A Christmas Cowboy to Keep

by Hebby Roman

“Fall down, huh.” Grayson pulled out a chair and eased himself into it. “Men tell me things are runnin’ pretty smoothly, that you haven’t ‘lost your cool’ as one of them put it, whatever that means. Folks seem to speak a different language these days. Why can’t they just speak plain English?”

  “They are speaking plain English. You just are living in the Dark Ages.”

  “I am, am I? Well.” He studied his gnarled hands, rubbing them a bit as if he were cold.

  “Are you all right?”

  “’Course I’m all right.”

  “I’m planning a Thanksgiving menu. You and the men are invited. Any special requests?”

  “You invite Tate and Eleanor?”

  “Oh.” Carrie stopped her list for a moment and stared across at Grayson. “Well, of course, I’d like to have Tate and his mom but I thought from what he said they had something planned so I didn’t push it.”

  “Had something planned, huh? My guess is what they had planned was a twosome or something like. Tate usually gives the men some time off ’bout now. Not a lot to do.”

  Carrie peered across at her foreman who was still studying his hands as if there were a road map he had to memorize. Something was up. “So, you want me to invite the two of them?”

  “Well, heck.” His head shot up and he snarled at her. “It’s not what I want. It’s the neighborly thing to do. And him courtin’ you and all. For years, that lady had your uncle and me over for Thanksgiving, best biscuits I ever tasted, and occasionally a wild turkey one of us had got. It might be nice if you did the cookin’, seein’ as how you can.”

  Carrie rested her head on her fist at the table and stared at him. She decided to ignore the ‘courting’ reference. “Okay. I’ll invite them. Or maybe you can go and extend the invitation.”

  “Me?”

  “Yup. You. You’re the one who came up with the idea.”

  “Oh, come on now, Missy. Don’t tell me you didn’t think of spending Thanksgiving with lover-boy over there.”

  “Grayson! Tate is not my lover—”

  “Yet.”

  “Grayson! We’re just good friends.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard that one before. You call it what you will.” He started to get up, then sank back down, the chair scraping on the floor. “Okay, I got somethin’ else to say. Something I been thinkin’ for a while now, since you arrived.”

  “And that is?”

  “Well. Now don’t go getting your bloomers in a twist....”

  “We don’t wear bloomers any more.”

  “All right. Whatever undergarment it is since I last....”

  Carrie’s eyes grew wide. The thought of Grayson being interested in anything more than cows and horses hadn’t occurred to her and wasn’t something she could envisage.

  “So here’s what I’m thinking. Something that will let you live here without the responsibility of running the ranch—”

  “I’m not selling land. And that, as they say, is that.”

  “Not selling. Leasing. Did Tate not mention to you he’d been after Tom, as he grew older, to let Tate lease the land? Tate thought it would let the old man have a retirement, relax some, and that he’d be satisfied that the land was in good hands. But, oh no, your Uncle Tom was the most pig-headed sonavabitch that ever lived on God’s green earth.”

  “So you’ve told me.”

  Grayson slapped the table. “So he was. That sonavabitch would be with us today if he had listened to Tate.”

  Carrie put her pen and paper aside and held Grayson’s gaze for a full minute. “Here’s the thing,” she said. “I’m not my uncle’s age, I don’t want to retire, and I do want my son to have something here to look forward to.”

  “But Missy, you don’t know if Tim is cut out for this, whether he’ll go on to want to be a rancher. Why, he’s just a mere tike—and one that’s been beggin’ for a horse you’re not gettin’ him.”

  Carrie rose, the chair tumbling over as she did so. “You were going to look for one for him! I never said he couldn’t have a pony!”

  “Oh. Well. I did look, but I never found any ride worth having for the boy. And I’m still looking, before you go jumping to any conclusions.”

  “What conclusion would I be jumping to?”

  “I dunno. But you ladies are always jumping to conclusions. I got more than a month to Christmas anyway.”

  Carrie bent and straightened the chair, before leaning on the table, palms spread out, and glaring at Grayson. “I’m not leasing land, Grayson. I’ve got income from my editing and we’re doing fine so far.”

