by Hebby Roman
“Daniel,” she spoke softly. “I love you, too. I haven’t even had the time to examine all these new feelings I have for you, but I have them and they’re real. I want to wake up next to you each morning and go to sleep beside you every night.”
He set the guitar onto the small table, pulled her to him and kissed her.
She kissed him back. “Feel better now?”
“Yes and no,” he teased. “Seems you’ve created another problem that I happen to know only you can take care of.”
“You’re bad. You know very well we have other pressing matters to attend to.”
“If I promise to attend to business and wrap up the event with you, do you promise—”
“Something you will learn about me, Daniel Dylan Layman.” She kissed him and ran her finger across his bottom lip. “I always keep my promises. Merry Christmas.”
Thank you for reading Christmas, Liberty, and the Three Minute Man by Amazon Best-selling author Carra Copelin. If you’d like to read more of Carra’s books, you can find them on Amazon and website.
A Christmas Carole
By Andrea Downing
Contemporary Western Romance
Copyright © 2018 by Andrea Downing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law embodied in critical articles or reviews.
The characters, events and locales portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or named venues is coincidental and not intended by the author.
About A Christmas Carole
Carrie Matheson is happy to start a new life at the Wyoming ranch she has inherited, but her six-year-old son wants to return to New York. As Christmas approaches and his pleas to Santa receive replies, it’s alarm bells, not sleigh bells that start ringing. Tate Schrugge is amused by his new neighbor when she jogs over with some mis-delivered mail, but after she calls him Scrooge, she’s definitely not on his Christmas list. If these two can get together, it might be the Dickens of a romance.
Chapter One
Stave One;
Christmas Past
“I do not want to go to the Halloween party as a ghost! Everyone will be going as a ghost.”
“You’re not going as a ghost. You’re going as Christmas Past, which is quite different.” Carrie Matheson scanned the hang-dog expression of her six-year-old son and wished she could wipe the lines from his face. “It’s very clever.”
“It isn’t clever! It’s dumb.” Tim stomped his little foot. “Everyone hates me and now they’ll hate me even more.”
Carrie crouched down to be on eye level with her little boy. “No one hates you, Tim. You’re new in school so they’re getting to know you.” She pushed a lank of hair out of his eyes with all the tenderness she felt for her child. “I thought you said you had made friends with that boy, Davy.”
“No! I want to go home!”
“Tim, this is home now. We’re going to live here in Wyoming permanently. Have you seen how beautiful it is?”
“New York is more beautiful! I want to go home!”
Carrie sighed, a sigh that came from the deepest part of her being, a breath of fatigue that would not go away. The inheritance of a ranch from an uncle she had met twice in her life and could hardly remember seemed to have come at just the right moment. She had needed this change, had needed to get Tim out of the city, and had realized she could continue as a book editor from anywhere in the country. Why bring up her son in the rat-infested dirt of New York? Tim’s father had never been in the picture, removed to somewhere in California, and last she had heard he had started another family with his sixteen year old new love. Okay, okay, so she’s not sixteen. Twenty-two and just graduated. Bitch! Oh, dear. Try not to be jealous, Carrie, you’re doing okay.
“Listen, Button. This is all I have for a Halloween costume at the moment.” She waved a hand at the cartons stacked high in the hall. “We’re not completely unpacked. A sheet and a—”
“I want to go as a cowboy!”
Carrie sagged.
“I want a cowboy hat and spurs!”
Carrie ran a hand over her face and held it at her mouth to stop from screaming. “Tim. Listen. We’ve only just arrived really, and in—”
“No, we haven’t. We’ve been here two weeks and I hate it.”
She stroked his small form from his shoulder to his hand. “You don’t hate it, Tim. You’ll love it here. We’re just not settled in yet, we don’t really know anyone, and we’re just finding our way.”
“I’ve found my way! I want a horse.”
At this, Carrie collapsed on the floor, shook her head, and moaned something that sounded pretty close to a death rattle. “Tim, I’m sorry, but it will all take time, getting you a pony, making sure you can ride. I don’t even know...I don’t even know who to ask about that.”
“You ask that man, that Grayson.”
“Grayson is what is called our ‘foreman’ or ‘manager’. And, yes, I’ll ask him, but not now. Okay? Let’s just concentrate on the Halloween party for now, and take our time with the rest of this stuff. I promise everything will work out.” She hesitated before rising from the floor. “Okay, ready for school?”
Tim looked like a beagle that had had a bad day. “I guess.” He stopped in his tracks, then fumbled in his backpack. “I wrote a letter to Santa. Will you mail it for me?”
“Santa? It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?”
“No! The sooner I write the quicker Santa can act on it. Later on he’ll be busy with other stuff.”
Carrie had to bite her lip but a giggle still escaped that she managed to cover as her throat being cleared. “Fine. Let’s see the letter. Who helped you write it?”
“No one. It’s private.”
They were going to be late and miss the bus if she argued with him. “Okay.” She took the letter. “I’ll put it in the box. Isn’t that fun? That’s something you don’t do in New York: use your own mailbox to mail things.”
