But what about Dolly? How was she going to manage after the divorce? What woman didn't know how to use her own cell phone? Heck, there were only about thirty features or so on the new ones. He could show her how...
Did he dare think they could be a team? They were two imperfect people. Lots of baggage. Dolly was even a little crazy, unpredictable, a handful. She'd stayed in a cave with bears all about...
He turned around in the middle of the road.
When he careened onto the grass runway minutes later, the plane was taxiing into place. John charged with the car toward the plane. He skidded to a stop, got out, and waved his arms.
“Dolly! Wait!” He wheezed with pain.
The pilot waved John over. John opened the door of the four-seater. Finn was in the back listening to headphones. Dolly sat up front.
“Dolly, tell Brendan you have a home,” he shouted over the engine noise. “In Montana.”
Dolly's gray eyes didn't change color. “John, we wouldn't work.”
“Why not?” Think fast. “Tell him you have a job and can take care of Finn and you don't need alimony.”
“What job?”
Think faster. “My cattle drive.”
“What do I know about that?”
Think even faster. “I need a woman to do woman's stuff.”
“What's that?”
“I don't know. We'll make it up as we go. I need someone who's willing just to take care of her son and me. I need you, Dolly.”
“I don't know if you're ready for me and Finn.”
She could be so stubborn. “You're right. I'm not ready, but I don't want to wait twenty years to fall in love.”
“You're not making any sense.”
He got down on one knee on the grass. “I had this vision about us having kids. We'd have Finn and five more. The six of them and me would bring you breakfast in bed. I'll buy you a really big bed.”
Her gray eyes became bluejay blue. “That's ... nice, but...”
He sucked in a fortifying breath despite the hell it gave his rib. “You asked me what I'd draw for you. I'd draw wild violets, hundreds of them across the sides of my barn ... to match your eyes when your emotions run deep. That way, every day when you wake up and look outside you'll know how much I'm going to love you.”
“Going to?”
“Yeah. I love you, but I have a feeling it's going to get even better with time.”
She hesitated, damn her, then her eyes became violets and she unbuckled her seatbelt to land in his arms. “I love you, John Hall.”
* * * *
Three weeks later in May they rode under a clear Montana sky. Finn was seated in front of John in his saddle while Dolly rode her new mare. They were pushing five hundred Herefords to spring pasture. Calves had been born on the ranch; a baby girl had been born back in Moonstone.
Watching Dolly, and protecting Finn in front of him, John mused that maybe Leonard was right about one thing. Everybody needed to make memories. Days from now, when they returned to the ranch, Finn and Dolly would receive the beginnings for their good memories. John had made arrangements for Wrigley, other silkie chickens, and a puppy to be flown out. There'd also be an engagement ring sporting a moonstone with six diamonds surrounding it. As a wedding gift, Peter offered to pay for an addition to the ranch house.
As they rode along on horseback, Finn began humming. The sound vibrated through Finn's reedy, little boy body and into John. “What's that song, Finn?”
“I don't know. It's just humming. My mama hums and I like it.”
“Me, too.” John began to hum as he looked over at the woman he would marry. He smiled already thinking about the ribbing he'd take for painting his barn with lavender posies. But that was true love. A man had to take risks to be happy.
Dolly called over to him, “This is fun, John Hall.”
He hummed even louder.
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
ALL SHE WORE WAS A BOW
{Men of Moonstone Series, Book 2}
by Christine DeSmet (Dame Moonstone)
Chapter 1
Minutes after winning another bull-riding event in Las Vegas, Kincaid Hunter's mind switched with his usual precision to the next thing he had to achieve: stopping the Christmastime wedding of his buddy John “Bozeman” Hall. Jason and I looked into her past, Boze, and there's something I gotta tell ya. You're gonna lose your ranch.
It took three airplanes to get to northern Wisconsin, which gave him plenty of time to practice his speech. After landing in Superior, Kincaid drove east on a snow-covered road that split a pine forest into a desolate canyon. It was past three on Friday afternoon with temperatures dropping into the teens, something he wasn't used to anymore. A sky pockmarked with gray clouds spit beebee-sized snow at him. Kincaid shivered inside his ski jacket and heavy sweater.
