Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style

by Lori Copeland

  “There’s a family of squirrels living in the chimney. Although we could sit in the living room and look at the stars.”

  “That’s the spirit. Stretch out on the couch and—look at the stars?”

  “There’s no roof.”

  “My house doesn’t have a roof?”

  Guilt spiraled through him for the second time that day. “It needs a few repairs, and since you gave me about a fifteen minute warning, I didn’t have time to do anything. Hell, I wasn’t even sure the place was still standing after all this time.”

  “Barely, from the sound of things.”

  “True enough, but I’m doing my best to rectify that.”

  He might not want to marry Winnie, but that was no cause to go acting inhospitable. He’d spent too many summers in that house, made too many good memories, to let the place fall completely to ruin.

  Trace certainly wasn’t helping out Winnie because he wanted to. He had to. It was as simple as that. His Grandpa’s house. His legacy. His responsibility.

  “YOU DID WHAT?” Shermin bolted from behind the desk and paced around to where Trace sat.

  “I authorized her loan.”

  “But you don’t work for the bank.”

  “She thinks I do.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “She thinks I do.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “But she thinks I do. The place is falling down.”

  “Does she have a job?”

  “She’s looking.”

  “Collateral?”

  “A Honda Civic.”

  “The loan’s worth more than that. The first rule of loans, you don’t loan money to people who can’t pay it back.”

  “She’ll pay it back.”

  “As much as I value your word, Trace, I can’t throw around money without solid collateral, a job, something to tell me this woman can pay back this bank’s money.”

  “I’ll put up the collateral.”

  “I thought you wanted her gone.”

  “I wanted her off the marriage train—I didn’t say anything about gone. Ezra’s place is a wreck. I have to do something.”

  “You like her.”

  “And now seems just as good a time as any.”

  “You really like her.”

  “The insulation needs to be repaired. The wiring needs to be checked. The floors need to be revarnished.”

  “You really really like her.”

  “I do not.” At Shermin’s knowing look, he added, “Okay, she’s nice.”

  “I knew it.”

  “You don’t know squat.”

  “I know you’re putting up collateral and fixing up a house for a woman you claim to dislike. Sounds like lust to me.”

  “More like guilt.” And maybe a little lust. He was a man, after all. Healthy. Hormone-driven. Hungry.

  Yep, he was definitely hungry and it wasn’t for the pita with bean sprouts sitting on Shermin’s desk.

  “How can you eat that stuff?” he asked his friend.

  “It’s good for your heart.”

  “Look, Shermin. If you’re really going to go all out with this cowboy stuff, then you have to learn to eat real food. Cowboy food.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a two-inch-thick burger dripping with cheese and mayonnaise and chili and a mess of jalapeños.”

  “But that would kill my cholesterol count.”

  “And your taste buds, at least after about five of those Hades Jalapeños over at the diner, but that’s the point. Cowboys are fearless. Renegades. Rebels. They don’t give a rat’s ass about cholesterol counts. You need to stop worrying so much and live it up a little. You’re young. Strong. Virile. Start acting like it.”

  “Well,” Shermin seemed to weigh Trace’s words, “I am only thirty-four, and I’m in pretty good shape despite the cholesterol problem that runs in the Rayburn family.”

  “And don’t forget virile.”

  “Yeah.” He puffed out his chest. “I guess I am pretty virile. A little red meat couldn’t hurt.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  He pinned Trace with a stare. “And you still like her.”

  But he didn’t want to. She was nice and sweet and the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time. Too pretty. Way too pretty. “Ezra lied and conned her into moving into that falling-down place. The least I can do is help make it a little more liveable. She’s my neighbor, in the meantime anyway, and there’s nothing wrong with a neighbor helping a neighbor.”

  “Especially if said neighbor happens to be a beautiful redhead.”

  Trace felt a strange prickling in his gut, especially when he saw the gleam in Shermin’s eyes.

  Crazy. It wasn’t as if Trace, himself, had any notions about Winnie Becker.