  “It’s not...it’s not the money. It’s the toll. I see what time your lights go off when you’re reading and going over books, whether they be them ones you’re editing or the ones I give you to check with ranch accounts. You don’t have a life save Tate comin’ over here for lunch or them Saturday nights.”

  “That is a life!” She threw her hands up in the air. “It’s a fine life! I spend time with my son, I do my work, I get out with you or Tate on the ranch when the snow permits, and I’m happy. It’s a fine life.”

  “Yeah, but young women like you should be raisin’ more little ones.”

  Carrie groaned.

  “Come spring it’ll be a whole different kettle of cows. You’ll see. There’ll be calving, and harvest, and baling, and branding, and then the rodeo will start and the men will want time off, and so on and so forth. Missy, you won’t know what hit ya.” He clasped his hands. “Listen to me, will ya.”

  “No. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But I have to at least try it. I can always lease to Tate or whoever later on. There’s always a call to lease good land, and this is good land.” She breathed in deeply as if the very air of Wyoming fulfilled her. “Now, tell me what you’d like for Thanksgiving. Other than turkey of course.”

  * * *

  “Oh, my gosh, Tim. You have another letter from Santa! Santa must write to you more than any other little boy on the planet!”

  “Let me see!” Tim adjusted his school backpack as they marched back through the snow to the ranch house. One of the men had plowed the drive, and deep mounds lined the road like miniature mountains. Beyond, the jagged pinnacles of the Tetons pierced the sky. “I wonder why he wrote? I didn’t write him again after the last time.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe he’s had an idea. Do you want me to read it?”

  “No! The letters are very private. I’ve told you that a dozen times!”

  Carrie had to muffle a giggle. “Okay, well, if you need any help let me know. Here it is.” She pulled the letter out from the bunch she’d taken from the mailbox while waiting for his school bus, a smudge of melted snow making the address weep.

  As they entered the ranch house from the front and Tim dropped his bag to struggle out of his snowsuit, the resonant tone of Tate’s voice greeted them.

  “Anybody home?”

  “We are now.” Carrie took Tim’s outer clothes and hung them on a hook by the door as he dashed off to his room. “Hey, hey, go say hello to Tate please before you disappear.”

  Tim stopped and stood in the doorway to the kitchen. He gave a rather limpid wave and then scurried away.

  “Don’t you want your milk and cookies?” Carrie called after him.

  “In a minute!”

  She rolled her eyes at Tate. “Another letter from Santa. Private, of course.”

  “And so it should be.” He came forward and leaned in for a kiss, his mouth at first brushing hers before he held her closer and she opened her lips to him.

  Carrie felt her toes curl in her boots. Tate definitely had an electrifying effect on her, one that made her stomach drop and her legs weaken. She moved away. “Do you want milk and cookies, too?”

  “Well, I can think of things other than milk and cookies I’d like right now but I’ll settle for whatever’s going.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

>   She emptied the coffee maker to start fresh, feeling his gaze on her.

  “Grayson suggested I lease my land to you.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah? Is that what you would like?”

  Tate sucked in a breath. “I’d like whatever makes you happy. That was an idea I put to your uncle Tom when I felt the ranch was getting too much for him to run but, as you can see, he never took me up on it. Is the ranch too much for you to run? What with your other work and all?”

  “Grayson says it will be come spring. So far, I’m managing. But maybe I’m managing because you’re here telling me what I have to do, ignoring your own place.”

  “My place is running fine. Don’t worry about my place. Leave that to me to worry about.”

  “Well. You do spend a lot of time here.” She tried to keep her gaze on the stream of dripping coffee.

  Tate came up behind her and clasped her, his fingers spread out holding her tight. He rested his chin on the top of her head. “There are other reasons, you know, why a cowboy might keep visiting a young lady rancher.”

  “There are?” She leaned back into him.

  “Uh-huh.” He rubbed his chin in her hair.

  “And what might those be?”

  He kissed the top of her head and pulled back. “Because she makes a damn good cup of coffee.”

