A Cowboy's Christmas Carol

by Brenda Harlen

  In the two years that had passed since then, she’d purposely limited romance to her fantasies because the men in her dreams never protested being forgotten when the animals needed her attention. And the animals always needed her attention, which was why a vacation to Hawaii—or anywhere else—wasn’t on her agenda in either the near or distant future.

  And that was totally okay because Happy Hearts was as much a joy as a responsibility. But every once in a while—and maybe a little more often since her oldest brother had announced his engagement—she found herself wishing she had someone special in her life with whom to share the joys and responsibilities. Someone she could love and who would love her back, like Jordan loved Camilla.

  “If wishes were horses,” she mused wryly, and forced herself to refocus on her task.

  As the hands on the clock inched closer to three o’clock, she finished clearing out the soiled straw and dumped it behind the barn. She looked around for Barkley, who didn’t usually venture too far away, then remembered that Elaine, one of the volunteers, had borrowed Daphne’s canine companion to help socialize some of the other dogs in the adoption center this afternoon.

  She returned to spread fresh straw in the stalls, still racking her brain in an effort to remember what task or appointment she was certainly forgetting.

  “Knock, knock,” a male voice called out from the front of the barn. “Is anyone home?”

  She turned automatically, pitchfork still in hand.

  “In here,” she responded, waiting for the visitor to make his way to her.

  When he finally stepped out of the shadows and into the light created by the late-afternoon sun slanting through the windows, he appeared almost luminescent, like an angel—or a ghost.

  Daphne shook off the thought as every hormone in her body came to full alert to remind her that she wasn’t just alive but a woman—and one who hadn’t experienced such an immediate and visceral attraction to a man in a very long time. If ever.

  Because...wow. He was definitely the best-looking guy to set foot on the farm in all the time that she’d lived there. Brown hair, neatly trimmed but long enough that she could see the natural wave in it; darker brown eyes with tiny crinkles at the corners; a square jaw with the two days’ growth that so many guys seemed to be sporting these days but that looked really good on this one.

  Straight, dark brows rose as his gaze zeroed in on the implement in her hands and he slowly lifted his own in a gesture of surrender. “I come in peace,” he promised.

  Flustered to realize she was holding the pitchfork as if it was a weapon, she lowered her arms and pushed the prongs into the straw at her feet. “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for Daphne Taylor.”

  “And now you’ve found her,” she said, and sent a silent thank-you to the universe that her prayers had finally been answered—and in such spectacular fashion. Even deducting points for what was obviously a leather jacket worn open over a navy sweater with dark jeans, the guy was almost heart-stoppingly good-looking.

  But apparently he wasn’t as entranced as she was, because his brow furrowed and his tone held a note of disbelief when he said, “You’re Daphne Taylor?”

  Of course, he was impeccably dressed while she was wearing a pair of oversize coveralls and clunky rubber boots, not to mention there were several strands of hair falling out of her ponytail to frame a sweaty face devoid of makeup.

  “Welcome to Happy Hearts,” she said with a forced smile.

  “I’m sorry.” His apology was quick, if a little gruff. “I just didn’t expect to find the owner of the sanctuary mucking out stalls.”

  “Around here, everyone pitches in to do whatever work needs to be done.”

  “Makes sense,” he said, and added a curt nod before finally introducing himself. “I’m Evan Cruise. We have a three o’clock meeting.”

  “Yes, we do.” She suddenly remembered and winced as she glanced at the clock. “Sorry. I’m a little short-staffed today and fell behind on my chores.”

  She pulled off her gloves and tucked them into the back pocket of her coveralls to accept his proffered hand. Heat jolted through her system in response to the contact, tempting her to snuggle up and melt against him. But she managed to hold her ground as she lifted her gaze to his, wondering if he’d felt something, too.

  She couldn’t tell from his neutral expression, but she thought his eyes had gotten a little bit darker, and he definitely held on to her hand for another few beats of her racing heart.

  “Your assistant said something about a business proposition when I spoke to her yesterday, but she caught me in the middle of feeding the animals and I didn’t have a chance to ask for any more details.”

  “I own and operate Bronco Ghost Tours,” he said.

  Which she knew, of course, because one of her friends used to work for him. And while she recalled Brittany grumbling that her boss was a tyrant, she’d been unprepared to discover that the tyrant was unbelievably hot.

  And now that Daphne had put the pieces together, she was certain she knew why he was there, though she wasn’t eager to admit as much.

  “What do you think I can do for you, Mr. Cruise?” she asked instead.

  “Evan,” he said, then added a smile that started her heart racing again.

  Yes, he was good-looking, and just being near him was making her feel things she’d almost forgotten she was capable of feeling. But she had no intention of letting her farm be a sideshow to his circus.

  She was about to repeat her question when the sound of a bell preceded the appearance of a fleecy not-so-white sheep hobbling toward them.

  “You never can resist an open door, can you, Winnie?” Daphne asked, her tone laced with affection and exasperation.

