Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style

by Lori Copeland

“He’s over there.” Winnie kept her spot near the front door, ready to make a quick escape if her houseguest got the sudden urge to practice his aim again.

  Bea circled the tree. “You should be the one relocating.”

  “You think he’s going to put up that much of a fight?”

  “I don’t know why he’d bother.” The exterminator’s gaze swept the living room. “No offense, honey, but this place is a mess.”

  “It’s not really that bad. Nothing that a little spit and polish won’t fix.” There went that optimism again.

  “You’d better be plannin’ on spittin’ an awful lot…” Bea’s words faded as she reached for her net. “Speakin’ of spittin’, I think he’s about to make a move. You’d better stand back. This could get ugly.”

  That was all the encouragement Winnie needed to leave Bea to her work. She had all of five hours before sundown and as much as she’d like to hightail it back to the Holiday Inn on the Interstate, she couldn’t afford it. If she intended to go through with this, she would need an electrician, a plumber, a roofer and a dozen other repairmen. If…

  Forget if. She was doing this. She wanted this change in her life. By golly, she deserved it.

  But first she had a debt to pay.

  “Look out, Trace Honeycutt, here I come.”

  TRACE WAS NOT going to panic.

  Even if Ezra had gone way too far this time, and Essie Calico, bless her busybody soul, had just called to report an unknown car kicking up dust on the main road, headed straight for him.

  Nope, he wasn’t panicking.

  He was getting the hell out of here.

  He picked up his saddle and headed for the corral. Essie’s place was fifteen minutes from the Broken Heart where Trace had been staying for the past six months, helping out with the ranch’s breeding stock in between his training sessions. Based on her call, he figured he had at least a ten minute head start.

  “Hey, Trace!” Shermin Rayburn, president of First Nostalgia Bank, bounced by on the new sorrel paint he’d purchased last year. “Not bad riding, huh?”

  The horse trotted and Shermin gripped the reins for all he was worth. Trace came close to grinning despite the rotten news headed straight for him.

  “Not even close to bad,” he told Shermin, one of his oldest friends and the sole reason he’d managed to pass Mr. Dewickey’s freshman algebra class. The man had no coordination. Poor timing. Zero control. Yep, he’d need at least a few more weeks of lessons before he moved up to bad.

  “You can stop trying to show off. Lacey’s up at the main house.” Spunk Langford was the owner and operator of the Broken Heart and an old rodeo buddy. Lacey Mae was his only daughter, and the reason for Shermin’s sudden equestrian interests.

  Shermin, who’d never even looked at a horse in all the years they’d grown up together, had bought himself one and moved it out to the Broken Heart the minute father and daughter had taken up residence and opened their stables.

  “Up at the house?” At Trace’s nod, Shermin’s expression eased. “Thank God, because I still can’t get this.” He gripped the reins with renewed determination. “I have to get this. I’ve only got ten days.”

  “You still serious about turning yourself into a real cowboy in time for Christmas?”

  “Before Christmas, in time for the Ho, Ho, Hoe Down. Lacey’s into cowboys, so I’m going to give her one. I want her to notice me.”

  “In that getup, I don’t see how she could miss you.”

  Shermin glanced down at his neon-green Western shirt. “What? This was the latest thing at the store. You don’t like it?”

  “It’s great, if you’re out to give her a headache. On the other hand, if you want her to think you’re a real cowboy, then you’d better tone it down a little. Wash those jeans a few dozen times to get the stiffness out.”

  “I can do that.”

  “And loosen up your grip,” Trace told him as he finished saddling his horse.

  “Done.”

  “And try not to wobble so much.”

  “You got it.”

  “And don’t be so nervous. The horse senses it.”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Trace?” Lacey’s voice echoed from the main house. A door slammed. Boots crunched.

  “Okay, now I’m nervous.”

  “Why don’t you just tell her you like her and avoid the bloodshed?”

  “And have her laugh at me? No thanks. I need to show her we’re compatible first. That we go together. That I’m more than cowboy enough for her—” Beeeeeeeeeep! The shrill sound sent the horse into a frantic dance.