Tim’s eyes grew wide as if that were the dumbest idea.
Carrie got him into his jacket and hat and packaged up the ghost sheet and Christmas garland he was supposed to put around his neck for the Halloween party. She escorted him down to the road for the school bus. Billows of breath signaled the chill of the autumn morning. When the flash of bright yellow appeared at the top of the hill, vivid against the blue sky and browns of October Wyoming, she gave her son a little pat and a wide smile.
“It’ll be a great Halloween party. You’ll see. And just breathe in this air!”
Tim glanced at her with a snarl of disgust. “I want to go home,” he announced.
“Tim….Here’s the bus.”
She gave him a hug before he hopped up the steps and disappeared into the conveyance, then turned back to her ranch road as the bus departed. The entry sign—Lazy M Ranch—stabbed her with pride as she grabbed yesterday’s mail out of the box and headed back to the house.
Nothing lazy about this place!
Concern about Tim settling gnawed at her and it hurt that he said he didn’t like it. She knew she had yanked him away from familiar friends and accustomed places, but her own need for a change of scene was coupled with her strong belief he would be better for growing up in the country.
At the door, Grayson received her with a throaty cough that could only have come from years of smoking. Carrie had never seen him smoke, so she guessed those days were gone—or at least she hoped so.
“Hey,” she greeted him. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Not if you’re going to serve me that New York piss you tried to pawn off on me last time.” He had a voice like gravel in a kitchen blender.
“That was tea, Grayson. Come on in.”
He followed her into the house, a house he no doubt knew well. The leather couches, pictures of moose and bison, Native American rugs, antler lighting and heads of elk told of a masculine occupant rather than a mother and child. His spurs rang on the wood floors. “I just come to tell ya we’re moving the herd to winter pasture—not that you’d know what that is, but I feel it my duty to tell ya.”
“And I appreciate that.” She filled her coffee pot and started spooning coffee in the paper, setting it to brew. “I do really want to learn about the ranch.”
“You really ought to sell. Or find a husband who knows ranching. This is no place—”
“Thank you, Grayson.” She eyed his grizzly face, the unkempt grey mustache, and watery grey eyes. Old time cowboy. With old time views. But honest.
“Well. Don’t thank me yet. Wait ’til I walk off with your money, steal your cattle and horses, and the men all desert you.”
She squinted at him. “I don’t think so. The account books I can read. And somehow I don’t think you’re the type. Honest as the day is long, I’d say.”
“Ha!” He snorted.
“I do need to think about a pony for my son, though. Any ideas?”
Grayson gave out a long breath as if it might be his last. “I’ll think about it. There’s a number of ranches might have something worthwhile but buying a horse ain’t like going to the grocer’s.”
Carrie picked up the mail and looked at it, noting the address on the top for the first time: Schrugge Ranch. “Shit. Who the hell is E.T. Scrooge?”
Grayson glanced over her shoulder. “You call Tate, Scrooge, and he’ll whack you one. It’s pronounced Shrug. Next door ranch in case you hadn’t noticed.” Grayson started for the door. He looked up at the ceiling for a brief moment. “You better bring them letters over there. Might be something he needs, and, anyway, it’d be polite to introduce yourself.”
“Okay. I’ll go on my run. You don’t want the coffee?”
Another phlegmy cough was his initial reply as he headed to the back. “Down to the road, turn left and about two miles on. Watch for any ice. I reckon most of the last snowfall has melted but there may be patches. You go on up and drop them letters at the house. If no one is around—they have a daily help who trundles about—just ring the triangle in the back and someone will come, maybe one of the hands or something. The house is always open if you get really desperate.”
Carrie stood amazed. That was about the longest speech Grayson had recited to her so far. “I wouldn’t be comfortable just walking in.”
“No, figured as much. But this is Wyoming. Try to keep that in mind.” He opened the back door. “And this being Wyoming, next time you offer someone coffee, it better be ready. And hot.” With that, he was gone.
Carrie huffed out her exasperation and headed to her room, decided to postpone her shower until after the run, and began to riffle through her jumble of clothes for her running gear. She pulled out a fluorescent pink ‘wife beater’ style top and started to look around for the black shorts she usually wore with it. No black but a pair of tiger stripe leggings she’d bought on a whim, and had never worn, came to hand. She shrugged to herself, decided no one important would see her and, anyway, she didn’t really care—might as well get some use out of them. Her bright blue sneakers completed the outfit. She noted her long blonde hair was in need of a wash, caught it back into a ponytail, and slipped on her Mets baseball cap.
Outside, the chill dry air prickled her and goose bumps came up on her arms. She considered going back for her sweatshirt but knew once she started she wouldn’t need it. She tucked the letters into a pack on her waist, let her lungs fill, and gazed at the sky. Hyacinth blue, deep and pure and not a cloud to be seen. Starting off, she set a steady pace over the ranch lane down to the main road. A scent of pine and something else, something she didn’t recognize but that felt unsoiled and invigorating, hit her.
