Cowboy Christmas

by Carol Finch, Elizabeth Lane

  “None that I can think of,” she said as Logan followed her up the front steps, laden down like a pack mule.

  Which was what he was, he thought uneasily. He didn’t belong in this setting any more than Tori belonged on a cattle drive or a shootout with desperadoes. Yet, on second thought, she had been pretty amazing during their morning confrontation with those Mexican banditos. She was no shrinking violet, that was for sure. Yet, he wasn’t a proper gentleman who had been groomed for a life of brushing shoulders with Fort Worth’s elite social circle.

  What in the hell am I doing here?

  Before he could bolt and run the massive, hand-carved front door—one that boasted a coat of arms—swung open.

  “Miss Victoria, so good to see you again. We missed you last year.”

  The wiry, middle-aged butler with gentle gray eyes and strawberry-colored hair doubled at the waist. Tori stepped forward to give him a hug and peck on the cheek.

  “It’s Mrs. Logan Daniels,” she corrected. “This is my husband, the marshal of Lone Ridge.” She half-turned to continue the introductions. “Gerald Vickers and his wife, Marianne, run this household with impressive efficiency. I have Marianne to thank for my love and appreciation of cooking and baking.”

  “That answers that question,” Logan replied as he shook Gerald’s hand. “I can’t wait to meet the woman who taught Tori to make those melt-in-your-mouth pies that are nothing short of heaven.”

  Gerald and Tori raised their eyebrows at him. Had he gone overboard in his effort to brag on his pretend wife?

  “My sweet tooth is my downfall.” He tried out his best smile on the butler who appeared to be judging him and trying to decide if he was worthy of the title of Tori’s husband.

  It was good practice for when he met the Thurstons, he decided.

  “Is she here? About blasted time,” came a booming male voice from the interior of the elaborately decorated foyer that was complete with an oversize chandelier that dripped with crystals sparkling in the light.

  Logan appraised the man who strode toward them. He knew instantly where Tori had inherited her eye and hair color. Her father looked to be fifty-five, or thereabout, and he was dressed in expensive garments that put Logan’s new wardrobe to shame.

  “Papa, it’s so good to see you.” When Tori walked forward, the older man curled his arm around her and patted her shoulder.

  It annoyed Logan that Thurston was more interested in surveying him astutely than greeting his youngest daughter.

  “Logan Daniels, this is my father, Franklin Thurston,” she introduced formally.

  “A pleasure, Franklin.” Logan gripped the man’s hand firmly and looked him squarely in the eye.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Logan had stared down more than his share of outlaws and he was pleased to note that Franklin was the first to glance away.

  “About time you arrived, darling. I wondered if you would make it before your sister arrived.”

  Logan glanced over Franklin’s head to watch Mrs. Thurston make her grand entrance down the curved staircase. As Tori had said, her mother was fair-haired and fair-skinned. She was forty-five years old—give or take—and there was a regal air about her. She was petite, well dressed and her neck and earlobes dripped with diamonds.

  He was most certainly mingling with a different class of people. When they regarded him critically, he doubted he measured up. And what was that ridiculous nonsense about arriving before Princess Priscilla and her merry band of elitists? No wonder Tori teasingly referred to her sister as the Chosen One.

  “Hello, Mother.” Dutifully Tori approached the reigning queen of Thurston Hall. “Logan, may I present Belinda Thurston. Mother, this is Logan Daniels.”

  Belinda inclined her head ever so slightly as she all but floated down the last three steps. Logan caught himself thinking that it was a wonder Tori had managed to break away from the hidebound traditions observed by the Thurston family.

  Logan bowed gallantly then removed his hat. “Nice to meet you, Belinda. You have a magnificent home.”

  She preened, then gestured with a wrist that was encircled with enough diamonds to choke a horse. “The servants are a wonder. I couldn’t manage without them.”

  I don’t doubt it, thought Logan. Tori was an industrious worker. He doubted Belinda was.

  “Come along and I’ll show you to your suite so you can settle in before Priscilla arrives.” Belinda pivoted on the bottom step to glance back at Franklin. “Did you send someone to fetch her from the train depot, dear?”

