlighters on my staff.”

  “I work fulltime at the hospital and pick up odd shifts here after work or on the weekends.” Like today. Faith worked the early shift at the hospital, then raced to the diner just in time to start the swing shift, taking her workday from ten hours to a whopping fourteen. “So technically, when I’m here I’m moonlighting.”

  Mrs. McKinney considered that for a long, hard moment, her lips tightening even more than usual, then lowered the weapon. “Since there’s no hanky-panky involved, I’ll let it slide. But now you’ve got me thinking. After all the ruckus about you in those leggings, maybe you should wear that outfit to work. Wouldn’t even have to offer Senior Sunday anymore, you’d gather a crowd. You’d have ’em wheeling their chairs right out of the nursing home.”

  “I have burned the costume and, not that it’s any of your business, I only wore it because I was picking up some last-minute Dear Sweet letters from a few of the kids in the pediatric ward. And there was a mix-up at the costume shop, and that was the last elf costume they had.”

  “Bet there were a bunch of angry parents trying to dodge all kinds of elf-inspired questions today.”

  “It’s been a week.” Surprisingly, last night had been the highlight. And she meant that in the best kind of way. Seeing Noah had been exciting. Sparring with him had been as thrilling as the front seat of a roller-coaster ride.

  “So that’s a no on the holiday uniform?” Viola asked.

  Faith dug her hands into her hips and glared down at her boss, which was impressive since, at only five-three, Faith spent most of her life looking up at people.

  “Well then, shoo.” Viola swatted her with the spatula. “We’ve got hungry customers and the food’s getting cold. Now go fetch a basket of biscuits for table five.”

  “Yes, Mrs. McKinney,” Faith said, sweet as pie.

  “Don’t take that tone with me. I don’t know what to do with nice.”

  With an even warmer smile, Faith grabbed a basket of steaming biscuits—because this was an around-the-clock biscuit establishment—and honey butter and headed toward table five, where one of her best friends was holding court.

  Gina Echols was dressed in a sharp-looking blue suit, a pair of candy red heels, and enough bravado to cut steel. She was superhero worthy and ready to kick some serious bad-guy butt. Which was fitting since she worked as a lawyer for the County Prosecutor’s office.

  Faith set down the basket of biscuits. “On the house.”

  “The biscuits are always on the house. Your uniform literally says, BISCUITS ARE FREE. JUST DON’T ASK ME TO BUTTER THEM,” Gina said, not bothering to look up from the brief she was reading. “Plus, no biscuits on court day. Carbs are for the weak.”

  “I put extra honey butter in there.”

  Work forgotten, Gina snatched the basket to peek in. She took a big sniff, her head sagging against her chest in defeat. “You play dirty.”

  “I can’t help it—I’m an enabler at heart.”

  “Next time enable someone who didn’t skip their morning run, three years in a row,” Gina said around a mouthful of buttered biscuit.

  “Your usual then. A coffee, eggs and bacon scramble with extra bacon on the side.”

  “Don’t forget to hold the fruit.”

  “Got it.” She had turned to walk away when Gina pulled out a dollar bill and stuck it in the hem of Faith’s skirt. Faith snatched the bill and glared. “What’s this?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me.” Her You’re busted expression said Gina wasn’t asking for a rundown on today’s specials.

  “I’m bringing my double-soaked bourbon balls to the wrapping party,” Faith said, and Gina pulled out another bill, making a big deal abo
ut it. Faith snatched that one, too. “Who told you?”

  Gina pointed to the sheriff, sitting at the counter and out of uniform, waving a few bills in the air. “According to Deputy Do Little, you were running through town dressed to impress.”

  Faith paused, silently repeating what Gina had said. Backtracking to be sure Gina had only accused one annoying officer of the law of being a bigmouth.

  “So Noah didn’t tell you anything about last night?”

  She had to be sure. She also didn’t know why it was so important to her that Noah had kept his word, but her heart said it was.

  “Noah? As in Tucker? No, I haven’t seen him since . . . God, since he blew through town last summer.” Gina’s grin widened and she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. “But clearly you’ve seen Noah Tucker. And from the way you’re blushing, I’d say it was last night.”

  “I ran into him on my way home from work,” she said, which wasn’t a total lie. She had gone from the hospital straight to the sheriff’s station. But she didn’t need Gina to know she’d made a pit stop to spread some holiday cheer.

