Long, Tall Christmas

by Janet Dailey

  “Is that why you never got married? I remember how the girls used to chase you. You must’ve had plenty of offers.”

  “Maybe. But only from the desperate ones. Face it, chasing a boy is one thing. Choosing a life partner is something else. And I’m not what you’d call great husband material, am I?”

  “No comment.”

  He laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a deep, masculine belly laugh that Kylie could feel where she sat next to him. “Now that’s what I call honesty! I always did like that about you. You never tried to butter me up like other girls did by saying things you didn’t mean.”

  “Maybe I should’ve tried harder,” she said. “Maybe if I had, you’d have taken me for a ride on your motorcycle. Maybe you’d have taken me down by the riverbank with a six-pack of beer, like you did those other girls.”

  He stopped laughing.

  Heaven help her, what did she just say?

  “I wouldn’t have taken you down by the riverbank, Kylie. You were too good for that. If I’d taken you for a ride, it would have been down the middle of Main Street, so the whole town could see the classy girl that worthless bum Shane Taggart had on the back of his bike.”

  Something tightened in Kylie’s chest, quickening her pulse. His face was dangerously close—so close that she felt an aching urge to tempt fate. Her eyes closed. Her chin tilted toward him. She was dimly conscious of the storm swirling outside.

  Her heart thundered as she felt his warm breath and the first nibbling brush of his lips on hers. His hands didn’t move to pull her close. Only their mouths touched. She tasted cocoa and marshmallow foam as he kissed her with a gentle hunger that awakened a deep throbbing need.

  Her conscience shrilled that this was wrong for so many reasons—her children, upstairs in their rooms, the ring on her finger, the grave in Arlington, and the wrecked motorcycle outside in the shed. But right now, all she could think of was wanting more.

  She leaned into his kiss, responding in spite of herself. For an instant, his breath caught. He stiffened, then eased her away from him. His dark eyes burned in the firelight.

  “This isn’t helping either of us, Kylie. If you know me, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get up this minute, climb those stairs to your room, and stay there till daylight.”

  She drew back, her cheeks blazing. “Shane, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Neither did I.” His throat moved as he swallowed. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Go.”

  “This never happened!” She flung the words back at him as she fled, stumbling up the stairs to her room, feeling her way in the dark.

  Chapter Five

  December 23

  Gray light, filtering through Muriel’s lace curtains, woke Shane to a leaden dawn. The room was cold, the house quiet, with no sign that the power had come back on.

  After spending most of the night trying to get comfortable on the too-short couch, he ached in every muscle. It was a relief for him to fling off the quilt, stand up, and stretch his legs. The stillness outside told him the storm had passed. His truck would be buried in snow. He would dig it out, of course, but if the drifts were too deep on the road, driving it anywhere could be another story.

  Meanwhile, there’d be paths to shovel and the generator to get working. Henry was going to need his help. But the first order of the day would be to get some heat into the house for the women and kids.

  The fire had gone cold, but he found some logs, along with kindling and newspaper, in the bucket next to the hearth. Shane gave silent thanks to Henry’s foresight as he laid a new fire and lit it with a match. The old man really did take good care of Muriel and her property.

  With the fire going, Shane wandered into the kitchen to find his coat and boots. The well-worn cowboy boots, which weren’t made for snow, were still damp, but they’d have to do. At least the socks on his feet were dry, and the sheepskin coat would be warm.

  Slipping his boots and coat on, he glanced around the kitchen. No power would mean no hot water for coffee. Too bad. But never mind, he wanted to be gone from the house when Kylie came downstairs. After last night, facing her would be awkward.

  He couldn’t say he regretted kissing her—she’d clearly needed kissing, and her lips had been as delicious as ripe strawberries. But he had a rule against kissing any woman who wore a wedding ring—even a widow. And last night he’d broken it. Kylie might be legally free. But that band of gold around her finger was a clear signal that her heart belonged to another man.