Kincaid planned to get back to the Vegas lights and glitter mighty soon. Just as he dispatched with a two-thousand pound bull in eight seconds, he would shake sense into Boze and get them both back to the parties.
The champion bull rider even had a date lined up for the party at Bellagio's this Sunday night. She was the latest one-name, blonde singing sensation. Honey? Honesty? Honda? No, the latter was a car. He enjoyed precision, but that didn't include remembering the names of all the women he dated. Dating the same woman more than once was, well, downright wasteful. There were plenty of good-smellin’ gals interested in helping the tall, dark, handsome cowboy off with his tan Stetson and finely-tooled, black boots.
His buddy's wedding was scheduled to take place a week from tomorrow, on the Saturday after Thursday's Christmas. Kincaid planned to take this weekend to show Boze what he'd been missing with the guys. They'd go snowmobiling tonight, skiing tomorrow morning, then ice fishing. They would shoot pool and shoot the breeze in country bars, and shoot down this ridiculous idea of Boze marrying a divorcee with a checkered past. Don't you see you're about to land in a nest full of rattlesnakes?
As soon as his rental car hit the west edge of Moonstone, Kincaid sensed trouble. “Holy crap,” he muttered, “this town is ... quaint.” This mission might be tougher than he expected.
He stopped the car next to a snow bank lining the snowy street. Since his military days he'd always checked out the “lay of the land” before venturing into danger. This place reeked of quaintness. And quaintness was for old people, not for Boze and Kincaid who were only thirty-two and who still had all their natural-color, thick, brown hair.
Kincaid cringed at the wreaths and red ribbons adorning every door in sight as well as the pumps at the two-pump gas station and auto body shop across the street. Banners hanging off light poles said “Merry Christmas” and “Joy to the World” instead of the generic “Happy Holidays.” Snowmen stood at cockeyed angles in every yard.
Kincaid wheeled across the street to the gas station, parking next to a semi-trailer truck with its diesel engine running. To face all the quaintness, Kincaid needed black coffee, the kind that put hair on a man's chest. He knew he'd find it here. Truckers were like ranchers—hard-working men who rode the road instead of bulls.
Inside, a swarthy, weathered guy with a thick, dark mustache and black stocking cap was helping himself to coffee at a rickety card table in the window corner. A little creature of maybe six and in pink was with him. Kincaid didn't see many little kids in Vegas. This imp had messy, curly black hair that got in her eyes. Using her fingers, she was mixing a Styrofoam cup of what looked like instant cocoa. Her threadbare, pink coat was a moment away from being soaked in cocoa. A bulging pink and purple backpack with faeries flying on it sat on the floor next to the girl's booted feet.
“Howdy,” Kincaid said to the man, taking off his Stetson. “Cold out there.” He kept his ski jacket on against the chill. The trucker still wore his coat, too.
“Oui, mon ami, but we get used to it.” The trucker settled on a folding chair to slurp his coffee. “The truck stays warm at night.”
“You sleep in the truck?”
“Many times, if the roads are bad and we can't get back to Superior after one of our hauls.” The man tousled the girl's hair.
Kincaid marveled that she slept in the truck. For some reason, that troubled him. “What're they predicting for weather?”
“Five-below tonight. It'll put an early end to the live Nativity celebration on the other end of Main Street.”
“Live? People are standing outside in this?”
“A real Mary and Joseph, and a baby bundled up. They have real animals, too. Anybody who wants to can sing hymns with them at this very moment. We stopped for ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’ If you miss it, there's always next year.”
“They do this every year?”
“Oui. This town lives and breathes traditional customs.”
Traditional quaint crap. Kincaid filled a cup with steaming coffee. It scalded his mouth and throat; hairs sprouted on his chest. The little girl stared up at him, her mouth agape like a guppy.
Kincaid said to her, “Santa coming to your house this Christmas?”
“He's only bringing one present and I have five things on my list.” She showed him one, then five fingers. “Can you tell him to bring me all the things?”