  “Explain ‘ran into him.’”

  “Like I said, he was headed into the sheriff’s station and we ran into each other. End of story.”

  “I see. Well, in this story, the one where you ran into Noah Tucker, what did he tell you?”

  “He’s not some legend who requires his surname whenever you speak of him, and I’m not on the stand. So can we call him just Noah?”

  “Wow, one night and you go from mooning over him to calling him Just Noah. Impressive. That costume must have really been something.”

  “Can you not?” She set down the tray and shoved Gina over, scooching into the booth. “I mooned over him, past tense, like more than a whole decade in the past, past tense. So I’d appreciate it if you’d never mention it again.”

  “So no flutters?”

  “No.”

  There had been no flutters. Now tingles, that was another story. So many tingles she’d almost said yes to coffee, then remembered her resolution to stop dating the wrong kind of men.

  Since the right kind of men didn’t exist in Sweet Plains, she’d been a little man starved of late. Which was the only logical reason she could come up with for why he’d gotten under her skin. Because Noah Tucker and his above-standard-issue pistol packed enough power to tempt her good parts to come out of hibernation midwinter.

  To complicate things further, Noah had correctly guessed that she was Sweet’s Secret Samaritan. Of course she’d denied it, but he hadn’t believed her. When she’d left him standing there to finish her good deed, she’d felt certain he’d rat her out. Faith had successfully kept her secret identity a secret for fifteen years and seventy-two random acts of kindness, leaving but eleven transgressions to make right. But maybe Noah was the honest and decent guy Faith had dreamed up in high school. Didn’t matter. His trip home was nothing more than a drive-through howdy.

  “Nope. Not a single flutter.”

  Gina smiled and popped half of a biscuit into her mouth. “Okay.”

  Faith wasn’t buying it. The odds of Gina, her nosiest friend, dropping the subject so easily was about as likely as Mrs. McKinney landing on the cover of the Victoria’s Secret Christmas catalog.

  “Okay, what?”

  “That’s it. Okay.” Gina’s grin said it wouldn’t be okay until Faith admitted that she’d felt flutters. Which she totally had—stupid hormones. “I’ll take that coffee now.”

  Trying to figure out what just happened, Faith took two steps, then spun around to eyeball her friend, waiting for the catch. But there was no catch. Gina was back to studying her brief and Logan was elbow-deep into a bowl of Mrs. McKinney’s award-winning chili.

  Shaking off her rising paranoia, and residual flutters from hearing Noah’s name six times in the last five minutes, Faith went back to work.

  She was still thinking about those flutters long after Gina left with a suspect smile, when the early dinner crowd began—meaning every resident of retirement age arrived to cash in on the B-Cubed’s BEFORE FIVE IF YOU’RE STILL ALIVE blue plate special.

  Faith seated a couple in the corner booth, then saw someone at the register, waving to get her attention. Thankfully, it was Ester Rayborn, and she was waving her restaurant bill and not dollar bills. At least Faith thought it was Ester behind the dark glasses and mauve hat, which was pulled down past her eyebrows.

  “How was your meal?”

  “Wonderful as always, dear,” Ester said, looking anything but. She was glancing this way and that, over her shoulder, around the diner, scanning the parking lot, all the while talking to Faith. “I’d like to add some cookies to go before you run my card, if that’s all right.”

  “Not a problem.” Faith waited but the woman didn’t move. “Will that be debit or credit?”

  “Oh heavens me.” Ester put her credit card on the counter, then placed a hand to her chest. “I’m so nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before. I even sent Woodrow to the car saying I had to conduct some official bake sale business, but he doesn’t ever sit still for long so we’d better hurry.”

  “Let me ring you up and—”

  “No!” Ester was back to looking around the diner as if she were Miss Marple stuck in an Agatha Christie novel. “I’m sorry. I don’t want the cookies on the bill. I’ll pay cash for those. I was told that’s the way these transactions go.”

  “Then what kind of cookies can I get you?”

  “Your cookies.”

  “Oh.” At the comment, a rush of pride swelled in Faith’s chest. Ester wasn’t merely a cookie connoisseur, she also happened to be the head of this year’s bake sale committee, so she knew her baking. She also knew that Faith dabbled in cookie creations at the diner.