  Logan frowned in annoyance. He and Tori had made their own arrangements for transportation. Apparently Priscilla received royal treatment. He muttered under his breath about Tori’s parents behaving as if her arrival was less important than Priscilla’s…

  His thoughts scattered when he stared into the expensively furnished suite that he’d occupy for the holidays.

  “You and Logan will sleep here,” Belinda decreed.

  Oh, hell, thought Logan. He set aside the luggage then stared at the Victorian-style bed with its carved headboard that nearly scraped the high ceiling. The massive mahogany dresser, with its oversize gold-frame mirror, filled the opposite corner. A sitting area, with its tufted sofa that was nowhere near long enough to accommodate his six-foot-plus frame, graced the north corner. Priceless end tables and chairs completed the ensemble.

  Logan might have remembered to purchase a ring, in an attempt to lend credence to their marriage, but he had been so damn busy trying to control his lusty urges toward Tori all the livelong day that he completely forgot about sleeping arrangements.

  He could just hear Gabe Horton laughing his head off and saying, “Merry Christmas. Ho, ho, ho…”

  Chapter Four

  After her mother swept from the suite, Tori glanced apprehensively at Logan who stared at the massive headboard and the bed that was covered with a green satin spread and festive pillows. He looked as if he had been bushwhacked.

  “Do you have a well-thought-out plan for this predicament?” he asked, still gaping at the frilly bedding.

  She closed the door to ensure privacy. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Figured as much,” he grumbled.

  “I didn’t think far enough ahead to consider sleeping arrangements. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  That was not where she preferred to sleep, she realized with a start. She wanted to cuddle up with her pretend husband. Somewhere between here and Lone Ridge, her feelings for Logan had exploded out of proportion. It was preposterous. Not to mention dangerously foolish. Nevertheless, she enjoyed being with him, appreciated his dry sense of humor, admired his courage, self-reliance and his ability to protect both of them.

  Too bad her parents hadn’t earmarked Logan for her. She would have snatched him up in two shakes.

  “I’ll sleep on the floor,” Logan volunteered as his gaze circled the elaborate room for the third time. “I’ve camped out on the ground plenty of times during forays and cattle drives.”

  “We’ll sleep together,” she declared impulsively.

  He looked horrified by the prospect, which hurt her feelings something fierce.

  “I promise not to throw myself at you the way I did on our first date,” she muttered, her face pulsating with color. “We’ll barricade the space between us with Mother’s embroidered Christmas pillows.”

  “I’d prefer the Great Wall of China,” he mumbled.

  The comment cut her to the core. He truly was worried that she would pounce on him. Well, curse it all. She should have taken his suggestion and hired someone who didn’t appeal to her to portray the marshal of Lone Ridge. Then she wouldn’t be fighting this impossible attraction for a man who was having serious second thoughts about masquerading as her husband.

  “We’ll take turns washing off the trail dust,” she suggested, gesturing toward the tub behind the dressing screen.

  “You go first,” Logan insisted. “I’ll take a grand tour of
the house so you can enjoy your privacy.”

  He didn’t even want to see her naked, she mused dejectedly. She knew this was no fairy-tale marriage, like Cilla’s. It was as fake as the rhinestone pin she had bought herself for Christmas.

  “Hurry downstairs!” someone called from the other side of the door. “Cilla and her family have arrived!”

  Logan opened the door to see a young, sturdily built maid with frizzy brown hair poised in the hall. She curtsied and smiled politely at him.

  “Sarah, this is Logan,” Tori introduced quickly as she breezed from the room.

  Logan was halfway down the steps when Gerald the butler opened the front door. The fairy princess from Boston had arrived to be fussed over by her adoring parents. Priscilla Thurston Spradlin appeared from the darkness like an angel on high, spotlighted by the golden light beaming down from the chandelier.