Her dad rose. “Shandra Leigh, that's not nice.” He proffered a hand toward Kincaid. “I'm Philippe Montreaux, and this is my daughter. We've had discussions about how one gift is enough. Santa has to have enough presents for all the kids and not just her.”
Kincaid had no wisdom on the issue. He'd never bought gifts for kids his entire life, and he'd never believed in Santa. These days he was showered with sponsorship gifts, something he wasn't about to mention here. “I'm Kincaid Hunter. Call me Kade.” He liked Philippe's firm, warm handshake.
Shandra kept gawking.
Philippe plopped a hand on her head. “Shandra Leigh, please watch your manners.”
She went back to stirring the cocoa, sloshing it onto the table.
“Use the spoon, Shandra Leigh,” Philippe admonished, grabbing napkins.
While Philippe mopped the table, Kade looked about the small shop. A handmade, patchwork cloth wreath hung on the wall behind the register. A price tag said two dollars. Kade remembered high school fund-raisers in Montana where such things were sold around the holidays. Thank goodness he'd left that pitiful existence far behind.
Philippe asked, “Driving through?”
“I wish. Here for a wedding. You know a John Hall?”
Philippe laughed. “Had breakfast with the poor guy this morning at The Jingle Bell Inn. He was up at five baking sugar cookies.”
“What the heck for?”
“Mon ami, I heard that all the decorations throughout The Jingle Bell Inn restaurant and the North Pole mansion have to be homemade. Your buddy was making sugar cookie stars to hang on the trees. John said they've got six trees.”
Aarrgh. “I'll rescue him for a little bachelor party stuff this weekend.”
“Good luck. That fiancée Dolly's something else. John's in for a wild ride.”
That's what I'm afraid of.
Shandra spouted, “Two creepy boys from Italy are visiting them. Renzo and Romeo. They get like a hundred Christmas presents.”
“Please, Shandra Leigh.” Philippe's stern look sent her back to her cocoa cup before he smiled at Kade again. “Watch your step over there or you'll be putting together gingerbread houses tonight for your entertainment. There was some wedding planner gal looking for volunteers.”
“I plan to take my buddy out for a good time on the snowmobile trails, followed by a few brews.”
“First ya gotta get him out of his toga.”
“Toga?”
“He's playing Joseph this Christmas over in the park. If you hurry, mon ami, you shall find him there with his fiancée playing Mary. Her kid's a shepherd boy.” The trucker pulled Shandra's coat hood up over her head. “We gotta get back on the road.”
Shandra said, “I don't wanna go back. I wanna finish my cocoa now.”
“Come along, cheri.” Philippe picked up the stuffed pink and purple backpack.
After Philippe and Shandra left, Kade realized that to stop this wedding he had to break up the “Holy Family.” That certainly had an awkward taint to it. Dolly O'Toole, you're good at this game of snagging a man.
Back in his car, Kincaid inched down Main Street. Snowflakes the size of goose feathers fluttered onto his windshield. The town's main drag was barely as long as a Vegas casino. As Kade approached the mansion on the other end of town where he'd be staying and where the wedding was supposed to take place, the singing of “Away in the Manger” drifted into his car.
Across the street, about a hundred people huddled in the cold around a tiny, three-sided stable. It appeared Moonstone's town fathers allowed religious events on public property. Strings of lights illuminated the crèche. Kincaid spotted Boze in his flowing blue sheet. He sat amid yellow straw bales with a woman in a pink toga. Some kid in costume—probably her son Finn—appeared to be helping other children pet a donkey, goats, and an alpaca, the latter likely sufficing as a camel. Everybody sang from song books.
And to think I missed the party at the Wynn casino for this. But I'll be back by Sunday night, in time to take Honey-Honesty-Honda-what's-her-name to Bellagio's bash.
Kade was even thirstier now for a beer and a fast blast on a snowmobile. He drove into a tiny parking lot at the back of the mansion that held about ten cars, presumably owned by patrons of The Jingle Bell Inn restaurant. One look at the three-story Victorian house made him groan again. Oh, man, do I have my work cut out for me. The place is right out of a fairy tale.
