Christmas at Henderson's Ranch

by M. L. Buchman

  Christmas at Henderson’s Ranch

  a Henderson's Ranch romance story

  by M. L. Buchman

  1

  “This isn’t right!”

  Chelsea Bridges leaned forward to see what Emily Beale was looking at. Chelsea didn’t see a thing wrong, but then she’d never been to central Montana before. Out the small plane’s front windshield were miles and miles of rolling green prairie. Streams crisscrossed the grassland in a bewildering maze. The backdrop was the foothills of the Rockies breaking the skyline with their snowy peaks and conifer-clad sides. The westering sun silhouetted the hills, but lit their tops with gold.

  “It’s absolutely gorgeous!” Then she clamped her mouth closed. She was trying to reel it in. Emily was always so even-keeled and understated that Chelsea was constantly stumbling to be less…Chelsea. Emily was this perfect woman with a drop-dead handsome husband and about the cutest kid on the planet. Chelsea had only been their daughter’s nanny for a few months, but she’d seen the deference and respect that everyone at Mount Hood Aviation’s firefighter airbase paid Emily. In return, the woman was kind, courteous, and utterly terrifying. Chelsea wouldn’t mind being all of those things.

  Her husband Mark, who sat up front in the other pilot seat of the small plane, wasn’t much more effusive—except around his daughter. At least he had a sense of humor, though not as much a one as he thought he did; an observation Chelsea kept carefully to herself.

  Chelsea looked over at Tessa who was strapped in beside her. She had her tiny version of her mother’s elegant nose pressed up against the window. “Green,” she announced. Out her window was nothing but the rolling grasslands of eastern Montana.

  “It’s wrong,” Mark agreed solemnly but turned enough to wink at Chelsea, or at least she presumed that’s what his cheek twitch was indicating at the lower edge of his mirrored Ray-Bans. “Not much snow in the hills. Means another drought year next summer.”

  “That’s not the problem,” Emily responded. “Okay, drought is a problem. But that’s not the real problem.”

  “What is, Emma?” Again the sassy wink that said he already knew what his wife was talking about. It was amazing that the man had survived this long. Chelsea would never dare tease Emily Beale; she could probably kill with a glance if she ever took off her own mirrored shades.

  “It’s December,” Emily took one hand off the plane’s wheel—if she was on board, she was the one doing the flying—and waved it helplessly at the stunning scenery before them. “We came to Montana for a white Christmas.”

  “I thought it was to see Mom and Dad.”

  “It’s still supposed to be white,” she grumbled and set up to land the plane. It was as much emotion Chelsea had seen in her entire two months with them. Emily Beale was never unkind, but she was cold. Or at least chilly. But that wasn’t right either. The woman was frank and forthright, as much with her daughter as with her husband. Yet Tessa was often in her lap, welcome not as child to adult, but rather as a piece of Emily that was simply back in the place where it belonged. The mother and daughter weren’t close; they were simply one when they were together. It was about the most incredible thing Chelsea had ever seen. It made her ache for a family of her own; not a familiar feeling.

  Again Chelsea strained up against her seatbelt to look down. A herd of horses startled and looked up at them as they passed by. They didn’t scatter and run, but they eyed the low-flying plane carefully.

  “Horsies!” Tessa declared delightedly when Emily shifted her flightpath so that the herd was visible outside her daughter’s window. Not cold at all, just…inscrutable.

  “Yes,” Chelsea encouraged the toddler. “Those are horses. Aren’t they pretty?”

  “Pretty!” Tessa burbled, and they laughed together with delight.

  Chelsea had never seen a whole herd of horses before. There were at least fifty in the group of every shade imaginable: grays, browns, whites, blacks, and mixes in patchworks, dapples, and who knew what all. They were gone behind the plane too fast to distinguish more. She tucked away the trail mix snack they’d been sharing to make sure Tessa’s blood sugar was up.