  So maybe he had notions, but none he intended to act on because the last thing Trace needed in his life was to get sidetracked by a woman. Again. “Can’t say that I noticed. Now about your cowboy lessons…”

  “You’re not changing the subject again. This girl wants to marry you. Playing her knight in shining armor is only going to make her all the more determined, don’t you think?”

  “Ordinarily, yes, but it seems the marrying part was Ezra’s wishful thinking. She’s not my type, and I sure as hell am not hers.” That had been his one saving grace this afternoon. Otherwise he’d have kissed her on the spot. And kissed her. And kissed her some more without a beard to get in the way or a conscience to stop him.

  That’s why he hadn’t spilled his guts about his true identity. Since she’d turned out to be a little too tempting, especially to a man who’d gone so long without, he needed all the defenses he could muster. If he couldn’t push her away, he needed her to push him away. Hence, he was going to remain Trace Honeycutt, mild-mannered loan officer and hair gel connoisseur—the exact type of man Winnie Becker didn’t want to give her kissing lessons—whenever he was within shouting distance of her.

  Which wasn’t going to be very often. No matter that he felt a personal responsibility for Ezra’s place or that she had about the softest hair he’d ever felt. No sirree. Trace Honeycutt was keeping his distance.

  TRACE STOOD ON Winnie’s doorstep bright and early Monday morning and checked his reflection in the windowpane. He’d had help getting all slicked and primped Saturday, but today he’d gone solo.

  Not bad. He smoothed a strand of hair back. Maybe he was getting the hang of this. His gaze shifted. The toes of worn, brown leather boots peered up at him.

  Maybe not.

  He’d forgotten all about his Sunday shoes stuffed beneath the edge of his bunk, where he’d left them the minute he’d returned from her house on Saturday and yanked them off.

  Damnation. Now he’d have to drive back to the ranch and—

  The thought faded at the sound of the front door creaking open. Winnie Becker walked out, and straight into him.

  “Ohmigod!” she squeaked as endless amounts of soft, warm curves pressed into every inch of him—the total of which increased at the first second of contact

  Her gaze collided with his. “You scared the daylights out of me!”

  “I’m sorry. I was just getting ready to knock.”

  “That’s okay.”

  It took Trace a full five seconds to realize he was smiling, and to stop. Winnie followed suit, thankfully, because he was having enough trouble with her smelling so sweet. He didn’t need her smiling at him, too.

  “What are you doing here?” Her gaze shifted past him to Spunk’s truck, the bed loaded with drywall and supplies. He’d taken to driving Spunk’s truck for fear Winnie would recognize his Chevy and know it had been him in that Santa suit. “And what’s all that?”

  “For the repairs.”

  “You’re going to do repairs?”

  “No, um, I’m here to supervise. Have to keep tabs on how the bank is spending its money.”

  “Today? I mean, I wasn’t planning on anyone coming until this afternoon. I’m on
my way to the employment agency right now.”

  “You go right ahead. I’ll keep an eye on everything here while you’re gone.” Indecision played over her features and Trace added, “The bank prides itself on making wise investments. If you’re going to make good on the loan, I suspect you’ll need a job.”

  “You really don’t mind?”

  “I insist.”

  “Then I guess I’ll see you later.”

  Not if he could help it

  “LET’S SEE.” The woman flipped through the card file on her desk. “I’ve got it. Just what the doctor ordered. Bubba’s Burger Barn needs a waitress and the Dairy Freeze needs a shake girl.”

  “I want fast-paced, not fast food.”

  Mary Higgins, president of Higgins Employment, shoved her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose and peered at Winnie’s application. “Why, you sure do.” She started flipping again. “I’m afraid that’s all I have under the F’s. Let’s try your second buzz word.” She turned to her computer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, she stabbed the Enter key and a screen rolled into place. “Here we go. ‘Exciting’ has two listings.” She peered at the screen. “A waitress at Bubba’s Burger Barn and a shake girl at the… We’ve already seen these, haven’t we?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like fast food. I do. But I was hoping for a fast-paced, exciting job that utilizes my degree.”