  Pulling his leather work gloves out of his coat pockets, he opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. The sky was clearing, but the cold was bitter enough to sting his skin, and the snow was more than two feet deep. He couldn’t remember a time when this part of Texas had seen so much. Around his truck, which he’d abandoned in the middle of the yard, it was over the hubcaps, with more snow piled high on the hood, the cab, and the bed. Time to find a shovel and start digging.

  Slogging through knee-deep snow, he made it to the machine shed, where he found Henry tinkering with the gasoline-powered generator. The old man glanced back at him with a grin. “Almost got it,” he said. “I’m hoping an oil change and a fresh starter battery will do the trick.”

  “Holler if you need any help,” Shane said. “I’ll be busy shoveling.”

  “Knock yourself out. Shovel’s hanging on that far wall.”

  Shane started with a path from the shed to Henry’s trailer, and from there back to the house. He was almost to the back porch when he saw the back porch light flicker on. The generator was working. It wouldn’t be like having full power. They could only use electricity for essentials, but it was better than nothing. Maybe by nightfall, the power company would make it out here to fix the problem—if they could get through the drifting snow.

  After he’d shoveled a path around the house and down the front walk to the mailbox, he started clearing the snow off his pickup. The storm had been a wet one—good for the land, but heavy to shovel. Shane was used to hard work, but he could tell he’d be hurting later on. Taking a breather, he paused to survey the snow-buried road out front. Even if he could shovel a path out of the yard, he’d be lucky to make it a hundred yards without getting stuck. Muriel hadn’t owned a horse in years, and Shane doubted he could survive the five-mile distance to his ranch slogging through deep snow in wet cowboy boots. Since the town of Branding Iron had no snowplow, it was anybody’s guess when the road would be cleared.

  He’d left extra food and water for his animals, but he hadn’t planned on being gone longer than overnight. He needed some way to get back and take care of them.

  “How about some hot breakfast?” Kylie had come out onto the porch. Wrapped in a blue fleece jacket, with tousled hair and no makeup, she looked fresh and pretty. The memory of last night slammed Shane like a gut punch. Forget it, he told himself. Like the lady said, it never happened.

  “Breakfast? That sounds just dandy!” Henry had come out of the shed. Trudging along the path Shane had shoveled, he reached the porch, where the two men stomped the snow off their boots.

  Shane followed Kylie into the warm kitchen, inhaling the aromas of bacon and fresh coffee. Kylie turned away from him, avoiding eye contact while she tended the bacon and scrambled the eggs. Muriel was buttering toast at the counter. Amy and Hunter sat at the table; they looked even gloomier than they had the night before.

  “So, what’s with you two?” Shane poured coffee for himself and Henry and set the cups on the table, then pulled out a chair and sat down. “You look like you just missed the last flight to Disney World.”

  His attempt at humor fell flat. The children glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. “We can’t go out in the snow,” Hunter said. “Mom ordered winter coats and gloves and boots for us online. She had them sent here so we wouldn’t have to take them in the move. They haven’t come. Neither have our Christmas presents.”

  Kylie glanced around. Only now did Shane notice the strain that tigh
tened her lovely mouth and etched shadows beneath her eyes. “I checked the Internet on my phone this morning. The shipper guaranteed to have the packages here before Christmas, but evidently the storm’s covered most of the Midwest. There’s a notice up that everything’s been delayed.”

  Amy’s big blue eyes, a match to her mother’s, brimmed with tears. “It’s not fair!” she stormed. “This is going to be the worst Christmas ever!”

  Kylie looked stricken. “It’s my fault. If I’d ordered everything sooner, the packages would have arrived days ago.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, dear.” Muriel patted her arm. “You were dealing with the move, doing the best you could. And you certainly didn’t cause the storm. Sooner or later, the packages will arrive, and when they do, it’ll be like having a second Christmas.”

  “That doesn’t help us much, right now,” Hunter said. “I’ve never seen so much snow. And I can’t even go outside to make a snowball.”