  Even after two months, Chelsea wasn’t quite sure how she’d ended up in this situation. Not that she was complaining, Emily and Mark were great parents and it showed in their total sweetheart of a daughter. And flying with Mark over forest fires was often very dramatic.

  It had started with Aunt Betsy who was a cook for the Mount Hood Aviation helicopter and smoke jumping firefighters. When Chelsea’s degree in psychology hadn’t led to any kind of a useful job, her aunt had asked if she liked to fly. She’d shrugged a yes because she’d flown in passenger jets any number of times to visit grandparents, and a trip to Nepal for a backpacking gap year.

  She’d now spent most of the last two months sitting in tiny planes of six or eight narrow seats and been paid to enjoy the scenery and play with a baby girl. Best job she’d ever had by a long way.

  Tessa was a fixture in Mark Henderson’s plane when he was flying as the Incident Commander high above the fire. What was surprising wasn’t that they’d added a nanny, but rather how he’d done the job for so long without one. Tessa was a pretty low maintenance kid, but she was also eighteen months old and quite intelligent.

  It was a late fire season, Mark had said, and MHA had still been flying fire in the Southwest. But, finally released from the summer contract, they’d come north for a vacation and brought Chelsea along with them. She sure as hell wasn’t going home. They’d known that.

  As they flew closer to the ranch, more and more fences became visible, cutting the prairie into smaller pastures and training rings. There were several barns, smaller residences, and cabins surrounding the main residence.

  Emily flew once over the grand log-built ranch house and waggled the plane’s wings in a friendly wave.

  Chelsea pointed to out to Tessa, “Isn’t it amazabiling?”

  “’mazbling!” Tessa called out happily. Emily sighed audibly as she circled wide of the barn.

  Chelsea wondered if Mark’s habits were rubbing off on her, but she couldn’t resist messing with Tessa’s rapidly developing language set. They landed on a gravel strip that ended close beside the house and a large out-building that turned out to be a hangar.

  A big man strolled out to meet them, still buttoning up his sheepskin jacket. He was an older version of Mark; just as tall, just as broad-shouldered, his light hair going silver. But Mark’s face was different. Darker, broader, and his hair was thick, straight, and almost midnight black, sharing only his father’s gray eyes.

  The clouds of mist puffing about with each breath of Mark Senior—Mac, she reminded herself, they’d said he liked to be called Mac—had Chelsea bundling up Tessa before the plane came to a halt in front of a hangar. The ground might be snow free, but it was far colder here than Oregon where they’d boarded the plane.

  2

  Doug Daniels had stuck his head out of the barn when he heard the plane come over low. The trademark gloss-black-and-red-flame paint job told him who was aboard. Some part of him had been alarmed that a client was in-bound for a ranch vacation even though they hadn’t taken any Christmas reservations this year. But it was just Mark and his knock-out wife. He liked Mark fine, but he had trouble speaking around Emily Beale. It wasn’t just the beauty, he knew how to talk to pretty women just fine; it was the fierce level of competence that she demonstrated at every turn.

  He finished helping Logan pitch the hay into the stalls’ feedboxes before heading out to greet them. The air had a sharp bite to it, wholly different from the horse-and-s
traw of the barn, but no moisture. As he stepped out of the barn, he noticed that there wasn’t even a hint of cloud in the cobalt blue of the late afternoon sky. The temperature was already dropping though it was still an hour to sunset. It was going to get cold tonight.

  Doug stuck his head back inside. “Hey, Logan. Open up the gates. If the main herd has any sense, they’ll be coming this way by sunset.”

  “You bet, boss. Any horse that stays out there tonight needs his horse-sense meter checked.”

  Doug went out to help stow the plane. There was room in the hangar because he’d moved the helicopter tight to the side after the morning’s flight to check the main herd and make sure there were no stray or injured. He hadn’t been able to get an accurate count, but it had felt low and that was bothering him. Happened all the time. Still, it worried him.

