Ten Rules for Marrying a Cowboy

by Linda Goodnight

  Best of all, she’d proved to be a dandy mother to Jacey. Once they were back in Refuge, she’d rearranged her work schedule to spend more time with his daughter.

  Their daughter, he corrected and discovered the word fit pretty well. He didn’t mind sharing Jacey with his new bride.

  Yeah. He liked AnnaLeigh. And Jacey loved her. A lot. God had sent exactly the right woman into their lives.

  He started to take the thought deeper, but just then the promising young bull kicked high and hard, thrashing to one side at the same time. An excellent sign of a bull few men could ride for eight seconds. Holt rewarded the animal with a push of a remote, releasing the dummy and letting it fly to the dirt.

  “He’s looking mighty good.” Zeke’s long arms dangled over the railing, his hat tipped over his eyes. “Think he’ll be ready for the season?”

  “He needs more weight on him. Other than that, the talent is there.”

  “You gonna put him in small rodeos first or take him straight to the circuit?”

  “I’m contracted for a few big ones, including Cheyenne. Have to decide which animals are ready for the money.” Holt slapped the side of the fence and hopped down. “That’s enough for today.”

  Zeke, who’d held the fort during his absence, shot him a sly glance. “Eager to get home to the little woman?”

  Holt ducked under the railing to retrieve the bucking dummy, ignoring the jibe. The quickie wedding had caused some awkward moments, to say the least. Word of the marriage had leaked out, probably because AnnaLeigh worked in town or maybe because of his chatterbox daughter, so he’d had plenty of congrats and teasing from friends. To a person, the marriage took them by surprise. He’d perfected the ability to shrug and mutter something about love at first sight. Then, he’d change the subject as fast as possible.

  When AnnaLeigh was with him, he’d toss an arm across her shoulder, grin and reply, “What can I say? She’s irresistible.”

  Invariably, thoughts of their wedding kiss would sneak up on him. He squelched them quickly with reminders that romance, even kissing, was off the table.

  But that one ground-shaking kiss was never far from his mind.

  He had two days left until church, which was another gauntlet to run, another necessary opportunity to slip his arm around her and try not to remember the taste of her lips.

  And try to ignore her soft shoulders and the subtle fragrance of her perfume.

  Why did she have to smell so good?

  She’d also mentioned something about a wedding shower. He hoped he wasn’t expected to attend and play the part. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold up under the scrutiny. Pretending to be the besotted groom caused him to feel things he’d promised not to feel.

  He’d be relieved when the news settled in and something else caught the small town’s attention.

  He dusted the bucking dummy against his leg and followed his hired man out into the winter evening. They both paused, as ranchers are inclined to do, to check the weather.

  “Cold front moving in on Sunday. Maybe some snow and ice. We’ll move hay to the back pasture tomorrow. Move the pregnant closer inside the big barn.”

  “Sounds like a plan. See you in the morning.” With a quick wave, Zeke jogged to his truck and roared away, swallowed quickly by the encroaching dusk.

  Night came fast and early this time of year.

  Holt had skipped lunch, and the handful of beef jerky from his truck console was long gone. He headed toward the house, glad for the thick vest, the chilly wind ruffling his shirt sleeves.

  Lights spilled warm and golden from the windows, and he caught movement in the kitchen. For a moment, his gaze settled there. AnnaLeigh crossed in his line of vision, preparing supper.

  A strange flutter moved through his chest.

  No woman had cooked in that kitchen since he’d purchased the ranch. He hadn’t asked her to cook his meals, though his list of rules, he supposed, indicated his wishes. Still, some women wouldn’t. She could have ordered out or microwaved precooked meals the way Pamela had. He’d been okay with that.

  Without discussion or comment, other than to ask him what he liked to eat, AnnaLeigh cooked. Every night so far. She came home from her job and tended to his house, his daughter, his supper.

  Except for a few clumsy, embarrassing moments, this marriage thing was working out all right.

  He stepped inside the back door and inhaled.

  Tromping through the utility room into the kitchen, he said, “Something smells good.”

  The floor looked shiny and clean. He looked down at his feet. Maybe he should kick off his boots.

