Her Christmas Cowboy

by Jessica Clare

  She’d had enough.

  Amy typed in “rentals near Painted Barrel” and started to browse.

  Wasn’t this why she’d come to Wyoming? So she could be on her own? She remembered all the times that Blake had made her feel useless and stupid. How he’d deliberately kept her name off their accounts because it made him feel big to control her money. How he told her she didn’t need an education because she was with him. How he’d deliberately bought stick-shift cars because he knew she didn’t know how to drive them, and it made him feel good to hold one over on her.

  Never again.

  There was a small apartment complex two cities over, and despite the fact that it was Saturday afternoon, the girl at the front desk answered all her questions with chirpy, happy responses. The rent was a little higher than what Amy was paying now, and it was further out, but they took dogs and maintenance was on-site. She made an appointment to view an apartment tomorrow.

  Then she texted Caleb.

  AMY: Slight change of plans. Can you come by tomorrow by around 3 or so instead of 5?

  CALEB: Sure can. What’s up?

  AMY: A few things. I’m going to look at a new apartment tomorrow and thought maybe you could go with me. I’m tired of living here.

  CALEB: Is that asshole bothering you again? Do I need to come over?

  CALEB: I will be there ASAP.

  AMY: No! It’s fine. I’m just fed up, that’s all. I did some searching. And can I ask for one more favor?

  CALEB: Anything.

  AMY: Will you teach me how to drive a stick shift?

  CALEB: Of course.

  AMY: Thank you. : )

  She wasn’t going to be the same old Amy. Never again. If life threw curveballs at her, she’d figure out how to throw them back. She wouldn’t just duck and hope for someone else to take care of things. You didn’t grow like that. You didn’t learn. You didn’t thrive.

  Amy was more than ready to thrive. So she got out every blanket, layered the bed with all of them, and put on her warm clothes and snuggled down in the mountain of linens and comforters with Donner. “We’re changing things up, you and I,” she whispered to him. “We’re going to become the best versions of ourselves.” She flipped around on her phone’s browser a little longer before typing in “bookstores near me” and seeing what came up.

  After all, she had a few presents to buy for her cowboy.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Caleb couldn’t stop staring at her the next day. During the apartment walk-through, during the driving lesson afterward, he just stared at her. Just . . . stared.

  After all, it was hard to look away when all your dreams were coming true.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Amy. About the way she’d tasted when she’d come. The way she’d felt when he was so deep inside her. The soft sounds she made when he pushed into her. The way she’d slept, cuddled up next to him as if she’d always belonged there. He watched her like a besotted idiot as he taught her how to drive a stick shift in his truck. It didn’t matter that she let the engine die at the same stop sign seven times in a row trying to figure out how to shift gears. He was endlessly patient. He could be, because he was spending time with her. Any time with Amy was good time spent.

  Eventually, she managed to figure out the basics, and with a triumphant look, she got them to her place. “I did it!” she told him, crowing just a little.

  “You absolutely did,” he told her, trying not to think about all the times the gears made terrible grinding noises as she figured things out. It was just a truck. Amy had done a terrific job and learned fast, a determined little scowl on her face as she shifted gears and tried to follow his instructions. “Want to order a pizza?”

  “As long as we split the bill,” she told him with a proud flounce of her hair as she went to her porch. She got out the keys, unlocked the door, and went inside—and immediately smothered a happily wiggling Donner with kisses. “Who’s my best boy? Who is it? Is it you, old man?”

  “With that kind of greeting, I was hoping it was me,” Caleb teased as he stepped in behind her, the box of gifts in his grip, a massive roll of paper tucked under his arm. Her place looked good, he thought, her tree festive and lit up, and he especially liked the new shiny lock on the door.

  As he stepped inside, though, he frowned to himself. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?” His breath misted, and he noticed Donner was wearing a thick doggy sweater despite being in the house.

  “The heat’s dead,” Amy told him. “Don’t worry. I’m handling it.”

  He scowled, setting the stuff down on the table. “You’re paying to live here. The heat shouldn’t be dead.”

  “I know.” She rubbed Donner’s ears, oblivious to the chill. “This place is a shithole, like you said, so I’m going to move.”

  “Ah.” So that explained the sudden apartment hunt. The place she’d looked at today wasn’t great. The inside was worn and the carpet so old that it was faded at the edges. The building was a large one and she’d be on the second floor, which meant stairs and noise, especially with a dog. Plus, she was further away from Painted Barrel, and he didn’t much like that.

  But it wasn’t his decision. She loved the place, so she’d put in an application and had gushed to the girl in the office about how excited she was about moving. Anything had to be better than Greg’s place, Caleb had to admit. “Come stay with me tonight,” he told her. “It’s too cold here. You and Donner can curl up at my place.”

  It wasn’t an entirely altruistic suggestion. He wanted Amy in his bed. He wanted a repeat of last night—hopefully without him tearing condoms like a fucking schoolboy. He wanted more of his woman, and he wanted it so much that it took everything he had not to throw her over his shoulder and haul ass back to his place.

  But she only gave him a stubborn look. “It was cold here last night and me and Donner got through it okay. It’s fine.”