  He ducked through the hangar’s side door, popped the release, and slid open the main door from the inside. It rattled and boomed in the cold air. A sharp squeal in one of the wheels had him adding “needs grease” to the infinite mental checklist that was running a working dude ranch.

  Just emerging from the plane was a figure wrapped deep in a parka, with the fur-rimmed hood already raised as if it wasn’t a merely brisk day, but rather a north polar night. She, for there was no chance of a guy wearing such tight jeans and making them look so good, carried an equally bundled child.

  He came up and stuck his nose right into the child’s hood, “Tessa, my love! Give us a kiss!”

  “Kiss!” the little girl squealed and kissed him on the nose.

  Then he rubbed noses with her until she was giggling before he pulled back. He’d ended up standing very close to the woman holding her. He could just see brilliant blue eyes, a freckled nose, and a bright smile in the narrow opening of the hood.

  “Do you greet all the girls that way?” Her tone was light, almost musical.

  “Sure.” Never one to back down from a challenge, he stuck his face right into her hood until their noses rubbed and cried out, “Give us a kiss!”

  Unlike the little girl, there was no squeal. Instead, there was a quick squawk of surprise.

  Way over the line, Doug.

  But before he could retreat, she gave him a quick kiss. Unlike Tessa’s it didn’t land on his nose, but right on the mouth. There and gone, but the lips were warm, soft, and tasted of peanuts and chocolate.

  Once he was clear of the hood, the gloved slap that he expected to follow, didn’t. He glanced again into the tunnel of the raised hood.

  The bright blue eyes caught the low sunlight and weren’t round with shock or narrowed with anger.

  “Well,” she blinked in slow motion, “okay then.”

  He laughed, he couldn’t help himself.

  Now that was his kind of woman.

  3

  Chelsea had no idea what had come over her. She didn’t randomly kiss men, even tall handsome ones who adored small children.

  Men who then scooped a little girl out of her arms, slung her around with the ease of long practice until she was riding piggy-back, and—while Tessa shouted, “Horsie!” with glee—galloped about the yard with a protective hand wrapped awkwardly behind him. The man shook back his collar-length, sun-streaked hair the color of worn leather so that it brushed in Tessa’s face. He let out a fierce whinny escalating her giggles of delight.

  He trotted up to Mark and Emily then stopped with a sidle and a stomp that was thoroughly horselike and delivered the child to Emily. Then he and Mark made quick work of pushing the plane back into the hangar.

  Chelsea was still standing shocked into place when they’d finished and the men had returned carrying the luggage.

  “A field pack, very practical,” the man who’d kissed her held it aloft as if it contained only air rather than most of Chelsea’s worldly belongings. Her camping gear was stashed at Aunt Betsy’s and a dozen boxes of books at Mom and Dad’s, but the rest of it was in that pack.

  “It’s my hiking pack, but I use it for everything. Really practical since I hike a lot,” she was rambling; time to cut that out. She sniffed at the air and the cold made her nose hurt on the insides, “At least when it isn’t sub-Arctic.”

  The man’s jacket was fleeced-line denim, but he hadn’t even bothered to button it against the frosty day. He smelled of hay and his kiss had been warm and fresh with the outdoors.

  Mac greeted his son with a firm handshake, but gave Emily a deep hug that surprised Chelsea almost as much as being kissed by a total stranger. What had happened to the woman’s backbone of steel? Emily leaned into Mac’s hug as if she was the one related by blood and was happily come home. Then he led them toward the house, leaving Chelsea and her luggage bearer to trail behind.

  “Do you have a name or should I just shout ‘Sherpa!’ when I want your attention? Or perhaps daai?”

  “Daai?” he led her onto the wide porch and held the door for her to enter the mud room. There they shed boots and jackets. She was glad she’d been wearing a thick sweater against the damp chill in Oregon and kept it on for added warmth.

  The others were talking happily enough together to be lost in their own conversation as they too stripped off the outdoor gear and pulled on slippers from the large basketful of them close by the inner door.

