A Cowgirl's Christmas

by C. J. Carmichael

  “It’s been a bad week,” Red said. “For all of us, but especially you. I get that, Callan, but why do you have to be so damn stubborn?”

  “What do either of you care if I sleep at Sage’s or at home?”

  “I don’t,” Red said impatiently. “I’m talking about the round-up. We’ve got to do it tomorrow. We’re already two weeks late and the forecast isn’t good.”

  “Not my problem anymore, Red.”

  “You trying to tell me you don’t care about those cattle? We’re short-handed without your father. Now you’re going to bail on us, too?”

  Callan bit back the urge to cry, He’s not my father. She realized it would just sound childish. And as soon as she admitted that much, she had to also acknowledge the rest of what Red was saying.

  She did care about those damn cattle. She didn’t want to lose a single one to the bitter snow and cold of winter.

  “We’ve got Sage and Dawson lined up,” Red continued. “If you’re not there, Sage will worry.”

  “Oh, damn it, Red, okay. You win. I’ll do it.”

  Red gave a short nod. “Fine. You can expect the cooking crew around six. I’ve asked the rest of the team to show up half an hour before sunrise.” He turned and went, leaving her and Court in awkward silence.

  Crossing her arms, she refused to look at him. She’d agreed for the sake of the cattle. She hoped he got that.

  Finally he broke the stand-off. “I’m parked this way.”

  If she was going to work the round-up, she had to accept the ride, Callan realized. So she walked with him down the block to his dark red Ford truck, where he unlocked the passenger door for her and like a gentleman waited for her to get inside before closing it.

  What the hell? This isn’t a bloody date. Callan kept the words to herself. She was suddenly very, very tired. She slumped back into the seat and waited as Court went around to the other side and started the engine. Music started up, something kind of jazzy, with no lyrics.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Is this the kind of music you like?”

  “No. I generally play music I can’t stand when I’m driving.”

  She fought back a smile. “If you want to be a rancher, you need to start listening to country.”

  She expected him to blow her off. Instead he said, “Any suggestions?”

  “The local country station for a start.” She recited the call letters.

  But he didn’t change the radio setting.

  Outside of the town limits traffic was minimal. Mostly they had the highway to themselves. The music, Callan had to admit, sort of suited the dark quiet of the night. She could feel something inside of her responding to it, relaxing and unwinding.

  She glanced at the man beside her, holding the wheel with one relaxed hand, the other resting on his thigh. He looked confident. At ease. “You ever gone on a round-up before?”

  “No. But I won a cutting competition at the Calgary Stampede once.”

  “Seriously?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or be impressed. “It’s a bit more complicated when you’re working out in the high country.”

  “I don’t doubt that it is. That’s why I’m glad you agreed to help. Red tells me you’re even better than your father was. I’m going to assume that’s high praise.”

  It was. And she couldn’t help feeling warmed by it.

  After five minutes, Court asked, “Want to tell me why you were sitting on the sidewalk outside Grey’s Saloon?”

  Thanks to the beers and the music, she was just mellow enough not to feel defensive. “Seems word has spread about you inheriting the Circle C. Dillon Sheenan pressed me to explain why Hawksley would do something like that. So we went outside and I told him everything. Including the fact that his father is also mine, and Mattie’s too.”

  She glanced at Court, who happened to be looking at her at the same time. His blue eyes glowed in the faint light from the dash before he turned back to the road. “Hawksley never told us who your biological fathers were. But he did mention only Dani and Sage were from sperm donors.”

  “So you know half of the story. Mattie and I were the result of an on-again, off-again love affair between our mother and Bill Sheenan.” Maybe the more she said it, the less it would sting.

  “The Sheenans own the ranch right next to yours?”

  She noticed the reference to yours but didn’t pounce on the mistake. She wanted to stay in this mellow head-space a little longer. “Yes. We were always aware of a feud between Hawksley and Bill. But we thought it had to do with water rights. We never guessed the truth.”

  “And Dillon Sheenan didn’t either?”

  “No. And it’s worse for him, because his mother committed suicide when he and his brothers were young. She didn’t leave a note, so everyone has always wondered why.”

  “And this—the affair, and you and Mattie—could have been the reason,” Court finished.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s tough.”

  She didn’t answer. A lot of things had been tough, for all of them. She couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if her mother had married Bill from the start. It seemed she and Bill would have both been happier. And probably Hawksley would have, too.

  But then there would be no Dani or Sage... No Sheenan brothers, either.

  From the side window, Callan gazed up at the crescent moon hanging out among a scattering of stars. It was a lovely sight because it was beautiful, and also because it boded well for the weather tomorrow.

  “With one household full of girls, the other boys, seems like your parents were running quite the risk keeping this secret,” Court said.

  “When we were kids, playing with the Sheenan boys was always discouraged. Then when we were older, we already had separate circles of friends. Dillon and I started hanging out once I was drinking age, but we were always just pals. I suppose if something had started up between us, Hawksley would have been forced to tell us the truth.”

  They rode in silence for a while after that. Callan closed her eyes, lulled by the music into a state that wasn’t sleep but almost more soothing and calm. She was sorry when the truck rattled over the cattle guard at the main gate.