  So it had been out last night, too? He gritted his teeth. “I’m going to build you a fire, and then we’re going to try to fix your heat.”

  “I’ll put on some coffee. And you promised me pizza, didn’t you?” She gave him a sassy wink.

  Why was she in such a good mood when it was positively arctic in the house? Shouldn’t she be mad at Greg? He sure as shit was. But she was in a fantastic mood, and he didn’t get it. Maybe he was just sour that she was going to try to move away, as if that would somehow change things.

  Building Amy a fire ended up being more time-consuming than he’d thought. She had no wood, for starters, so he went back out to the tiny grocery store in town, bought two ridiculously overpriced stacks of wood and some starter logs, and stopped by the pizza place to get them dinner. He grumbled all the way through making the fire, and grumbled even more when he tinkered with the thermostat. Amy ignored all his grouchiness, wrapping presents by the fire and offering her pizza crusts to Donner, who took them with far more politeness than he should have.

  “I still want you to stay at my place tonight,” Caleb told her. “Not sure if I like the idea of you having a fire going all night.” In this disaster of a house, the entire thing could go up in flames. Who knew if Greg had the chimney inspected? Who knew if the fire alarms worked?

  But Amy gave him another frustratingly mulish look. “I’m going to stay here. You don’t have to bail me out.”

  Bail her out? He didn’t want his damned woman to freeze. “Then I’m staying here,” Caleb declared. “You and I are going to share body heat.”

  “Oh. Well, that sounds like fun.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him.

  He really, really did not understand this woman sometimes. Or any women, for that matter.

  * * *

  * * *

  Two days later, Amy decided to deliver Christmas cookies to her friends and her coworkers. It wasn’t with a completely unselfish motive,
of course. She and Caleb had plans to go ice-skating, but it had snowed so heavily that they’d stayed in and made cookies instead. Now she had plate after plate of frosted red jingle bells and green holly leaves, and if she ate even one more snowman cookie, she’d be tasting powdered sugar in her sleep. So for sanity—and her waistline—she was going to give them away.

  Painted Barrel’s school was small, so they’d all shared addresses and phone numbers, and Amy dropped by each teacher’s house to deliver personally. It was good to see them outside the school environment, and she was welcomed with a hug and an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. Even surly Elizabeth, the school secretary and wife to the principal, invited her in for coffee. It made her feel welcome. Like part of a community after all. Sure, she was reaching out to them instead of the other way around, but it was a start.

  Once she’d made all her teacher deliveries, she swung by Becca’s salon. Becca was with a client, so she couldn’t talk long, and Amy dropped off the cookies with a promise to text her later. After that, she just had one final delivery—to Layla.

  Even though it was Christmas week, the bubbly accountant was still working in the office. Well . . . sort of working. When Amy went in, she noticed Layla had her combat boots kicked up on the desk and her crochet in her lap, her computer’s screen saver dancing with Christmas trees and snowmen.

  “I see that you’re super busy today,” Amy teased.

  Layla sat up, grinning. She put her feet on the floor and her crochet away. “Family’s visiting. You know how it is. My mother’s determined to find me a man, so she keeps showing me pictures of her friends’ sons. I told her I had to come in to work. And it’s a good thing I did, since you brought sweets.”

  Amy sat down across from Layla’s desk and put the cookies in front of her. “We made a few too many last night. Hope you’re not on a diet.”

  “For the holidays? Girl, I know better.” Layla reached over and immediately plucked a heavily frosted cookie from the tray. “So who’s ‘we’? The cowboy boyfriend? Word is he’s parking in front of your house practically every night.”

  Amy’s face got hot. Okay, this was one of her first experiences with small-town gossip, and Becca had not lied. It absolutely did travel fast. “Not every night. And who told you?”

  “Your neighbor brought in some receipts for tax time.” Layla wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m not judging. I mean, your guy’s got a tight ass. Doesn’t say a thing, but I can appreciate silent and tight.”

  Her face was getting redder. Was that even possible? Amy cleared her throat. “He’s not silent. He talks to me.”

  “That’s good, because it’d be a bit of a weird relationship otherwise. So you two are . . . a thing? Because you seem really happy.”

  “I do?”

  Layla nodded, munching on the cookie. “You have this glow about you. And you smile all the time.” Layla winked. “And blush, too.”

  “He’s a really good guy,” Amy said softly. “I know we’re moving fast, but I’m divorced, you know? I’m an adult. I can do what I want. And . . . he’s just everything I ever wanted.” Maybe she was just being an optimist, but she didn’t see how dating Caleb could possibly be bad for her. “He makes me so happy.”

  “Good in bed?”

  Amy blushed.

  “I’m gonna take that as a yes. Stuff like that’s important, you know.” Layla sighed, resting her cheek on her hand. “He sounds like a paragon. I don’t suppose he has a sexy single brother?”

  “Actually, he does. His name is Jack.”

  To Amy’s surprise, this time Layla blushed. “Oh. I was just teasing. I’m not looking to date someone. Anyhow, most guys aren’t all that interested in short, dumpy accountants with nerdy hobbies.” She shrugged. “But, like . . . good for him on the cute brother part. Yay and all that.”