  Carrie grunted as Tim appeared waving the letter from Santa.

  “Santa’s weird.” Puzzlement scrunched his little face.

  Tate moved away from Carrie and leaned against the wall, his long legs crossed at the ankles mirroring his arms across his chest.

  “Why is that, Button?” Carrie felt her face reflect her son’s as she poured Tate’s coffee and turned to hand it to him. She stopped as she spotted his pensive expression, before he took the mug.

  “He really didn’t say anything. He’s being mysterious,” Tim grumped.

  “In what way?” Tate took a sip of his coffee and peered at Tim over the top of his drink.

  “He just asked do I prefer white or black-and-white?”

  Carrie looked from one to the other. “What?”

  “Hmm. That is mysterious.” Tate placed his coffee on the table. “Paint colors perhaps?”

  “That’s silly. Why would he ask about paint colors? I don’t want a painting kit for Christmas.” The disappointment on Tim’s face was evident. “Can I have my snack now please?”

  Carrie went to the fridge and started assembling Tim’s nosh. “Sounds like horse colors to me. That’s what you wanted for Christmas, isn’t it, Tim? Don’t you think so, Tate? That it’s horse colors?” As she handed her son his milk and turned to get the cookies, she caught Tate’s puckered face, as if he were thinking but he avoided her gaze. It was evident to her that Tate liked to be in control, involved. Maybe he didn’t feel that when it came to Tim?

  “I would think so,” he said at last. “Horse colors sounds very likely.”

  Tim lit up. “Really? Wow! And Davy keeps telling me Santa doesn’t exist. I’ll show him.” He gulped down his milk, swiped at his mouth, and ran off with a handful of cookies.

  “Hmm. This Santa really is something,” Carrie noted. She checked that Tim was out of earshot. “Do you think Santa might be Grayson?”

  “Doubt it.” Tate pulled out a chair and folded himself into it.

  “I wish I could thank him.”

  “How would you thank him?”

  “Not sure.”

  He reached for her and pulled her onto his lap. “You trying to make me jealous?”

  “Haha. Christmas is about four weeks away, so I’ll have to think of something in case I discover who the heck it is.” When there was no response, she said, “In the meantime, maybe I can settle for having you and your mom to Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Oh.” Tate pulled back slightly, his lips turned up as his eyes lit. “That would be very nice. I actually came here to invite you over to our place!”

  “Did you now? Well, I was going to have my ranch hands as well as Grayson, so let’s have it here. I understand you let your men go for the weekend.”

  “I do. And so should you. Didn’t Grayson tell you Tom used to let them go as well?”

  “No, he didn’t. That’s strange, I wonder why.”

  Tate laughed as he wrapped his arms around Carrie to pull her closer. A frisson of lightning bolted through her as she leaned against the broad expanse of his chest. “I can tell you why. He didn’t want it to be just the four of us. He would find that uncomfortable, me and you, him and my mom.”

  “But why?”

  Tate lifted a finger and gently pulled her face around toward him. “Well, think about it. You’ll figure it out.”

  Chapter Eight

  Waking at five was not Carrie’s idea of a good time, especially when it meant bundling up against single digit temperatures, but she dragged herself from her bed, made sure Tim was sound asleep, and crept out the door. Dark greeted her, a dry, frigid blackness punctuated only by a light from the bunkhouse. She had to muck out the stables before she hitched up the Percherons to the feed sleigh. Grayson drove while Carrie did her best to shove or fork off the hay bales, and there was breaking ice on the tanks to accomplish as well. Building muscles, good exercise, she said to herself, only half believing it. How did a city-bred girl get herself into this?

  When the draft horses were brushed down, watered and back in their stalls, Carrie’s feelings of achievement made her giddy. She couldn’t believe she’d done all that—even if it had included practically tumbling off the back of the sleigh when one shove of the hay bale had been slightly too energetic.