  Jacey abandoned her homework at the bar and rushed him. He abandoned thoughts of manure in the kitchen and squatted to catch her against his chest and lift her up high.

  “AnnaLeigh’s making hamburger casserole with lots of cheese and macaroni. I asked her, and she said yes, and she said I could help her make cookies for the party.”

  “Party?” He hoped this didn’t mean the wedding shower party that might or might not require his attendance.

  AnnaLeigh gazed at him over one shoulder as she stirred something steamy and delicious on the stove. The domestic scene was pleasant and downright comforting.

  Zeke was right, though not in the way he’d meant. Holt liked coming home to his new wife.

  “First grade Christmas party next Wednesday,” AnnaLeigh said. “Jacey volunteered Santa and star cookies.” She smiled, and her thin face glowed, whether from the stove heat or happiness, he didn’t know, but he liked the look. “With sprinkles.”

  Holt chuckled. His Jacey loved colorful sprinkles. “You don’t have to bake them. We can order from the bakery.”

  “Dad!” Jacey’s face fell.

  “AnnaLeigh works a full time job, looks after you and the house, and cooks our meals. She’s kind of busy.”

  Now that he thought about it, had he asked too much of her?

  “I’d love to bake Christmas cookies with Jacey. We’ll have fun.” AnnaLeigh wiped her hands on a dishtowel he’d never seen before. Had she bought new ones? “That’s what mothers do, isn’t it?”

  She asked the latter as if she really wasn’t sure. Come to think of it, maybe she wasn’t. As a foster kid, had anyone ever baked cookies for her parties?

  Jacey twined her arms around AnnaLeigh’s waist. “See, Daddy? AnnaLeigh likes to cook.”

  His wife patted Jacey’s back. “I do.”

  Holt removed his hat, scratched his ear. “You don’t have to do it every night.”

  With a frown, she draped the new towel over the counter’s edge. “You don’t want me to fix dinner? But I thought—” She glanced at Jacey and left the rest unfinished.

  Holt heard what she didn’t say. Rule number four.

  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “No. I mean, yes. I want you to.” Why did she confuse him so?

  She studied him long enough to make him squirmy before saying, “Jacey needs healthy meals. We all do. Making dinner each evening is no big deal.”

  True. What was tossing a few more potatoes in the pot or adding more lettuce to the salad? AnnaLeigh in the kitchen took a load off him. In the past, he’d often worked late or was so tired, he and Jacey lived on sandwiches or microwaved burritos. Sometimes, they even ate in the barn.

  Hamburger casserole in a warm, clean house sounded better.

  Not knowing what else to say, Holt stood in his own kitchen feeling out of place. He finally headed to the bathroom to wash up. When he returned, Jacey had set three plates and glasses on the bar, and AnnaLeigh had slid a steaming casserole between the dishes. There was no room for the corn or green salad.

  AnnaLeigh dished a serving onto each place and then returned the veggies to the kitchen before taking her place at the end of the bar.

  Holt slung one leg over a stool next to AnnaLeigh. Jacey had already perched on the other end, insisting each night that moms and dads should sit by each other. Lord help him if sh
e ever discovered that most moms and dads slept in the same room. So far, she was too young and innocent to notice, especially since she’d been too young to remember the short time he’d lived with Pamela.

  “Say grace, Jacey.”

  His daughter slithered her hand beneath his.

  Holding hands for prayer was a pleasant tradition that had worked fine when it was only the two of them. Now, the action was downright distracting.

  Dutifully, he reached toward AnnaLeigh, nudging her hand into his. Her wedding ring pressed into his skin, a reminder.

  “Dear Jesus,” Jacey intoned with a sincere innocence that always got to him, “thank you for the world so sweet. Thank you for the food we eat. Thank you for the birds that sing. Thank you, God, for everything. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Jacey released his hand with a happy huff. He let her go, but held to AnnaLeigh’s a little longer. He didn’t understand his reasons, but touching her made him feel settled, at home.

  He let go. Then wished he hadn’t. He was seriously losing it.

  Sitting elbow to elbow with her every night messed with his head. They needed a table.