  Court pulled up close to the front door. “Here you go. See you in about—” He glanced at the time on the dash, “—eight hours.”

  She cracked open the door, then paused. “Seems crazy for you to drive all the way back to Marietta, only to return in the morning.”

  “Yeah, but Red didn’t have the key to the cabin handy. He’s going to give it to me tomorrow.”

  “I can ask the woman who cleans our place to spruce it up for you. In the meantime, why don’t you stay here? Mattie washed sheets and remade the beds before she left. You can have your pick of rooms.”

  “I’ve got my jacket and gloves with me for tomorrow...but are you sure?”

  She was already reconsidering the offer. Sure, he’d been decent enough to give her a ride home. But he was still the guy taking over her ranch. “You’ll be more useful tomorrow if you’ve had a good night sleep.”

  “When you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

  Walking into the dark, empty house was easier with someone beside her, Callan had to admit. She turned on lights then grabbed some towels and showed Court to the room furthest from hers. “The bathroom is next door. We keep a stash of new toothbrushes in the bottom drawer. Should be lots of toothpaste, too.”

  Tonight she’d use the main floor bathroom. The one in the master suite would be closer, but she hadn’t been in Hawksley’s room since they’d unpacked her mother’s trunk and she didn’t want to face it now.

  “This is great. Thanks, Callan.”

  She avoided his gaze. “No big deal.”

  In her room she changed into a nightshirt then headed downstairs where she brushed her teeth and washed her face. She checked the phone for messages—there were quite a few. Most were condolence calls, and these she saved to listen to later. Another was from Emma
Flanagan who would be head cook tomorrow, assuring her she would be at the Circle C in time to make a big breakfast and pack lunches for the team going out on the round-up. Later, when the job was done, Emma and her ladies would have a huge roast beef meal with all the trimmings waiting for them.

  Fall round-ups had run this way for as long as Callan could remember. Back when her father was younger, they’d had twice the number of cattle and the round-up had taken two days, requiring a camp-out in the mountains for the first night.

  The final message was from Mattie, reporting that she and Nat were safely home. She’d heard from Portia and Wren and their flights to Denver and Seattle had been on time, so all was good.

  “Hope you’re okay, Callan. I feel badly that we left you there all alone.”

  Suddenly homesick for her sisters, Callan blinked back tears. She returned the phone to the dock and turned out the bank of lights, leaving only the hall light from the second floor to guide her up the stairs.

  Just as she reached the landing, Court stepped out of the bathroom wearing only his jeans. She froze, startled to see that he was far from the out-of-shape city boy she’d pegged him as. In fact, he was in damn good shape. She drew her gaze from his abs to his pecs, finally reaching his face. “Um. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Great.”

  With a shock, she saw he was checking out her legs. As his gaze travelled up she became very aware of how the thin cotton of her nightdress clung to her curves.

  And then he was looking into her eyes and the realization that this man was not related to her in any way suddenly hit her hard, along with a burst of heat that she recognized as very dangerous.

  “Callan.” He looked into her eyes with a longing that made her blood go hot and her legs feel weak. “This is the last complication I expected to find at the Circle C.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” She couldn’t move without brushing past him. And she didn’t dare let her skin risk contact with his.

  “You feel it, too. Don’t deny, it.”

  He took a step closer. A force was trying to draw her into doing the same. Two more steps and she’d be in his arms.

  “I feel nothing, except the need to get some sleep.” She tightened her jaw. “If you would please excuse me?”

  He hesitated, then stepped to the side. “Of course. Good night, Callan.”

  As she marched past him, her nerve ends screamed at her to do something very different.

  No. No! She did not need this, not on top of everything else she had to deal with. She hurried for the safety of her own room, shutting the door hard enough to make the doorframe rattle.

  Court woke up before dawn, feeling a complicated stew of excitement and trepidation. All his life he’d heard Hawksley and his father talk about the round-ups at the Circle C. Today, he would get to be a part of one. But he would have the added complication of spending the day with Callan. Too soon to say if that was a good thing or not.

  On his way to the washroom he noticed Callan’s bedroom door was open, revealing an unoccupied dark space. He couldn’t resist taking a peek inside. Her bed was unmade and that sexy little nightdress she’d worn last night was discarded in a puddle on the floor.

  Over the years he’d wondered what the Carrigan girls would be like, especially Callan, the only daughter who had stayed and worked on the Circle C. From Hawksley’s talk, he’d pictured a tough, almost masculine-looking woman. But the reality was pretty much the opposite. Callan was about the loveliest woman he’d ever met. And on horseback she was totally in her element. When they’d ridden out to scatter the ashes, he’d been hard pressed to tear his gaze from her to look at the scenery.

  A clatter from the kitchen and the sound of women murmuring galvanized him to action. Quickly he washed up then headed downstairs. Several women he didn’t recognize were bustling around the stove and the sink. Callan was at the island, drinking coffee and eating a plate of eggs and fried tomatoes.

  “There you are,” she said, making it sound like he’d shown up for a job about an hour late.