  Baaaa.

  “Even though you know very well that you’re not supposed to be in here,” she continued.

  The sheep ignored her admonishment and moved past the humans toward Tiny Tim’s pen at the back of the barn, her casted back leg dragging slightly behind her.

  Daphne wasn’t sure how or when it had happened, but the pig and the sheep had become good friends. And while she didn’t object to the visit, she did move past Evan to close the door so that no other animals would wander inside.

  “What happened to her leg?” he asked.

  “She got it caught in an electrified fence at the wool farm where she used to live. The farmer tried to treat the injury with home remedies at first, obviously unsuccessfully, and when she finally called the vet and learned that Winnie would need surgery—and the cost of that surgery—she decided it would be cheaper to euthanize her.”

  It required a concerted effort for Daphne to recite the details in a neutral tone, because her blood still boiled to think that Winnie’s life could easily have been snuffed out because some farmer—whose negligence was responsible for the injury—didn’t appreciate the value of it.

  “Thankfully, the vet suggested that she bring Winnie to Happy Hearts instead,” she continued.

  “It must be expensive,” he mused, “caring for sick and injured animals.”

  His tone was sympathetic and sincere, and Daphne found her guard dropping, just a little.

  “The bills add up,” she acknowledged. “But I know you didn’t come here for the educational tour, so why don’t you tell me how you think I can help Bronco Ghost Tours?”

  “Actually—” he flashed another smile, and her guard dropped a little further “—I think we can help each other.”

  Chapter Two

  Evan’s employees might think he was a taskmaster, but he knew how to turn on the charm when he wanted to—or when he wanted something. And what he wanted, more than anything else, was for his business to be successful. The research had convinced him that Happy Hearts could be the highlight of his Yuletide Ghost Tour, and the moment he’d pulled into
the long drive of the animal sanctuary, he knew he was right.

  He didn’t usually make business decisions on the basis of emotion, but he couldn’t deny that he had a feeling about this place. When he’d parked his SUV and stepped out onto the snow-covered ground, he felt confident that this was where he was meant to be. For the purposes of his holiday tour, he assured himself, shaking off the sensation that the feeling might mean something more.

  So he was doing his best to charm the owner of Happy Hearts, and though he would have sworn there was a spark between them, his efforts didn’t appear to be having much of an impact on Daphne Taylor. Obviously he needed to kick it up a notch, so he rested his forearm on top of the gate of the nearest stall and leaned a little closer.

  Her blue eyes widened, perhaps with wariness as much as awareness, and he realized that she might not be as much of a pushover as he’d initially suspected. He was generally opposed to wasting time, because time was money. But he knew that impatience wouldn’t help overcome her reticence, so he’d take his time and slowly lure her in. After all, he didn’t have anywhere else he needed to be this afternoon, and it wasn’t exactly a hardship to spend some time flirting with a pretty lady.

  And once he’d managed to look past the baggy coveralls and muddy (please let it be mud) boots, she really was an attractive woman—even with her strawberry blond hair tied back in a messy ponytail and her face bare of makeup.

  “How, precisely, do you think we can help one another, Mr. Cruise?” she asked him now.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked, aiming for a hopeful tone. “Maybe over a cup of coffee?”

  “There’s an office at the back,” she said.

  “That would work,” he agreed, eager to demonstrate cooperation.

  She propped the pitchfork against a support post and led him deeper into the barn. He was a city boy through and through, but he didn’t mind the scent of fresh hay that permeated the building. Sure, he could smell the sweat of animals, too, but it wasn’t an entirely offensive smell.

  He followed Daphne into the office: a simple room with a wide desk, a couple of chairs and a minifridge on top of which sat a single-serve coffee maker and half a dozen mugs. The outside wall had two windows to let in natural light, an adjacent wall had built-in shelves and cupboards, while the two remaining walls were covered in whiteboards upon which were scrawled notes about the behavior, habits and feeding of various animals.

  He scanned the notes while Daphne got a coffee pod out of the fridge and made his coffee. She offered him the first mug before making her own.

  “Cream and sugar are in the fridge,” she said.

  “Why do you keep sugar and coffee pods in the fridge?” he wondered aloud.

  “We try to keep everything behind closed doors and away from curious creatures,” she said. “Goats, in particular, will eat anything.”

  “Do all of the animals have free rein around here?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “That wouldn’t be safe for any of them, but we try to restrict their freedom as little as possible. Happy Hearts is a sanctuary, not a zoo.”

  “It’s also, according to rumors heard around town, haunted.”

  She lifted her mug to her lips, sipped. “Also, according to rumors heard around town, Gordon Toole is the illegitimate half brother of the queen of England. Do you believe that, too?” she challenged.

  He chuckled at her mention of the retired mechanic from Bronco Valley who pretended to live off-the-grid so the British government couldn’t find him. “I believe Gordon Toole lives in a different reality than the rest of us. Thankfully, that reality is harmless.”