  “I’ve got an idea, Hunter.” Muriel put the plate of buttered toast on the table. “You’re a big boy for your age, and my father was small for a man. I put his winter clothes and boots in the attic. Maybe some of his things will fit you.”

  Hunter hesitated. His sister wrinkled her nose. “Gross! That would be creepy, wearing some dead person’s clothes!”

  “Amy, that’s enough,” Kylie said. “You know, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea, Hunter. Those old clothes might not be the latest style, but at least they’d be warm—unless you’d rather stay in the house.”

  Hunter reached for a slice of toast. “Okay. I’ll take a look after breakfast. At least maybe I’ll get to go outside.”

  Kylie set the bacon and scrambled eggs on the table. “Fine, and as long as you’re out there, you can take your turn at shoveling snow.”

  “What about me?” Amy demanded. “I want to go outside, too.”

  Kylie and Muriel exchanged glances and shook their heads. Shane guessed that nothing in the house would come close to fitting Amy’s small frame.

  “We’ll find something fun to do inside,” Kylie said. “How would you like to help me make some Christmas cookies?”

  Amy sighed, saying nothing. She and Hunter weren’t bad kids, Shane reflected as he downed his bacon and eggs. They’d had their young lives cruelly uprooted and were doing an honest job of expressing how they felt about it. It was Kylie, holding it all in and trying to make everything fine, who made him worry.

  But this was no time to get involved—especially with a curvy blond bundle of spunk whose lips tasted like springtime, and whose kiss had made him ache for more. She was wearing a ring, and he already had enough problems of his own.

  “What will you need my help with this morning, Henry?” he asked.

  “Nothing that can’t wait.” The old man poured more coffee. “You might as well go tend your own place—or at least try to get there.”

  “I figured you’d say that,” Shane said. “I don’t know if my truck can make it through the snow, but I’ve got to try. Can I borrow a shovel to use in case I get stuck?”

  “Sure,” Henry said. “But hold on, I just remembered something that might work better. Come out to the shed when you’ve had your fill and I’ll show it to you.”

  By the time the men finished eating, Hunter had gone to check the clothes in the attic, and Amy had been sent upstairs to make her bed and straighten her room. Kylie had shooed Muriel out of the kitchen and was busy cleaning up. Shane’s eyes followed the sure movements of her small, neat hands and admired the sway of her hips as she carried the dishes to the sink. Bad idea, he scolded himself. There was no denying he was intrigued. But she’d barely met his gaze or spoken more than a couple of words to him this morning. The message was clear. If he was looking for signals, she wasn’t sending any.

  When Henry had finished eating, Shane followed him along the shoveled path to the machine shed. He averted his eyes from his smashed motorcycle, which was propped against one wall. He would have to deal with the bike later. For now, he had more urgent concerns.

  Henry led him to the back corner of the shed, where a canvas tarp covered a bulky object. “Almost forgot I had this,” he said. “Fellow who came down from Wyoming gave it to me in trade for some work, when he couldn’t pay. I never figured I’d have any use for the blasted thing—till now.”

  He pulled off the tarp. Shane swore in surprise. “I’ll be damned! It’s a snowmobile! Does it work?”

  “The man said it did, but I never tried it out. No reason to till today. But I checked to make sure the fluids were drained. What d’you say we fill ’er up and try ’er out?”

  Shane helped the old man put gas, oil, and antifreeze in the tanks. The vehicle, with skis in front and a set of tracks in back, would be a great solution to getting around in the snow—if they could get it working.

  Together they pushed the machine outside, clear of the shed. The key was in the ignition. When Henry tried it, the engine sputtered, then caught with a roar that startled a cloud of blackbirds out of a nearby cottonwood.

  Conversation was impossible with the engine running. Henry switched it off. “So far, so good. Ever drive one of these things?”

  “No, but it can’t be much different from a motorcycle. Let me try it.” Shane climbed aboard. By the time he’d started it up and made two circles in the yard, he was already feeling comfortable with the machine. Stopping by the shed, he turned off the engine. “Not bad,” he said. “You’re a lifesaver, Henry. Guess I’ll be heading back to my ranch for a bit. Give my thanks to Muriel.”