  “It’s okay,” Shermin shouted as he grappled to shut off his beeper. “I’ve got it—Whoaaaaaaaa!” The horse reared, Shermin flew backwards, and Trace reached for the reins.

  He’d just managed to quiet the animal and help Shermin to his feet when Lacey rounded the corner.

  “What was all that commotion I heard? It sounded like screaming.”

  “It was me,” Trace said before Shermin could open his mouth. “Shermin’s horse got spooked and I panicked.”

  “You?” Lacey cast a suspicious glance at Trace.

  “Hey, happens to the best of us. But you should’ve seen old Shermin here. Calm. Cool. In control. Hung on a full fifteen seconds.”

  “You rode a spooked horse?”

  She turned, her wide eyes on Shermin. He shrugged, his face a bright red as he dusted off his wranglers. “It was, urn, nothing. Really.” The distant slam of a car door punctuated the statement.

  A car door?

  “Hellooo…” A woman’s voice carried from around the side of the barn and a bolt of panic went through Trace.

  It was her. Here. Now.

  “Tell Spunk I’m riding fence for him out in the east pasture,” he told Lacey as he climbed into the saddle and steered the horse around. “And if a woman comes asking, you haven’t seen me. I’m history. Gone. A forgotten memory.” A single forgotten memory, and he intended to stay that way.

  Trace didn’t need a woman in his life.

  He’d been there and done that and he wasn’t making the same mistake twice. Women were just too damned distracting.

  “REST EASY RETIREMENT Ranch,” said the voice that picked up the line when Winnie called early the next morning, “where it’s early to bed, late to rise, plenty of bran, but not one decent pie.”

  “I’d like to speak to Jasper Becker. This is his granddaughter, Winnie.”

  “Jasper? Sure thing—oomph. Er, I’m afraid Jasper’s a little busy right now. Last night was burrito night, and well, uh, half the residents are still incapacitated right now if you know what I mean—”

  A voice came on the line. “Howdy there, Winnie.”

  “Mr. Honeycutt?”

  “The one and only. So did you get settled all right?”

  “Well, sort of. Things aren’t exactly what I expected.”

  “Even prettier, huh? Why, I remember just like yesterday me and the missus sitting on the back porch, watching the sun set, thinking what a great spot that backyard would make for a mess of great-grandkids.” He cleared his throat and something clenched in Winnie’s chest. “That was before she passed on and I was put out to pasture. Why, we put all our blood, sweat and tears into that house. We saved. We slaved. We prayed. I know it ain’t much, but it was everything to us. So how do you like it?”

  It’s awful. Horrible. A money-sucking dinosaur—

  “It’s nice. I like it. I really do.” Wimp. Okay, so she’d wimped out, but they were talking blood, sweat and tears, here. Vixens might be bold enough to speak their mind, but she still couldn’t bring herself to hurt the man’s feelings.

  “I knew you would. The place might be a little rickety, but it’s got a lot to offer.”

  A big hole in the roof. Damaged Sheetrock. Chip and Dale camping out in the stove.

  “It’s great.”

  “And you’ve got plenty of privacy.”

  Miles of it.
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  “And an outhouse, though I wouldn’t be using it after dark until you figure out the lay of the land, so to speak.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” About six hours too late. “Could you please tell my Grandpa I called?”

  “Sure thing, honey.”

  “I’ll call him back.”

  “I’ll make sure he’s waiting.”

  “And Mr. Honeycutt…thanks. The place is nice and I really appreciate you letting me stay here.”

  “Stay? Why, honey, it’s yours. You just be sure to say hello to Trace for me and make ’im king you a couple of times.”

  “I will. If I ever manage to catch him. He wasn’t at the Broken Heart when I drove over yesterday, or anywhere in town, and nobody seems to know where he is.”

  “Like I told you, he’s just shy, which is why he’s been keeping to himself these past two years since the breakup. Just hang in there. And when you do catch up to him, if he mentions anything about a rash or sneezing or anything that might be allergy-related, you just pay him no never mind.”

  “A rash?”

  “Bye, sugar.” The line went dead.

  So much for sharing her misery with Grandpa Jasper.

  Despite her fruitless search for Trace yesterday evening and the fact that Nostalgia gave new meaning to the word small, she’d actually arrived back at the house full of optimism.

  Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she’d first thought.

  It was worse, but Bea had managed to catch Birdie and relocate him a few miles away. The telephone man had shown up after that and despite the sad shape of the house, the phone wires had been in good condition and he’d managed to hook her up to civilization.

  After a quick call to Grandpa Jasper who’d already been in bed and unable to come to the phone, Winnie had set about making the house liveable. She’d cleaned, unpacked, set up her TV and VCR, nuked a frozen dinner and vegetated in front of video two—“B stands for Beauty.”

  This isn’t so bad, or so she’d tried to convince herself.

  But after a night of tossing and turning and listening to the squirrels scurry up and down the stovepipe, topped off by her trip to the outhouse…

  Boy, she hadn’t known she could scream that loud, or that a person could actually run with her PJ bottoms down around her ankles. But desperate times called for desperate measures and that had been one mad racoon.

  She took a deep breath and blinked back a wave of tears. So she hadn’t poured out her misery to Grandpa Jasper. It wasn’t as if he could have done anything if she had. She wasn’t the same little girl who’d cried to her grandpa every time life dealt her a poor hand—her family moved again, the bully down the street stole her Barbie doll, an unfair professor gave her a rotten grade, or her boyfriend of eight years popped the question to someone else.

  She was through letting things happen to her. She was taking charge, making her own destiny, and failure didn’t figure in. Winnie was here, and she was staying.

  For better or for worse.

  She stared at the sunshine spilling through the curtainless windows. Things definitely seemed better today. The swing on the front porch called to her. She wrapped a blanket around her and stepped out into the crisp December morning, a welcome relief from the sleet and snow of dreary Boston.

  The swing creaked as Winnie settled back and started to rock.

  Okay, there were drawbacks but the place was sort of nice. Fresh air. A beautiful view—as long as she kept her back to the house. And lots of nature, complete with squirrels scampering across the yard and a sleek black bird perched overhead on a hanging piece of rain gutter—

  Oh, no.

  Beady black eyes met hers and a loud squawk split open the morning’s silence.

  Splat!

  3

  ON HER THIRD DAY in town, Winnie crossed Main Street and strode toward Jimbo’s Feed and Grain in the heart of downtown Nostalgia.

  Unfortunately, her I-am-woman-see-me-strut stride came off more like a my-feet-are-crying wobble, thanks to a new pair of three-inch designer heels.

  She stifled a sudden longing for a pair of comfy flats.

  The new shoes she could handle, especially ones guaranteed to make her legs look longer and slimmer and ultra sexy. It was the Super Vixen black lace bra with the double underwire for that full, plumped look, that was giving her real trouble.

  Two fingers dove beneath the collar of her snug fuchsia sweater and tugged at one itchy bra strap. Lace scraped against already tender skin and she seriously considered ducking into the nearest rest room. A few hooks and she’d be free!

  And right back to the old Winnie.

  No. She was flaunting her feminine side.

  No matter how uncomfortable.

  She pushed open the door and walked in.

  “Well, well.” The clerk, a Roy Clark look-alike wearing a T-shirt that said, It may be a six-pack to you, but to me it’s group therapy, stood behind the counter, a copy of Motorcycle Mamas in his hand. His gaze hooked on her and he shoved a baseball cap back to reveal a dark crew cut. “Look what the good Lord done sent down from heaven.”

  “I’m afraid that would be Boston, not heaven.” She gripped the edge of the counter and leaned just enough to give her cramped toes a breath of air. Ah. There. “I’m looking for a man.”

  “Look no further. Little Jim Montgomery, here.” He flexed a few muscles and winked again. “But don’t let the name fool you.”

  Hey, the Five B’s to Femininity didn’t come with a money-back guarantee for nothing.

  “Actually, I’m looking for a particular man. Trace Honeycutt.”

  “You and every other female in town.”

  “I just need to talk to him. He came in here just a few minutes ago, right?”

  “He did? Oh, yeah.” He shook his head and gave her yet another wink. “You just missed him, angel cake.”

  Story of her life. Three days of searching and still no Trace. Oh, she’d come close. A near miss out at the Broken Heart when she’d caught a fleeting glimpse of his pickup eating up green pasture at a frenzied pace. Then she’d spotted the same truck sitting in front of Pie World.