The white house had a green roof and red trim. It sported a front verandah with railings decked out with red bows. Glass sconces flickered with real candles. His buddy Boze said the place had been dubbed the North Pole because the elderly owner, Henri LeBarron, had played Santa for several years for the town's celebrations. The old geezer had married a former nun in her late twenties. She'd given birth last spring to a baby girl. Kincaid planned to tell Boze to follow Henri's lead: Wait to settle down until you're in your eighties.
Before he could ring the bell, the front door opened wide to reveal a tall, pleasingly plump but shapely, young woman maybe his own age dressed in red and white with a blinking head. A blinking head?
“You're early,” she said, her brown eyes wide. “But come on in. We'll need to make this a quickie before they all come over from the park and catch us.” She grabbed his bag and his arm, pulling him inside as she said, “What position do you want me in first?”
~—~—~—~ ~
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Chapter 2
He stepped into a foyer with two unadorned trees and a chandelier above. The woman put his bag down near boxes overflowing with ribbons and tree decorations.
She said, “You're not as tall as I imagined you'd be. Should we do it with a ladder?”
What the hell? Flummoxed, he couldn't avert his gaze from the flashing red lights above her ears.
She laughed loudly in a full-throated, full-throttle way. “Like my lights?”
Only a couple inches shorter than his six feet, she batted long eyelashes over brown eyes that matched the color of her long, silky hair. The blinking lights were barrettes in the shape of Rudolph with a red nose. She wore a white pinafore apron over a red sweater and tights. When he was a kid one of his sisters had a doll that she dressed like this during the holiday. He had hated that Mrs. Claus doll; his sisters always talked to it as if it were real and they always ended up getting more presents than he did.
“Is there something wrong?” Mrs. Claus asked. She smelled like gingerbread and cinnamon. “I'm sorry I'm not ready, but I thought we made the appointments for Sunday afternoon and then every day after that. But let's get it on. Take off your boots. I'll take your hat and coat, too. After we're done, maybe you can help me figure out who keeps stealing
the gingerbread pieces for the houses.”
He cleared his throat to object, but she had him stripped in a blink. Were his jeans and ski sweater next? But she gasped, squinting at ... my crotch? “Yes, ma'am?”
“Is that humongous belt buckle comfortable for all the positions we'll be in? Can you bend over?”
“Why would I need to bend over?” He liked where this might be heading. He'd never had a girlfriend dress up like Mrs. Claus. “Usually, when things get hot, I take off the belt and buckle.”
“Well, hand them over. We're going to be upside down and all over this house.” She marched with his duds to an antique table then came back holding out a pair of green, knitted slippers with pointy toes.
“What are those?”
“Elf boots.” She had a round face with natural, apple cheeks he never saw anymore on women he dated. They had a hollow-cheek look, including Honey-Honesty-Honda-what's-her-face. “The booties stretch,” she said. “If they fit my big feet they'll fit yours.”
“Why should I wear elf boots?”
“I just polished the floors.”
“My socks aren't enough?”
“You may have picked up a tiny rock that'll scratch the floors. One scratch showing up in the magazine layout could ruin both of us.” She headed for the staircase, saying, “You've got a lot of equipment, cowboy. I'm sure you won't take long.”
Heat emanated from his epicenter, south of his equator. Then he noticed she was lifting his bag and meant that. She obviously thought he was a photographer.
She picked up a string of cranberries draped over the banister. “Are these shiny enough? I can spray them with more salad oil or use my lip gloss. Does it shine enough under the light?” She twitched her juicy lips about to catch the chandelier's light.
“Your lips look lovely, I mean, good, that is, the berries look good and red...” Like your cheeks.
He'd become tongue-tied. This had never happened to him before with a woman. If only he could talk about bulls, broken bones, and cattle breeding. Her sugary perfumes assailed him again. He did next what any man would do; he stared at her breasts. They were generous, natural mounds of loveliness tamed under the white pinafore apron and red sweater. They accentuated her every sigh and breath. Suddenly he wanted to get to know this woman, so he found words again.
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