Christmas Cowboy

by Diana Palmer

  “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

  * * *

  For the next two days, Dorie thought about nothing else except coming back to her hometown. While she thought, she wandered around the small yard, looking at the empty bird feeders and the squirrel feeder nearby. She saw the discarded watering pot, the weed-bound flower beds. Her father’s long absence had made its mark on the little property. It needed a loving hand to restore it.

  She stood very still as an idea formed in her mind. She didn’t have to sell the property. She could keep it. She could live here. With her math skills, and the bookkeeping training she’d had in business school, she could open a small bookkeeping service of her own. Clarisse could be a client. She could have others. She could support herself. She could leave New York.

  The idea took wing. She was so excited about it that she called Abby the next morning when she was sure that the boys would be in school.

  She outlined the idea to her friend. “Well, what do you think?” she asked enthusiastically.

  “I think it’s a great idea!” Abby exclaimed. “And the perfect solution. When are you going to start?”

  “Next week,” she said with absolute certainty. “I’ll use the Christmas vacation I would have had as my notice. It will only take a couple of days to pack up the few things I have. I’ll have to pay the rent, because I signed a lease, but if things work out as I hope they will, that won’t be a problem. Oh, Abby, it’s like a dream!”

  “Now you sound more like the Dorothy I used to know,” Abby told her. “I’m so glad you’re coming home.”

  “So am I,” Dorie replied, and even as she said it, she tried not to think of the complications that could arise. Corrigan was still around. But he’d made her a promise of sorts, and perhaps he’d keep it. Anyway, she’d worry about that situation later.

  * * *

  A week later, Dorie was settled into her father’s house, with all her bittersweet memories of him to keep her company. She’d shipped her few big things, like her piano, home by a moving service. Boxes still cluttered the den, but she was beginning to get her house into some sort of order.

  It needed a new roof, and some paint, as well as some plumbing work on the leaky bathtub faucet. But those were minor inconveniences. She had a good little nest egg in her savings account and it would tide her over, if she was careful, until she could be self-supporting in her business again.

  She had some cards and stationery printed and put an ad in the Jacobsville weekly newspaper. Then she settled in and began to work in the yard, despite the cold weather. She was finding that grief had to be worked through. It didn’t end at the funeral. And the house was a constant reminder of the old days when she and her father had been happy.

  So it was a shock to find Corrigan Hart on her doorstep the first Saturday she was in residence.

  She just stared at him at first, as if she’d been stunned. In fact, she was. He was the last person she’d have expected to find on her doorstep.

  He had a bouquet of flowers in the hand that wasn’t holding the cane and his hat. He proferred them brusquely.

  “Housewarming present,” he said.

  She took the pretty bouquet and belatedly stood aside. “Would you like to come in? I could make coffee.”

  He accepted the invitation, placing his hat on the rack by the door. He kept the cane and she noticed that he leaned on it heavily as he made his way to the nearest easy chair and sat down in it.

  “They say damp weather is hard on injured joints,” she remarked.

  His pale eyes speared into her face, with an equal mixture of curiosity and irritation. “They’re right,” he drawled. “Walking hurts. Does it help to have me admit it?”

  “I wasn’t trying to score points,” she replied quietly. “I didn’t get to say so in the café, but I’m sorry you got hurt.”

  His own eyes were pointed on the scar that ran the length of her cheek. “I’m sorry you did,” he said gruffly. “You mentioned coffee?”

  There it was again, that bluntness that had frightened her so much at eighteen. Despite the eight years in between, he still intimidated her.

  She moved into the small kitchen, visible from the living room, and filled the pot with water and a premeasured coffee packet. After she’d started it dripping, and had laid a tray with cups, saucers and the condiments, she rejoined him.

  “Are you settling in?” he asked a minute after she’d dropped down onto the sofa.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s strange, after being away for so many years. And I miss Dad. But I always loved this house. Eventually it will be comforting to live here. Once I get over the worst of the grieving.”

  He nodded. “We lost both our parents at once, in a flood,” he said tersely. “I remember how we felt.”

  He looked around at the high ceilings and marked walls, and the open fireplace. He nodded toward it. “That isn’t efficient. You need a stove in here.”

  “I need a lot of things in here, but I have to eat, too,” she said with a faint smile. She pushed back her short, wavy platinum hair and curled up on the sofa in her jeans and gray sweatshirt and socks. Her shoes were under the sofa. Even in cold weather, she hated wearing shoes around the house.

  He seemed to notice that and found it amusing, judging by the twinkle in his pale eyes.

  “I hate shoes,” she said.

  “I remember.”

  That was surprising. She hardly remembered the girl she’d been eight years ago. It seemed like a lifetime.

  “You had a dog, that damned little spaniel, and you were out in the front yard washing him one day when I drove by,” he recalled. “He didn’t like a bath, and you were soaked, bare feet, cutoffs, tank top and all.” His eyes darkened as he looked at her. “I told you to go in the house, do you remember?”

  “Yes.” The short command had always puzzled her, because he’d seemed angry, not amused as he did now.

  “I never said why,” he continued. His face tautened as he looked at her. “You weren’t wearing anything under that tank top and it was plastered to you,” he added quietly. “You can’t imagine what it did to me… And there was that damned Bobby Harris standing on the sidewalk gawking at you.”

  Bobby had asked her out later that day, and she’d refused, because she didn’t like him. He was an older boy; her father never had liked him.

  “I didn’t realize,” she said, amazed that the memory should be so tame now, when his odd behavior had actually hurt in the past. She actually flushed at the thought that he’d seen her that way so early in their relationship.

  “I know that, now, eight years too late,” he said abruptly.

  She cocked her head, studying him curiously.