  He scooped a mountain of casserole onto his plate and glanced toward AnnaLeigh. “If you want a table, say so.”

  Two females turned their heads to stare at him.

  “Excuse me?” AnnaLeigh shook a napkin onto her lap. When had she bought napkins? Real ones. Not paper towels.

  “A dining table,” he said, feeling stupid for not having one already. “If you want a table, get one.”

  AnnaLeigh dropped her gaze and swallowed.

  Had he hurt her feelings? Over a table?

  “I wasn’t complaining,” she said.

  She wouldn’t, thanks to his ten rules. That was a good thing. But he could tell she wanted a table. Why else had she gussied up the bar with a long Christmassy cloth and a skinny vase holding one fake flower. And real napkins. She probably thought he was a barbarian.

  He frowned. “Get one. The bar’s too crowded now.”

  She bristled, and for the life of him, he didn’t know why. From what he saw in Las Vegas, she enjoyed shopping. He’d let her choose what she wanted. What was she upset about?

  “Daddy?”

  “What?” The word was more of a bark than a question.

  “Are you mad?”

  “No, I’m not mad. Why would I be mad?”

  “’Cause you sound cranky with AnnaLeigh. You’re not getting a ‘vorce, are you? Jacob’s mom and dad got a ‘vorce, and he cries every single day at school.”

  What in the world was his child talking about? His voice rose. “We need a table. Why is that such a big deal around here?”

  “Are you getting a ‘vorce?”

  “No! I don’t even believe in divorce.” He fought the powerful urge to slam something against the bar top. “Eat your supper. Do you have homework?”

  “Nope.” Jacey talked around an oversized bite. “AnnaLeigh helped me.” Somewhere in between the words, she swallowed. “I got a hundred on my spelling test. AnnaLeigh told me a trick to remember how to spell would.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Safer ground. First grade spelling words. The next bite of cheesy casserole went down much easier.

  “You write down the w and then say, ‘Oh, you lucky dog.’”

  He tilted his head, eyes narrowed in thought. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy. AnnaLeigh will teach you. Would is an easy word to spell once you know the trick.”

  AnnaLeigh snorted. Holt slid his eyes in her direction. “Are you laughing at me?”

  Her eyes sparkled. Man, she had pretty eyes, like clear ice tea on a hot day.

  “Can you spell would?” she asked.

  “Apparently not.”

  She snorted again. The snort became an all out laugh. He’d never heard her belly laugh before. Suddenly he was laughing with her.

  Jacey stared at them as though they’d lost their minds. Considering his life right now, she was probably right, but after the strain of the last couple of weeks, laughing felt good.

  After dinner, Jacey trudged obediently to her bath while the adults stayed behind in the kitchen. Holt wielded the broom around the floor while AnnaLeigh ran hot water in the sink.

  “I can take care of this, if you have ranch work,” she told him.

  He put the broom away and grabbed a dishtowel. “This is ranch work. I’ve been washing my own dishes since I was a kid.”

  “You know what I mean. You usually go to the barn or to your laptop after dinner and work until bedtime.”

  “A little paperwork can wait. This is my house, my dishes. As you so clearly stated, you’re not my maid or my slave.”

  Heat stung her cheeks. She wasn’t, wouldn’t be, but she was no slacker either. Did he think she was?

  She sloshed a wet cloth over a plate. “I promised to pull my share of the load, Holt, and I will. Rule four, adequate cook and housekeeper.”

  He was quiet for a moment, leaning on the broom, eyes thoughtful, before saying in that low drawl of his, “You’re more than adequate, AnnaLeigh.”

  Softened by the compliment, she teased, “You’ve been eating your own cooking too long.”

  With a chuckle, he put the broom away and hiked one hip on the counter’s edge. “I’m serious about the table. Buy one.”

  She still didn’t know what had upset him but didn’t want to start another argument. If theirs had, in fact, been an argument. She still wasn’t sure. “I don’t mind the bar.”

  “I do.”

  “All right then.” Men were so unpredictable. “Any particular style or size you like?”

  “You pick.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Take my credit card.”

  AnnaLeigh drew back. “I can’t use that.”