  “A sociology major?”

  “But I’ve got a minor in marketing and sales. I’m a people person, and I’ve got great organizational skills. I was really hoping to do something that’s go, go, go.”

  Mary punched in a few more words then smiled as a new listing rolled into place. “This is it. Ann over at Ann’s Little Angels needs part-time help. With the holidays, all the kids are out of school, but folks still have to work. The place is overflowing and she’s got an extra dozen toddlers to tend to.”

  “A baby-sitter?”

  “You wanted go, go, go. With a dozen toddlers, I can promise you no dull moments, and it’ll utilize your people skills, not to mention your organizational abilities. Of course, you could always put that particular skill to use folding napkins at Barry’s. Dorine, the last waitress, could wrap silverware at the speed of light. She even entered the Waitress Olympics over in Marble Falls. Walked away with first place, a cute little trophy and a lifetime supply of grease-proof panty hose.”

  “I’ll take the baby-sitter.” Okay, it wasn’t head of marketing for an international cosmetics company, but even vixens had to eat. Not to mention, this vixen had a bank loan hanging over her head and a major cosmetics habit to support. And supervising a dozen toddlers was fast-paced. One out of two wasn’t bad. Besides, it was just temporary.

  Mary handed Winnie a computer printout with the address. “I’ll phone Ann and tell her you’ll be right over.”

  “COME ON, TIFFANY. Give Miss Winnie the do—Ooomph!” Winnie doubled over as twelve inches of plastic dressed in a frilly little dress hit her in the stomach. Little Tiffany, a brown-haired three-year-old and the rowdiest Busy Bee—the daycare term for devil child—smiled sweetly and clutched the doll to her chest.

  “Winnie, hon?” Ann, a fortyish woman with graying brown hair and enough patience to make Job envious, motioned from the painting station and the cluster of children gathered around her. “Is something wrong?”

  Winnie’s makeup had faded hours ago. Her hair was a mess. Her clothes were rumpled and covered with a dozen tiny hand-shaped peanut-butter-and-jelly stains. Her feet had been stepped on, squashed, mashed, and even stomped thanks to Tiffany and the eleven other Busy Bees currently buzzing around the Play-Doh station. That on top of the torture inflicted by a pair of Italian pumps. And it wasn’t even lunchtime.

  She managed a smile. “Fine,” she groaned, dodging another swing of Tiffany’s doll. “Everything’s just—” duck, “—fine.”

  “I know the first day can be a bit long.”

  “It’s flying by.” The doll caught her in the arm.

  “And the children are a bit overzealous.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a lot of energy.” Said energy fueled another swing of the doll. Her hip cried at the contact.

  “If you’re ready to call it a day, I’ll understand.”

  Yes. “And leave you shorthanded? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Okay, so maybe a teensy, weensy dream.

  One that evolved into a full-blown fantasy by the time Winnie, bruised and battered, finally reached the safety of her car to take her lunch break.

  One glance in the rearview mirror and she cringed. If she hadn’t already marked children off her life’s plan, this morning would have been motivation enough. Her makeup was smeared, her hair a mess, not to mention her panty hose had a major run. Kids were lethal to her image and a complete no-no.

  She stifled the sudden pang that went through her at the thought.

  A pang? No way. Kids were off the list, and Winnie was living it up.

  Just as soon as she found someone to live it up with.

  Trace Honeycutt’s image pushed into her mind. His crooked grin, his twinkling silver eyes, that slow-as-honey drawl…

  She smiled.

  And then she frowned.

  Trace? Sure he was nice and maybe a little cute in a quiet, bookish way. And granted, her hormones were still buzzing from the contact with the surprisingly hard, muscular body he was hiding beneath that god-awful polyester suit. But Winnie hadn’t traveled halfway across the country to find herself stuck in the same rut with the exact type of guy she’d left behind.