  She introduced him to Emma Flanagan, the woman in charge of the cooking crew. And then the back door opened and closed, and a second later a girl who looked the right age to be in first grade came running into the room.

  She gave Callan a hug, then Emma. “Hi, Mrs. Flanagan! Remember me?”

  “I sure do, Savannah. Are you going to help us with the sandwiches again, this year?”

  Savannah stuck out her bottoms lip. “I guess so. But I wish I could go on the round-about. I’m a good rider. Sage says so.”

  “You sure are, honey,” Sage said, coming into the room with Dawson, who eyed Callan’s breakfast hungrily before grabbing a plate and helping himself from the huge frying pans on the six burner stove.

  Court followed behind him, not having realized this was a self-serve affair.

  “But you have to be thirteen before you can help with the round-up,” Sage continued. “Those are the family rules. Right, Callan?”

  “They were. I guess it’ll be up to Court to make the rules now.”

  The room went quiet and Court could sense everyone watching him. He looked up from the plate of food he’d just started to enjoy. Last night when Red had called Sage and Dawson to ask for their help today, they’d sounded surprised but happy to be included. Court supposed it was only natural that everyone would question how things would run now that there was a new owner.

  “I’d like to keep everything the same, much as possible,” he said.

  He’d thought it was a diplomatic thing to say. And for the most part it reflected his true intentions. But the look Callan shot him was scorching.

  Later, when they were out saddling their horses, he made a point of asking what he’d said wrong.

  “How can you talk about keeping things the same?”

  “Because it’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “That’s a laugh.”

  He bit back the urge to tell her she wasn’t making it easy. He couldn’t blame her for being angry, he only hoped she wouldn’t let that anger stand in the way of the obvious solution to this dilemma, that they would work better as a team than apart.

  They didn’t talk after that, and soon they were joined by the others. With Sage, Dawson, Callan, Red and the other hired men and himself, they made eight. And yet even in a group of that size he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Though she was the smallest rider of the bunch, Callan had an authority on her horse, a purposeful set to her shoulders and jaw that he could tell commanded the respect of the other men.

  It was the contrast between delicate and strong, pretty and tough, that made her so fascinating to watch. As they rode out toward the high country, he purposefully fell back a little, just so he could keep her in his sight lines for a while longer.

  “Afraid we’re in for a crappy day,” said Red, who was riding up front of the pack with Callan. “But we have to get this done. We’ll ride together to the crest of the next hill, then we’ll separate into two groups and work the perimeter of the range all the way to the boundary fence, where I’m pretty sure we’ll find the herd. Make sure you check every coulee on the way up—with this low visibility it’ll be all too easy to miss the odd calf here or there.”

  Adrenaline buzzed through Court’s veins. Despite the frost under foot and the low clouds above, he was looking forward to every moment of this day. Even the bite of the north wind didn’t deter him.

  Within an hour, the frost on the ground became an inch of snow, and then two. Suddenly riding was a lot more tricky, and Court had to put his faith in old Pinstripes, for whom this was familiar territory.

  Dawson, who’d been riding near the middle of the pack with Sage, Derek and Jim, fell back to talk to him, opening with a friendly smile. “Red mentioned this is your first round-up. Last year I was the greenhorn. But it looks like you know what you’re doing.”

  “Fake it until you make it, right?”

  Dawson laughed. “Despite
the weather this is pretty fantastic, right? I spent years on the rodeo circuit without ever knowing what it meant to be a real cowboy. And this is it. Doesn’t get any more authentic.”

  Court nodded, embarrassed by the fact that his throat was actually closing up with emotion. But he couldn’t help but be moved by the knowledge that he was participating in something here that went back for generations on the Carrigan side of the family. This land, ranching, the entire life-style had meant everything to Hawksley. And even to his father, the dream of the American cowboy was something he’d clung to all his life.

  Now Court was living it.

  And appreciating it.

  He tried not to worry about his mother too much, but her stroke and Hawksley’s sudden death had both driven home the message that life was fragile. Moments like this one might not come again.

  “Just follow Callan’s lead. Snow or no snow, she knows this country like no one else,” Dawson advised, before urging his horse forward to join up with Sage who was riding northwest with Red and the young man on the team, Tyler.

  Callan had wheeled her mount around and with her gloved finger pointed at Derek, Jim and then Court. “You guys, come with me.”

  She and Red were the undisputed leaders of this year’s round-up, and Court had no problem with that. He knew he had a lot to learn. He still hadn’t had an official meeting with Red and the team. Still too early for that, he thought. The transition period was going to be tricky. If only he could get Callan on side it would be so much easier. Though he had to admit the chances of that happening were looking slimmer each day.

  Shortly after they split into the two teams, it began to snow. Not gentle, fat flakes, but icy pellets that stung exposed skin and, worse, reduced visibility to about twenty feet. When they hit a coulee, Derek and Jim decided to ride in and look for stragglers. Court was just moving alongside Callan when he noticed suspicious tracks in the snow. He drew up old Pinstripes and pointed them out to her.

  “Mountain lion?” he guessed.

  She nodded, casting a worried look in the tree branches around them.