  “Why not? You’re my wife.”

  Hearing him say the words made her belly flutter. She rinsed a handful of flatware. “My name isn’t on it.”

  “Oh.” He put away his wallet. “We’ll have to remedy that.”

  They would? What about rule three?

  10

  Sunday morning, AnnaLeigh awoke to the smell of bacon. She remained perfectly still, eyes closed for several long minutes, hoping the scent wouldn’t set off a round of morning sickness. With one hand, she fumbled for the crackers at her bedside and slowly nibbled until she felt confident she could move.

  Stretching every muscle, she gazed around the bedroom. Though painted plain white and devoid of decoration when she’d first arrived, the room was now homey with her belongings. A cheery area rug, a few wall hangings, her own mint green comforter. The only thing missing was a private bathroom, an omission which had caused her plenty of consternation. But if Holt noticed her occasional morning dashes down the hall, a hand over her mouth, he didn’t say anything.

  A tap sounded at the door. She sat up, clutching the sheets to her. “Yes?”

  “Breakfast is ready.”

  He’d made breakfast? “Go ahead and eat. I’m not dressed yet.”

  “We’ll wait.” Holt’s morning husky voice stirred her nerve endings to life. “But get a move on. We’ll need to leave a little early.”

  She frowned. Leave early for what? It was Sunday. The day she kicked back and relaxed.

  Oh. Sunday. Church. She kept forgetting.

  She flung the covers back and swung her feet to the floor, grabbing for her robe. She’d promised to fix Jacey’s hair exactly as she had for the wedding.

  Tying the fluffy robe snuggly around her, she shuffled to the hall bathroom she shared with Jacey, washed her face, and ran a brush through her hair.

  After a glance in the mirror, she reached for her makeup bag. The circles under her eyes had lessened, and she looked more rested, but a little mascara and foundation boosted her self-esteem. Holt obviously didn’t think she was pretty—rule number six—but a girl had her pride.

  She entered the kitchen to Christian music playing fro
m Holt’s cell phone and the father-daughter combo whispering with their heads together. When they saw her, they jerked apart, both wearing guilty grins.

  She couldn’t help smiling. “Are you two up to something?”

  Jacey giggled, turning a pretend lock on her lips.

  “Secrets are everywhere at Christmastime,” Holt said.

  “I see.” Did this mean they had a surprise for her? Why would Holt do such a thing? “Am I allowed to ask?”

  “Nope.” He pulled a bar stool away from the bar. “Madame, if you’ll take a seat, your breakfast will be served.”

  “It’s not my birthday.” She slid onto the seat anyway, mindful that she was in her robe and Holt stood close. A mix of confused feelings ran through her. She liked him. More and more, she liked his company and having him near, close even like this, when she could smell his shower. She loved the moments at the dinner table when he held her hand for prayer, liked his cowboy drawl on the phone, liked his humor, even at those times when she didn’t understand it. Holt would be an easy guy to fall for.

  But they were nothing more than friendly housemates to each other, a promise she’d made and couldn’t break.

  An ache started behind her ribcage.

  Jacey giggled again and rounded the bar into the kitchen. The microwave beeped, and a moment later, the child returned with a plate, which she placed in front of AnnaLeigh.

  AnnaLeigh barely saw the perfectly browned pancake, the two bacon strips or the three strawberries. Across the pancake, in squiggly chocolate letters, was the word, Mom.

  Hand to her chest, eyes shockingly moist, she gazed at the child waiting with happy expectancy at her side. “Jacey. Oh, Jacey.”

  “Daddy said I could call you Mommy now because you are. The pancake was too little to write mommy so I put mom. Is that okay?”

  AnnaLeigh’s watery eyes flashed to Holt. His head dipped, expression both concerned and pleading, a message not to hurt his child. As if she would.

  “It’s more than okay.” She touched the child’s sweet face. “Thank you, Jacey. I am honored to be your mommy.”

  “Okay, then. Eat. ‘Cause we have to have time to fix my hair. Daddy said I could wear my new dress since today is Christmas Sunday, and I’m in the choir. Lots of people come to church on Christmas.”