  Boy, Layla really had gotten uncomfortable. Amy decided to change the subject. “I’m also looking at moving.”

  “You are?”

  Amy nodded. “There’s an apartment about twenty minutes from here and it’s leagues better than my current rental. I looked at it a few days ago. I’ll still be in town all the time because of work—”

  “And the boyfriend,” Layla added.

  “And the boyfriend,” Amy agreed. “But I’m excited for the new apartment.”

  “That’s awesome. I’m happy for you.” Layla reached for another cookie. “So your landlord is letting you break your lease without a penalty?”

  “Penalty?” Amy blinked, surprised. “Why would there be a penalty?”

  Layla bit the head off the snowman cookie. “When you sign the contract, it’s for a stated amount of time. Six months, a year, et cetera. If you move beforehand, you’re basically depriving the landlord of his expected income, so you usually have to pay a penalty of a month’s rent or something. I’m sure it’s in your contract.”

  “Oh.” Amy hadn’t realized. She’d signed off merrily and hadn’t given much thought to what the actual contract for the rental stated. Her head had simply been spinning with the excitement of her first place on her own. “I guess I’ll take a look at it when I get home.”

  Layla nibbled on the snowman a moment more and then set it down. “I hate to be that friend, but as your financial adviser, too, I know you’re new to this kind of stuff. I’d be a jerk if I didn’t ask, but . . . the new place. You saved up for the deposit?”

  Amy was starting to feel completely out of her depth and a little worried. That tense knot was returning to the pit of her belly. “What deposit?”

  “Most apartments ask for a deposit.” Layla gave her a sympathetic look. “You remember the deposit you paid on your current place?”

  She didn’t. All Amy remembered about moving in was an endless whirl of fees and the giddy feeling of being so far away from Blake that he couldn’t possibly show up in her life again. Had there been a deposit? “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “You can call them and ask. Maybe they’ll waive it for you?” Layla toyed with the cookie. “If not, at least you know in advance, right?”

  “Right.” Amy smiled, though it felt like something inside her was slowly dying. Deposits. Money. She didn’t have any money. She’d pawned the jewelry yesterday to buy presents for Caleb—a few big glossy books about war and history, and a western-themed pair of metal bookends. “I’ll give them a call for sure. Speaking of, I should probably head out. I have to run a few errands before I meet Caleb tonight.”

  “Don’t let me keep you from your hot date,” Layla teased. “And thank you for the cookies! My waistline says you’re a jerk, but the rest of me is happy as could be.”

  She smiled, made some excuse, and then left the accounting office feeling numb and hollow. Amy waited to get out to her car, drove down the street so Layla wouldn’t see her call, and then phoned the apartment complex.

  The answer made her want to puke.

  Yes, the apartment manager told her in a chirpy voice. If her application was approved, she would need to put down two months’ rent for the deposit, plus a pet deposit of four hundred dollars for her dog.

  Amy felt sick, hot sweat pouring down her face. She hung up, stammering an excuse, and then stared at the dashboard of the car, limp with disappointment. How had she not known about deposits? It hadn’t occurred to her that she’d have to pay Greg to leave, and pay to move somewhere else. She’d just thought she could up and do it. And pet deposits? What a rip-off.

  The trapped feeling threatened to swallow her up again. It was the same feeling she’d had when she was married to Blake. It was the sensation of having no options and nowhere to turn, of being stuck in place. This time, it wasn’t Blake but her finances . . . but wasn’t Blake part of the problem there, too? He hadn’t paid her alimony. If he had, she’d have money.

  She didn’t know what to do. Sweating, full of panic, she turned her car back on an
d slowly drove home.

  When she got to her house, she thought she was having a nightmare. A stress-fueled vision of her worst nightmare come to life, because an expensive sports-car rental was parked in her driveway. She knew who that was. Dread clenched her stomach.

  This wasn’t real. It wasn’t.

  Blake was back in Houston. There was no way he’d come to the middle of nowhere, Wyoming, just to chase her down. He wouldn’t . . . would he?

  She parked her car in the street and squeezed her eyes shut, willing the flashy red sports car to disappear. She was just stressing, wasn’t she? This was all in her head.

  A hand knocked at her window.

  Amy squeezed an eye open . . . and there was Blake. He loomed over her car, an immaculately groomed, handsome, utterly disapproving figure in a power suit.

  “Get out of the car, Amy.” She could hear his thick disapproval even through the window, and it made something within her die. That small, fragile spirit of independence just utterly disappeared. Her gut knotted, she hung her head and got out of the car.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, and his tone was icy with disapproval. “I’ve been waiting out in your driveway for over an hour.”

  “Just . . . just to visit a few friends,” she mumbled.

  “Friends.” He snorted. “I’m sure. Look at you. You’re a mess.” His lip curled at the sight of her heavy coat and the scarf she had wrapped around her throat. “Your hair is everywhere and you aren’t even wearing makeup.”

  She wasn’t. She’d gone out this morning not feeling the need to particularly impress anyone. She hadn’t thought it would matter. Now she inwardly cringed, touching her hair. How was it that Blake could make her feel so small again so quickly? “I’m off work . . .”