  When she reached the last video in the Five B’s to Femininity and started improving her sex life—actually, just having one would be an improvement—she planned on doing it with a man, with several men—though not at one time, mind you—who were hot, handsome, exciting. Men who’d found the male version of their inner vixen—the inner bad boy.

  Trace Honeycutt hardly qualified.

  Even so…an image slid into her head. Trace without the suit, wearing only hard, sculpted muscles and a heart-pumping grin. Not that he really looked that good, despite what she’d felt. But a girl could dream.

  “THIS IS NOT a good idea,” she told herself for the hundredth time as she pulled into the bank parking lot during her lunch hour a few days later.

  But she had promised Ezra she’d invite Trace over for checkers, and Winnie always kept her promises, even if it meant giving up her Friday night for a boring game of checkers.

  It certainly wasn’t because she didn’t have anything better to do, or because she’d actually started to like Trace and the way he showed up on her doorstep each morning, ready to supervise the day’s repairs while she headed off to work.

  No, she was just keeping her promise, and since Trace was always gone by the time she rolled into her driveway in the afternoon, if she was going to extend an invitation, it was now or never.

  “I’d like to see Trace Honeycutt, please,” she told the receptionist at the front desk. “He’s my loan officer.”

  “All the loans are handled right over there.” The girl, barely out of high school and wearing purple eye shadow with matching nail polish, pointed to an office just down the hallway.

  “Thanks.”

  Winnie followed the girl’s instructions and found herself in a large office with dark paneled walls. A massive desk took up most of the room. It was very stiff and formal, yet… Her attention slid around the room. A large wall calendar that proclaimed First Nostalgia—Your friend hung from the far wall. Framed pictures of various sizes lined the desk, making it seem more personal. More human.

  She liked it right away.

  She perched on the corner of a leather chair. Her attention shifted back to the photographs, to the first one of Shermin standing in front of a large house—

  Shermin?

  Her gaze moved on and a strange sense of apprehension wiggled under her skin. Shermin shaking hands with the mayor. Shermin wearing a birthday hat and holding up a bra
nd-new bottle of hair gel. Shermin standing next to a handsome-looking cowboy holding up a belt buckle that could have easily doubled as a hubcab for her Civic…Trace?

  She leaned in and, sure enough, the silver eyes glittering back at her from the brim of a beige Stetson were the same eyes that had set butterflies loose in her stomach for the past three days. The same eyes she’d seen peering back at her over a white Santa beard. Trace.

  “I’m afraid Shermin’s out.”

  Winnie took a deep breath, tried to still her pounding heart and turned to the woman who’d walked into the office.

  “I’m Missy, sugar. Can I help you with something?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  A COWBOY.

  Winnie was still trying to digest the information when she climbed into her Civic and headed back to work. A bona fide, roping and riding—bull-riding, according to Shermin who’d walked in while Missy had been spilling her guts—cowboy.

  Shermin had tned to scoot back out, but Winnie had hauled him in, sat him down, and made him talk. And talk. And talk.

  She knew everything about Trace, including the fact that he’d been totally convinced, thanks to Ezra, that she’d come here to marry him.

  Ezra. Her thoughts centered on the man as she walked into the daycare, and straight into Ann’s office. She snatched up the phone and punched in several numbers.

  “Rest Easy Retirement Ranch,” a voice said when someone picked up the line after a few rings. “Where we aim to be lazy before pushing up daisies.”

  “Jasper Becker, please. This is…” The past few days rushed through her head—her numerous phone calls and the way her grandfather always seemed to be too busy to come to the phone. “This is the president of the Bonanza fan club. He’s won a free video collection and autographed pictures of the entire cast. I need to speak with him to tell him how to claim his prize.”

  A hand covered the mouthpiece and she heard the sound of muffled voices followed by a loud whoop.

  “Hot damn! The entire collection—” her grandpa started, but Winnie cut him off.

  “What did you get me into?”

  “Winnie?”

  “Ezra Honeycutt told Trace I came here to marry him, and I’m betting it’s because you and he cooked up some scheme.”