  Tori was right. With Priscilla’s fair skin, silky platinum blond hair and shapely physique, she was a sight of beauty to behold. However, Logan’s tastes didn’t center on fairy-tale princesses. He had acquired a taste for evergreen eyes, mahogany-colored hair that tumbled into lush curls and a voluptuous body that fit his contours as if she had been created precisely for him.

  He watched Tori bound excitedly down the steps to hug her sister who seemed equally happy to see her. There it was, thought Logan. Family. Holiday traditions, festive decorations and an upcoming Christmas Eve ball to reunite the Thurstons’ circle of prestigious friends and family.

  This reunion was in sharp contrast to the kind of holiday Logan remembered. He’d grown up like an extra person in the world. There hadn’t been colorful stockings hanging from the fireplace in a spacious drawing room. There had been no ceramic likeness of Santa Claus or a host of porcelain angels sitting on the mantel and end tables. Logan came from humble beginnings. He lived an unadorned life with unadorned holidays. He hadn’t realized what he’d missed until now.

  A five-year-old boy, wearing green corduroy knee breeches, jacket and a crisp white shirt, walked inside. He glanced peevishly from left to right then whined, “I’m hungry. Get me something to eat. Papa said I had all sorts of gifts waiting for me. Where are they?”

  The little brat tolerated his grandparents’ hugs with in-difference, before tramping off to the drawing room to look for his Christmas stocking.

  Logan bit back a smile when Randolph Spradlin made his grand entrance, followed by the butler who was burdened down with excessive amounts of leather luggage. Logan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a hip against the banister to watch the six-foot-tall gent, who was dressed in the latest style and finest fashion, remove his kid gloves one finger at a time. He pulled off his Bowler hat then struck an arrogant pose as he nodded a stiff greeting to Belinda and Franklin Thurston.

  Fierce possessiveness bombarded Logan when Randolph’s hazel-eyed gaze landed squarely on Tori. He looked her over from head to toe. Then his gaze lingered on the full swells of her breasts before drifting to the flare of her shapely hips.

  Logan reminded himself that nothing was exactly what it seemed—and here was the glaring example. Randolph wasn’t the model husband. He had a wandering eye and it was presently focused on Tori in lusty speculation. The storybook life Tori presumed her sister led had a serious flaw. Randolph was a womanizer. Logan would bet his reputation on it.

  When Randolph’s attention finally drifted up the steps to survey his supposed brother-in-law, Logan was ready and waiting to meet his gaze. The stony stare he leveled on Randolph was one he’d perfected while staring down outlaws. Logan shifted his attention to Tori then back to Randolph, just in case the arrogant jackal was too stupid to understand that Logan would tolerate no one toying with his wife.

  His wife. The thought echoed through his mind. He hadn’t pretended to be a loving husband for even one full day and already he was thinking like a possessive married man. There was no telling how much this charade was going to affect his thinking by the time he exited this castle in fairyland and returned to the outpost of civilization near the panhandle of Texas.

  “Allow me to introduce my husband,” Tori announced.

  Logan took his cue and ambled down the steps. He halted to grasp Priscilla’s dainty hand then pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Tori has mentioned you fondly dozens of times. It’s good to finally meet you.”

  Priscilla’s smile displayed her dimples. Her clear blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “Did she mention the awful tricks I used to play on her when we were children?”

  Logan glanced discreetly at Tori. “No, she had nothing but praise for you. But knowing my lovely wife as I do, I suspect she held her own with you. It’s one of the many qualities I adore about her.”

  A genuine smile crossed Priscilla’s delicate features as she glanced back and forth between Logan and Tori. “I’m pleased that you appreciate my sister for the exceptional person she is. Otherwise, I intended to have a heart-to-heart talk with you.”

  Unable to tolerate being out of the limelight, Randolph sauntered over to curl his arm around his wife. “Quite right, sweetheart.”

  Logan wondered how many other women Randy-the-rake referred to as sweetheart. More than one, Logan suspected.

  “We want only the best for dear Victoria.” Randy cast Tori an appreciative glance. “You have blossomed into a dazzling woman since I saw you two years ago. Logan is a lucky man.”