  She left Grayson to do some lighter chores, opened the back door, and the warmth of the house bathed her in welcome. She eased off her gloves, toed out of her boots, and hung up her outer clothes before heading straight into turkey preparations, vegetable peeling, and hors d’oeuvre arrangements. Some of the work had been done the previous day but while the thought of going back to bed might be tempting, she knew she’d never get it all done if she let herself rest. And almost on the dot of eight, a sleepy Tim made his way down to the kitchen. He rubbed his eyes as he momentarily peered at his mother mixing dough for biscuits.

  “Oh, Tim, for heaven’s sake, don’t stand there barefoot. You’ll catch a cold. And where’s your robe?” She dusted down her hands and ran them under the faucet. “C’mon, c’mon, shoo. Upstairs with you and get slippers and a robe on if you’re not going to get dressed just yet.”

  “Ohhhh. I’m hungry. Can we have French toast?”

  Carrie sagged. “I think it’s going to be cereal today, Button. There’s a huge lunch coming and you don’t want to be too full.”

  Tim groaned as he twisted back toward the stairs.

  Carrie listened as her son clumped up the steps to his room. By the time he returned, she’d got a choice of cereal on the table, a pitcher of milk, and a bowl with blueberries.

  “Do you think Santa is getting me a pony if he asked what color I’d like?” He squirmed onto a chair and grabbed a cereal carton, shaking the contents on top of the berries.

  Carrie reached across and poured his milk. “I have no idea what Santa’s intentions are as far as your Christmas present is concerned.”

  “What do you think Santa is going to get you, Mom?”

  “A second pair of hands might be nice.”

  “I bet you’d like a big kiss from Tate.”

  Carrie stopped in her tracks. “And what makes you think that, young man?”

  “I’ve seen you smooching. Can Tate be my new Daddy do you think? If you asked him?”

  Out of the mouths of babes. “I can’t ask him anything like that, Tim, and don’t you either, please. It’s not nice.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it isn’t. Becoming someone’s daddy in this manner is for the man to decide.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the way it is:
men decide that sort of thing for themselves, okay?”

  “Then can Grayson be my grandpa?”

  Carrie felt like screaming. “Grayson cannot be your grandpa because he isn’t my father. But Grayson will always be welcome here and treated as if he were your grandpa. How’s that?”

  “Okay.”

  Thank goodness.

  “But I still think maybe Tate would like to be my new daddy.”

  * * *

  Several outfits lay in various states of disarray around the master bedroom as Carrie stood in front of the mirror and smoothed down the skirt of her red dress. Nope, save this for Christmas maybe—red for Christmas. She struggled with the back zipper, yanked the dress over her head, and surveyed the previously discarded items. Ugh, this is so hopeless!

  Fetching a dark green tartan two piece stuffed at the very back of the closet, she held it up in front of her before she slipped into it. The white Peter Pan collar made it somewhat youthful, but she decided it struck the right balance of ‘smart’ and not too city-ish. She wiggled into her heels, ran a comb through her hair leaving it down, and finished with a quick dip of mascara. The aroma of the turkey drifted upstairs, a sure sign it was nearly cooked.

  As she made her way down to the kitchen, sounds of shoot-out and galloping horses greeted her from the television room. Peering in, Grayson sat with his arm over the top of the sofa where Tim watched, the boy spellbound by the movie.

  “Well, what have we here? You see your mama, Tim, all gussied up.”

  Tim glanced at Carrie with a modicum of interest, then quickly switched back to the TV. “Yeah.”

  “Gee, thanks for the enthusiasm, Tim.” She winked at Grayson before she headed into the kitchen and tied on her apron.

  “Anything I can do?” His gravel voice rumbled from the den.

  “Nope, but thanks. Just keeping Tim occupied is great.”

  The back door almost flew open as Tate entered. “Wow, what a smell. This is fabulous.” He carried two bottles of champagne that clunked together in a bag, their foil tops just peeping out. He pulled out a huge box of chocolates as well. “Thought I’d bring these over before going to collect Mom. Anything I can do?”

  Carrie looked at the box of expensive chocolates and watched as Tate found places for the champagne in the fridge. Her body seemed to just fill with happiness; he would make a terrific new daddy for Tim if it came down to it. “Wow, thanks so much.” Her voice was quiet, thoughtful.