  “Wow!” Hunter had come out onto the back porch. Dressed in an old plaid mackinaw, wool mittens, rubber boots, and a cap that covered his ears and tied under the chin, he looked like a relic from the 1940s, but at least he was warm. “That looks like fun!”

  “Fun, but cold,” Shane said. “Behave yourself and maybe I’ll give you a ride on it later.”

  “How about now?” The boy paused, as if remembering his manners. “Please.”

  “Later, maybe. I was about to run over to my ranch and do the chores.”

  “I could come with you and help. With all the snow, you’ll need an extra pair of hands.” He looked so desperately eager that Shane’s heart began to soften. The boy needed something to do besides text and play games on his phone. And Kylie needed a break from mothering her bored, discontented teenage son.

  “Ask your mother,” he said. “If it’s okay with her . . .”

  Before he could finish the sentence, Hunter had already disappeared into the house. Moments later he was back, his face lit by a happy grin. “She said yes! Let’s go!”

  “Fine. Hop on behind me.” Shane was used to supervising the high-school boys who worked summers on his ranch haying and tending cattle. Kylie’s son wouldn’t be much different, he told himself. Just a little younger.

  The snowmobile had a seat for a passenger behind the driver. Shane waited while Hunter climbed into place. “Hold on tight. Here we go.” The engine roared to life again. Shane put the vehicle in gear and opened the throttle. With snow flying around them, and Hunter whooping like an old-time Apache on the warpath, they shot down the drive and swung down the road toward the Taggart ranch.

  “It isn’t fair!” Amy scowled out the kitchen window as the snowmobile roared down the road and vanished from sight.

  Kylie sighed as she gathered the ingredients for sugar cookies. The worst thing about hearing Amy’s words, again and again, was that they were so often true.

  “I know, sweetheart,” she said. “Right now, life doesn’t seem fair. But things will get better, you’ll see.”

  “But why does Hunter get to have all the fun? He gets to go on the snowmobile and I have to stay cooped up in the house like a prisoner.”

  Why? Because he’s older. Because your mother wasn’t smart enough to order your winter clothes earlier. And because, for the first time since your father died, Hunter looked so happy that I couldn’t say no.

  None
of those answers would satisfy her daughter, Kylie knew.

  “You’ll get your turn at something fun, I promise, Amy,” she said. “For now, how about helping me make some Christmas cookies?”

  “Maybe we won’t even burn them.” Amy turned away from the window, her sour expression saying more than words.

  “We won’t burn these cookies.” Kylie was determined to stay cheerful. “I’ve asked Aunt Muriel to work her magic with the stove. While they’re baking, we’ll be right here keeping an eye on them.”

  “Since that oven door doesn’t have a window, we’re going to need X-ray vision,” Amy said. “Maybe that’s what Aunt Muriel’s got.”

  “Did I hear my name mentioned?” Muriel tottered into the kitchen with her knitting bag and took a seat at the table.

  “I was about to preheat the oven,” Kylie said. “The cookie recipe says three hundred seventy-five degrees. That’s the temperature I set yesterday when the cookies burned. So tell me what to do.”

  “Set it for three forty-five,” Muriel said. “And it’s best if you don’t open the oven till the cookies are done.”

  Kylie blinked at her. “But how can you tell they’re done if you don’t open the oven?”

  “Why, by the smell, of course! How else?” Muriel opened her bag and took out the sock she was knitting. Her needles clicked in the stillness of the kitchen as Kylie set the stove and began to cream the butter and sugar. Amy glanced at the recipe and began measuring the dry ingredients into a smaller bowl.

  “So, what do you think of the cowboy?” Muriel asked. “He’s really something, isn’t he?”

  Kylie’s breath caught for an instant. She felt heat flood her face, remembering last night’s kiss and her fevered response. “He’s okay, I guess. I might be more enthused about him if I hadn’t wrecked his motorcycle.”