  When Belinda flapped her arms, her bejeweled necklace, bracelets and earrings glistened in the light. “Gerald, be so kind as to carry the luggage upstairs, please. The Spradlins will be using the two suites in the east wing.”

  She turned to Franklin. “Why don’t you pour your sons-in-law a drink?” She motioned with her hand and added, “Tori, you can help Cilla settle in her rooms.” She glanced around then frowned. “Now where did Timothy get off to, the sweet little darling?”

  Just then, a female shriek erupted from the dining room. The family members moved as one toward the arched doorway. Sarah, the stout maid Logan had met earlier, was drenched with wine. She stood beside the sideboard where the “sweet little darling” held an empty bottle and snickered in devilish amusement.

  “Timothy! Stop that!” Priscilla scolded as she stamped over to pull the boy off the furniture and set him on his feet. “Apologize to Sarah this instant!”

  “Now, now, don’t be so hard on him. Boys will be boys,” Randolph insisted as he shouldered past his wife. “Timmy has been cooped up on a train for two endless days.” He confiscated the wine bottle from the blond-haired holy terror and smiled charmingly at Sarah. “I’m sure you realize Timmy meant no harm.”

  Logan didn’t think Sarah realized anything of the kind. She looked none too happy with father or son.

  Randolph thrust Timmy’s hand into Sarah’s. “You’re in charge of him.” He glanced sideways at Franklin and said, “Now, how about that drink. I’m positively parched.”

  Logan strode up beside Tori and leaned close so he could whisper what looked to be sweet nothings in her ear. “If our pretend son, that we may have to produce in the future to keep up this charade, behaves as abominably as this sweet little darling, I’ll make him behave. This brat is doomed to end up like the undisciplined outlaws I’m paid to hunt down.”

  Playing along, Tori glanced at him with a blinding smile and patted his cheek adoringly. “I agree, honey.” Then she pushed up on tiptoe to kiss him on the chin and whispered, “Have two drinks for me. I’m going to need them to get through this evening.”

  Leaving him at the mercy of her father and brother-in-law, Tori grasped her sister’s hand and darted toward the steps.

  Logan snagged her arm on the way by. “One last thing. The price just went up,” he murmured against the side of her swanlike neck—and became sidetracked by the tantalizing feel and alluring scent of her skin.

  She chortled, her green eyes dancing with amusement and mischief. “We will discuss that in great detail later, love.”

  Then off s
he went. Logan looked at Randy-the-rake then at Franklin, the proper, transplanted Englishman. He was more than ready for a drink. Although he preferred to down a couple of jiggers of rotgut whiskey, he sipped his wine—plus two glasses for Tori.

  “Oh, Tori, I’m so thrilled you could make it home for Christmas this year,” Priscilla enthused as she lifted her blue silk gown from the luggage and hung it in the wardrobe closet. “Last year was nearly unbearable without you here. I told Mother I wasn’t making the long trip unless you agreed to come home, too.”

  Tori rolled her eyes. “So that’s why I was given the royal ultimatum. There was an or else attached to my invitation.” She scooped one of Cilla’s expensive dresses and shook out the wrinkles. “Timmy has grown like a weed.”

  Cilla blew out an exasperated breath. “That’s exactly what he’s turned into. Randolph contradicts what I tell him, spoils him to the extreme and makes excuses for his bad behavior. He’s at his worst when his father is underfoot. Which isn’t often, thank goodness. Randolph spends most of his time at his clubs…and elsewhere.”

  Tori peered intently at her sister. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  Cilla bobbed her shiny blond head and looked so melancholy that Tori hugged her close.

  “I’m so glad you weren’t handed over on a silver platter to an upstart businessman,” Cilla murmured miserably. “I’d go crazy if I weren’t allowed to work with my charities. Seeing those orphans, who have nothing and no one to love them, breaks my heart. I invited them to our home last summer for a feast but Randolph canceled my plans. He insisted that he didn’t want lice-infested, malnourished brats running around loose in his house. Neither did he want Timmy to associate with them. I rather thought Timmy might see that he had been blessed and that others in the world were suffering.”