  “You just missed him,” the waitress had told her. A prophecy, she now realized because she’d gone on to just miss him at the barber shop, the five-and-dime, the bank and Big Bubba’s Burgers.

  “Let me guess,” she’d told Spunk Langford, the owner of the Broken Heart and Trace’s landlord, earlier that morning. “I just missed him.”

  “You psychic, little lady?”

  If only. Then she’d be able to pinpoint his next stop. As it was, three days and she’d barely glimpsed the man, much less met him face-to-face.

  She had, however, met nearly everyone else in town. Just an hour ago, in fact, she’d made the acquaintance of every fireman down at Nostalgia’s twoengine fire station, a group of vets playing cards down at the local VFW, and a dozen sugar-happy customers at Happy Jack’s Donut Emporium.

  “Happy Jack said he saw Trace come in here not five minutes ago,” she told Little Jim.

  “Come and gone.”

  “But I would have caught him on the way out.”

  “Probably.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Nope. You know, honey cake, you got real pretty eyes.”

  As if he’d looked that high. She glanced around the feed store. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  “And really pretty hair. You a natural redhead, honey?”

  Winnie took a deep breath and mentally recited all the reasons why yanking Little Jim across the counter wouldn’t be a good idea.

  One, he was twice her size and she was liable to break a sweat and send her expensive new makeup into major meltdown.

  “I sure do like redheads.”

  Two, she was new to town and while Little Jim could stand to learn a little subtlety when it came to the opposite sex, she didn’t want to make enemies before she’d made friends.

  “With big green e
yes.”

  Three, Texas had the death penalty.

  “And really big—”

  “Look, Little Jim, all I need is to find Trace Honeycutt. He came in here, I didn’t see him go out. He couldn’t have vanished. So did he leave through a back door?” Her gaze pushed past several huge drums, mountains of feed sacks, rows of feeders, to the back of the store.

  “Yep. A back door. That’s it.” He shoved another piece of straw between his teeth. “So what do you say you and me hook up later?”

  “As promising as that sounds, no thanks.” Little Jim and his ogling aside, she was getting a very funny feeling. Her gaze swept the store again, and a strange awareness prickled her arms.

  “We could go out for some chicken fried steak.”

  “I don’t eat fried foods.”

  “Barbecue.”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Turkey burgers.”

  “Allergic…” The word trailed off as awareness rolled through her and her gaze swiveled toward a tower of grain sacks.

  Someone was looking at her.

  HE WAS NOT LOOKING.

  Trace ducked back behind the grain sacks and tried to slow his pounding heart. He’d come too close to blowing his damned cover, and all because his curiosity had gotten the better of him. In all of three days, this was the first chance he’d had to get a real eyeful of the woman hell-bent on ruining his life.

  Woman being the operative word.

  He peered around the edge of one massive sack, relieved to find she’d turned her attention back to Little Jim.

  A sweater outlined the enticing swell of her breasts, while denim accented a nicely rounded bottom that slanted to a small waist that would just about fit the size of his hands should he slide them around her and—

  Don’t even think it, cowboy.

  The last thing he needed or wanted was another woman in his life, especially one this pretty with marriage on her mind. Because Trace had a whole mess of living to do before he tied the knot again. He was back on track, focused, hot after his sixth championship. And he wasn’t throwing it all away for a woman.

  Even one with really great lips.

  Full. Pouty. Slick from the slow glide of her tongue and bright cherry-red lipstick.

  Trace knew it was cherry red, as opposed to strawberry or ruby or crimson or any of the other halfdozen shades because growing up, Trace had had only two interests in life—bull riding and women. He could spot an ornery bull at twenty paces, and name a lipstick shade at ten, since he’d had the pleasure of sampling each one, courtesy of the dozens of women in his past, all too pretty and too damned distracting for his peace of mind. But his past was over and done with. He wasn’t a man ruled by lust any longer, which was why he’d been dodging Ezra’s matchmaking attempts and keeping a low profile out at Spunk’s ranch. Trace wasn’t making the same mistake twice, mistaking lust for love and thinking with his pants instead of his head.