  Her lips curved then, just a little, as they shared a moment of amusement.

  “But back to the reason I’m here,” he said, eager to push ahead with his agenda. “You must be familiar with the stories about ghost horses that can be heard whinnying at night—or maybe you’ve even heard them.”

  He was hoping for some kind of reaction to confirm or deny the supposition, but her expression remained neutral.

  Deliberately neutral, he surmised, and his curiosity immediately piqued.

  “No doubt those stories are the reason you were able to snap up this prime piece of real estate for well below market value almost six years ago,” he continued.

  “Isn’t market value, by its very definition, the amount for which something can be sold in the open market?” she asked.

  He suspected she wasn’t interested in economics as a topic of conversation so much as she was unwilling to acknowledge that her farm might be haunted.

  “A comparable piece of property located not too far from here sold a few weeks later for almost twice what you paid,” he noted. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that the discrepancy is simply because of fluctuations in the market.”

  “I don’t expect you to believe anything,” she said. “You’re the one who spins stories out of whispers and rumors in an effort to convince others that they’re true.”

  “I’m not twisting any arms to get people to buy tickets,” he said, perhaps a little defensively.

  “And I’m not turning my farm into a tourist attraction—and risking it being overrun with ghost hunters again—for the sake of your ticket sales.”

  “Again?” he echoed curiously.

  “It was long before I bought the farm,” she said. “A whole group of pseudoscientists trampled all over the property with electronic devices and cameras, trying to document evidence of paranormal activity.”

  “Did they have any luck?” He was surprised that he hadn’t heard about the ghost hunting—unless, most likely, it had happened when he was away at school.

  “They claimed to hear horses whinnying and smell fire burning, but those are the same claims locals have been making for years without any real evidence to back them up.”

  “So the hunt for ghosts was a dead end,” he said, hoping she might crack a smile at his pun.

  She didn’t.

  Evan decided to push a more practical angle.

  “I’ve visited your website and viewed your postings on social media,” he told her. “And it seems to me that you’re trying really hard to drive traffic not just to your online sites but your actual door. You want people to visit so that you can educate them about the compassionate care of animals, and you want them to donate money so that you can continue to provide that care.”

  She sipped her coffee again, her expression still not giving anything away.

  But even if she wasn’t yet buying into his plan, she hadn’t completely shut him down, either.

  “Bronco Ghost Tours will bring people to your door,” he assured her.

  “And potentially distress the animals,” she countered, obviously displeased by the prospect. “And some of them have already experienced far more stress and trauma in their lives than any creature ever should.”

  “You welcome visitors here all the time,” he countered reasonably.

  “During specific hours,” she clarified. “We don’t have nighttime visitors and perhaps I’m wrong, but I’m assuming something promoted as a ghost tour would have more ambience in the dark.”

  “Tours start at eight o’clock in the winter months,” he acknowledged. “Nine o’clock in the summer.”

  “The animals aren’t accustomed to people walking around after dark.”

  “We’d follow whatever guidelines you establish to minimize any disturbance,” he promised. “And if you agree to let Happy Hearts be a featured site on our Yuletide Ghost Tour, it will raise the sanctuary’s public profile, resulting in increased donations.”

  “An unproven supposition,” she said.

  But he sensed that she was wavering, and he leaned closer again, turning up the charm another notch. “Come on, Daphne. Let’s do this together.”

  She finished her coffee
and set the empty mug down on her desk. “What would you tell your customers—”

  “Guests,” he interjected. “At Bronco Ghost Tours we invite our guests to come with us on a journey of mystery and discovery.”

  “What would you tell your guests about Happy Hearts?” she asked, obviously worried about potential negative spin.

  “I haven’t finalized the details of the story yet, but I was planning to focus on the fire that burned down the barn, killing not only three horses but the rancher’s daughter, his only child.”

  “And her lover,” Daphne said.

  That gave him pause.

  “My research didn’t reveal anything about anyone else dying in the fire,” he admitted. But he was surprised—and intrigued—by this revelation of another detail that would add to the poignancy of the tale.

  “Maybe they were even star-crossed lovers,” he mused aloud. “People enjoy a tragic love story almost as much as a happy one.”

  “Whatever sells tickets?” she guessed, still sounding a little uneasy.

  “Actually, I was thinking more in terms of a narrative that will engage my guests. I want them to be drawn in, to feel for the characters and understand why their spirits might continue to linger in this world.”

  “Isn’t the loss of life tragic enough?”

  “It can be,” he agreed.

  “I have to admit, I’m a little concerned that any attention generated by the inclusion of Happy Hearts on your tour might be more negative than positive.”

  “We don’t have to say that the property is haunted,” he said. “Instead, we could suggest that the spirits of the horses remain to watch over the animals who live here now.”

  “That’s a unique perspective,” she said. “Or a load of horse manure.”

  Apparently she remained unconvinced, and now that both their mugs were empty, he sensed his time was running out.