  It was another source of desperately needed income. Especially around the holidays.

  Holidays had never meant much when she’d been a kid. Her mom struggled to keep them fed, let alone buy a tree and presents. Having her mom home on Christmas morning was a luxury since Hope often volunteered to work any shift that paid time and a half. When her brother was born, Faith promised herself Pax would have a different kind of childhood—the kind Faith had always dreamed of.

  She was determined to give Pax an extra special Christmas this year—only the top item on his list was way above her pay grade. Which was why she’d been working extra shifts and siphoning tip money away from her MAMA NEEDS A NEW MIXER fund into WHAT’S A NEW MIXER COMPARED TO A KID’S CHRISTMAS fund.

  Six months ago, McKinney had approached Faith with an amazing opportunity. Viola would bankroll the operation, Faith would do the baking, and they’d split the profits fifty-fifty. With her own student loans to pay off and Pax only seven years away from college, accepting was a no-brainer.

  Except on days like today, when Shelby was watching Pax and Faith was nearing her second shift of a fourteen-hour marathon on her feet. She had to admit she was running on fumes.

  So it felt good when someone validated her hard work.

  “Thank you. You kind of made my day.” So much so that she felt tears prick her eyes. “If you don’t have anything specific in mind, I highly recommend the peppermint bark cookies.” She did a Vanna White move, displaying the tray of dog-shaped cookies with peppermint bark icing on the paws. “Or my ginger bear cookies. They come individually wrapped and make a delicious holiday gift for a neighbor or the postman. And perfect stocking stuffers.”

  And dang it, Gina was right. It hadn’t been just tingles. The reminder of a particular stocking stuffer had parts of her, she’d thought long ago closed for the winter, whipping up a blizzard of flutters.

  “No, dear, your special cookies.” Ester lowered her sunglasses to peer over their rims, giving Faith a You got me, right? wink.

  The only kind of special baked items Faith had ever heard of were still illegal in the great state of Texas. And she’d only done one illegal thing in her life—the repercussi
ons of which were so horrifying she’d vowed to never again find herself on the wrong side of the law.

  “Mrs. Rayborn, are you asking if there’s marijuana in my cookies?”

  Ester gasped, her hand going to her pearls. “Heavens, no. I’m looking for the cookies with the Viagra icing.”

  Faith choked. “You think I’m grinding up Viagra and sneaking it in my icing?”

  “That’s the word on the street.” She wrapped her scarf higher as if the flimsy disguise would distract from her bright red canvas RAYBORN MORTUARY: TAKE THAT FINAL RIDE IN STYLE bag hanging off her shoulder. “Last night at Bea’s Quilting Barn, I was getting some yarn to knit a baby blanket for Mable’s granddaughter. She’s expecting her first. And I overheard Luella talking to Bea about these cookies she bought for Mister. Said it was like they were teenagers again.” Ester leaned all the way in and whispered, “Six hours. Feet to Jesus-style. Only taking a break to find Mister’s dentures when things got a little spicy.”

  “Those must be some cookies.”

  “Cookies to get your cookies,” Ester clarified as if Faith wasn’t uncomfortable enough. “It got me thinking. What gift do you get the man who says he has everything?”

  “Cookies to get your cookies?” Faith guessed.

  Ester clasped her frail hands together in excitement. “So you do have some?”

  “I’m sorry,” Faith said. “I swapped out the traditional icing for my maple cream frosting, but these days that’s as spicy as I get.”

  “Oh.” Ester looked disappointed. “This will be my and Woodrow’s fifty-fifth Christmas together and I was hoping to get the spark back. Maybe go sledding, then sit by the fire and have some hot cocoa spiked with peppermint schnapps like we did on our first date. And when the sun went down, we’d have a cookie and well . . .” Ester wiggled her brows.

  Listening to Ester’s plan had Faith feeling a little disappointed, too. An eighty-year-old woman was planning to seduce her husband of more than half a century with some pharmaceutical-aided romance. And the spiciest Faith had gotten lately was swapping ingredients.

  She wasn’t interested in Viagra-spiked cookies, but she’d welcome a little romance in her life. Someone with whom to share her day or watch the occasional movie. Someone to give her a desperately needed cookie—or two.