  “Daai means older brother in Nepalese,” she explained softly. “A sign of respect. Better yet, bhaai for younger brother as who knows if you’re worthy of respect.”

  “You kiss me and question whether I’m worth respecting? That doesn’t bode well for the morning after.”

  Chelsea was preparing a comeback, for she certainly wasn’t the one who had done the kissing…or had she been, when she turned and saw the look on his face.

  “What?”

  He shook himself like a horse again. “If I’d known what was under that hood, I might have spent longer kissing you.”

  “Skin deep, bhaai.”

  “Yes, but what a nice layer it is.”

  4

  Doug knew he was staring, but how was a man supposed to not? Thick waves of red hair cascaded down to her shoulders. Her cream-and-freckle skin only highlighted the brilliant blue eyes that were presently rolling at him. Her sweater must have been custom-made because it traced and enhanced the slender woman within. The rich green was finished with red zig-zags at wrists and waist. A small but elegant snowflake had been knit right over her heart.

  “Frozen heart?” He teased to hide his suddenly dry throat.

  She looked down where his attention had strayed. “I called this one White Christmas, bhaai. And watch where you’re looking.”

  “I am watching where I’m looking, and very glad to be doing so,” his made his voice pure tease. Then he wondered, “You name your sweaters?” Could he sound much stupider?

  “Sure. At least the Christmas ones.”

  “You knit it yourself?” Apparently yes, he could sound dumber. But there was something about this girl—woman. She liked hiking? Major understatement. Her pack looked like it had been carried by an entire Army brigade, worn shiny in a hundred places. A very well-used piece of top quality gear. She knew terms of respect in Nepalese and could knit sweaters that made her look like a Christmas delight.

  “I—” they stepped out of the mud room and into the living room. Her gasp of amazement echoed that of all who came here. Every ranch guest who entered the main house couldn’t help but stumble to a halt.

  “Quite something, isn’t it?”

  “It’s gorgeous! A little daunting, but…” she did a slow twirl to take it all in. “But this is right out of a magazine. It’s unbelievable!”

  The large river-stone fireplace was a showpiece, big double-length logs crackled away on the grate. The flagstone hearth was surrounded by plush chairs and inviting sofas. An upright piano stood by a corner window overlooking the horse pastures and snow-capped peaks
. And the high-beamed cathedral ceiling made the twelve-foot spruce that he and Mac had felled up on the northwest slope fit right in. The Hendersons always really did up Christmas. Coils of holly were draped from mantel and piano. Wreaths, garlands, winter-themed quilts on the walls…

  “Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?” And this nameless woman in a sweater named White Christmas fit right in.

  “It’s fabulous! My family does a totally lame Christmas, as in almost not at all. Once I got to college, I discovered it and turned into the Christmas loon of any group. You should have seen this poor pistachio tree I decorated on year in Puri.”

  “Puri?”

  “India. On the east coast. I spent a couple months traveling there by train after I left the Himalayas.”

  Himalayas? Right, well, that explained where she’d picked up the Nepalese. What hadn’t she done?

  “I try to do up my place, too,” he answered. “Same style of construction, but cozier. Bet you’d like it too.”

  “You do, huh?” Something was amusing her but he couldn’t quite think what.

  “Sure. I live on the far side of the meadow. I’m the ranch foreman.”

  “Your…place.”

  “They gave me a sweet little setup. Two bedrooms. Looks a lot like this, just on a smaller scale. A ranch house in miniature.”

  “You bet I’d like it?” Her tone had gone impossibly dry.

  And her meaning finally sunk through his thick skull. “I didn’t mean—” He’d just invited a woman whose name he still didn’t know back to his place for a quick— Someone should just take him out to pasture and shoot him.

  A wicked smile crossed her features. “Sure know how to make a girl feel welcome, bhaai.”

  Little brother. Suddenly that really wasn’t the role he wanted to be cast in. Not even a little. Because he could certainly picture her clearly in that cozy little log house of his.

  5