Nothing was chasing her, she wasn’t running from anything nor to anything, this was now purely for her. There was no one telling her what to do, no outside interference of any kind, and no pain stopping her. Her only challenger was herself. She wished she had worn her iPod and headphones but just time to think was equally welcome.
On the main road she stayed well to her right. The sudden sense of good fortune to have inherited a property—a ranch no less!—in this serene place hit her. Okay, so it wasn’t going to be easy, but she would struggle through. Only Tim’s happiness was a major concern.
She spotted the mailbox for the Schrugge ranch. Not bad. As Grayson had advised, she headed up their ranch road and admired the long, low log-cabin-style home—certainly larger than any log cabin she’d ever seen. There were rocking chairs on a front porch and hooks where she could envisage hanging baskets in the spring and summer, large old milk urns crying out for geraniums or other flowers. From beyond came the sound of some cattle lowing and the nickers of horses. Probably the rancher had also brought his herd down from high ground for the winter.
Carrie jogged in place so she could make the run back to her ranch, and knocked with a somewhat heavy hand on the front door. Footsteps sounded from inside and Carrie pulled the letters out from her pack, scanned them briefly before the door opened and revealed a stout woman.
This person smiled a welcome as she stood giving Carrie the once over, and then took a step back.
Carrie continued her jogging. “Uh. Mrs. Scrooge…I mean, Schrugge?”
The woman’s face abruptly changed. “You call anyone around here Scrooge and you’ll be the one wishing for Christmas past. What can I do for you?”
“Sorry. Sorry, only these letters were mistakenly left over at the Lazy M so I—”
“Hetty? Do you need me?” A deep, rich voice came from further inside the house, followed by the soft tread of socked feet approaching.
Carrie tried to continue to jog in place but nearly tripped over her own feet when the owner of the voice appeared. She found herself peering up at about six foot three of brown-haired, blue-eyed, chiseled cowboy. Somewhat embarrassed, she noted his gaze run over her from her baseball cap to her sneakers and back up again, a suppressed smile on his face before he spoke. She swiped a line of sweat trickling its way down from under her cap.
“Uh.” He seemed at a loss for words. “Can I help?”
Hetty’s knuckled fist sat on her expansive waist. She shook her head. “She’s brought letters from the Lazy M.”
He looked confused. “An invitation?”
Was there the merest glimmer of hope in his voice? “No, um…letters meant for you were mistakenly put in my box.” Carrie handed over the pile. “I mean, I’m sure if I were inviting…or having a party—oh hell, I mean, I’m sure—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Get hold of yourself, will you, and stop jiggling about like that for a second.” Hetty shook her head in dismay, then looked up to the rancher. “I’ll leave Miss Smelly Neon Bright with you to sort out, I’ve got work to do.” With that, she waddled away.
Carrie took in a deep breath and started again. “Sorry. The letters were left in our mailbox so I brought them over. That’s all.”
“Got it the first time. Or maybe it was the second.” His gaze examined her once more and his brow wrinkled. “You said ‘our box’. Are you…?”
“Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Carrie Matheson.” She extended her damp hand and the cowboy grasped it.
“Tate.”
She noticed he didn’t give his last name, but then again, he didn’t have to since she had his letters.
“I was sorry to hear about Tom’s passing. You must’ve been very close.”
“Well. No, actually, he was my father’s older brother and we rarely saw him.”
“Oh.”
“But he left me the ranch I guess as his only relative, aside from my father of course, so I’m here now.”
“I can see that.”
Carrie stood in stupefied emba
rrassment for a moment before she tried to jog once more. “Well. I better be off. I’m running.”
“Yeah. I can see that, too. I was sort of hoping that wasn’t your normal attire.”
Carrie caught her breath and had to stop herself from smacking him. The nerve! He probably never wore anything other than jeans and a checked shirt. Even if those jeans did fit remarkably well, and the blue checked shirt brought out his eyes. She glared at him one long instant before stepping off the porch to leave. Then she twisted back to him.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Scrooge.”
Chapter Two
Tate Schrugge slapped the fan of letters against his palm as he stood watching the woman disappear at a pretty good clip down his ranch road. So that’s my new neighbor. Well, I’ll be. Eyes the green of Teton pine and hair like a summer’s day. And no dress sense at all. Phew!
He smiled to himself as he turned back inside and closed the door against the cold. He glanced at the letters as he drifted back to his office. Bills mostly: Lower Valley Energy, Spectrum, a flyer about some event in town, and…a letter to Santa at the North Pole? Tate stopped in his tracks. What the heck was that? A joke? He flipped it over and saw the return address was Tim Matheson, “Lacie M Ranch.” That her kid? Well, now….
He flapped the letter in his hand, considering. What was he thinking? He’d only just broken up with Stephie Kelton when he came to the realization she wanted to live down in Denver and have the ranch as a weekend retreat. Her words replayed in his mind: ‘your hired hands do most of the work, anyway, so why not consider working from Denver?’ At first he thought she’d been kidding, but no—she was absolutely serious. Was that how well she knew him after all that time together? Desk work in Denver? So why did he even vaguely reflect on the girl who’d just run down the lane in a blaze of color? A city girl, Grayson had said.