  He saw her gaze and lifted his eyes. “I thought you were displaying your charms brazenly for my benefit, and maybe even for Bobby’s,” he said with a mocking smile. “That’s why I acted the way I did that last night we dated.”

  Her face thinned with distress. “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, his voice deep with bitterness. “I thought you were playing me for a sucker, Dorie. That you were pretending to be innocent because I was rich and you wanted a wedding ring instead of an affair.”

  The horror she felt showed in her wan face.

  “Yes, I know,” he said when she started to protest. “I only saw what I wanted to see. But the joke was on me. By the time I realized what a hell of a mistake I’d made about you, you were halfway on a bus out of town. I went after you. But I couldn’t manage the right words to stop you. My pride cut my throat. I was never that wrong about anyone before.”

  She averted her gaze. “It was a long time ago. I was just a kid.”

  “Yes. Just a kid. And I mistook you for a woman.” He studied her through narrow lids. “You don’t look much older even now. How did you get that scar?”

  Her fingers went to it. The memories poured over her, hot and hurting. She got to her feet. “I’ll see about the coffee.”

/>   She heard a rough sound behind her, but apparently it wasn’t something he wanted to put words to. She escaped into the kitchen, found some cookies to put in a bowl and carried the coffee back to the coffee table on a silver tray.

  “Fancy stuff,” he mused.

  She knew that he had equally fancy stuff at his place. She’d never been there, but she’d certainly heard about the Hart heirlooms that the four brothers displayed with such pride. Old Spanish silver, five generations old, dating all the way back to Spain graced their side table. There was crystal as well, and dozens of other heirlooms that would probably never be handed down. None of the Harts, it was rumored, had any ambitions of marrying.

  “This was my grandmother’s,” she said. “It’s all I had of her. She brought this service over from England, they said.”

  “Ours came from Spain.” He waited for her to pour the coffee. He picked up his cup, waving away cream and sugar. He took a sip, nodded and took another. “You make good coffee. Amazing how many people can’t.”

  “I’m sure it’s bad for us. Most things are.”

  He agreed. He put the cup back into the saucer and studied her over its rim. “Are you planning to stay for good?”

  “I guess so,” she faltered. “I’ve had stationery and cards printed, and I’ve already had two offers of work.”

  “I’m bringing you a third—our household accounts. We’ve been sharing them since our mother died. Consequently each of us insists that it’s not our turn to do them, so they don’t get done.”

  “You’d bring them to me?” she asked hesitantly.

  He studied her broodingly. “Why shouldn’t I? Are you afraid to come out to the ranch and do them?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course not,” he muttered, glaring at her. He sat forward, watching her uneasy movement. “Eight years, and I still frighten you.”

  She curled up even more. “Don’t be absurd. I’m twenty-six.”

  “You don’t look or act it.”

  “Go ahead,” she invited. “Be as blunt as you like.”

  “Thanks, I will. You’re still a virgin.”

  Coffee went everywhere. She cursed roundly, amusing him, as she searched for napkins to mop up the spill, which was mostly on her.

  “Why are you?” he persisted, baiting her. “Were you waiting for me?”

  She stood up, slamming the coffee cup to the floor. It shattered with a pleasantly loud crash, and she thanked goodness that it was an old one. “You son of a…!”

  He stood up, too, chuckling. “That’s better,” he mused, watching her eyes flash, her face burn with color.

  She kicked at a pottery shard. “Damn you, Corrigan Hart!”

  He moved closer, watching her eyelids flutter. She tried to back up, but she couldn’t go far. Her legs were against the sofa. There was no place to run.

  He paused a step away from her, close enough that she could actually feel the heat of his body through her clothing and his. He looked down into her eyes without speaking for several long seconds.

  “You’re not the child you used to be,” he said, his voice as smooth as velvet. “You can stand up for yourself, even with me. And everything’s going to be all right. You’re home. You’re safe.”

  It was almost as if he knew what she’d been through. His eyes were quiet and full of secrets, but he smiled. His hand reached out and touched her short hair.

  “You still wear it like a boy’s,” he murmured. “But it’s silky. Just the way I remember it.”

  He was much too close. He made her nervous. Her hands went out and pressed into his shirtfront, but instead of moving back, he moved forward. She shivered at the feel of his chest under her hands, even with the shirt covering it.

  “I don’t want a lover,” she said, almost choking on the words.

  “Neither do I,” he replied heavily. “So we’ll be friends. That’s all.”

  She nibbled on her lower lip. He smelled of spice and leather. She used to dream about him when she first left home. Over the years, he’d assumed the image of a protector in her mind. Strange, when he’d once frightened her so much.

  Impulsively she laid her cheek against his chest with a little sigh and closed her eyes.

  He shivered for an instant, before his lean hands pressed her gently to him, in a nonthreatening way. He stared over her head with eyes that blazed, eyes that he was thankful she couldn’t see.

  “We’ve lost years,” he said half under his breath. “But Christmas brings miracles. Maybe we’ll have one of our own.”

  “A miracle?” she mused, smiling. She felt ever so safe in his arms. “What sort?”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured, absently stroking her hair. “We’ll have to wait and see. You aren’t going to sleep, are you?”

  “Not quite.” She lifted her head and looked up at him, a little puzzled at the familiarity she felt with him. “I didn’t expect that you’d ever be comfortable to be around.”

  “How so?”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t afraid.”

  “Why should you be?” he replied. “We’re different people now.”

  “I guess.”

  He brushed a stray hair from her eyebrow with a lean, sure hand. “I want you to know something,” he said quietly. “What happened that night…I wouldn’t have forced you. Things got a little out of hand, and I said some things, a lot of things, that I regret. I guess you realize now that I had a different picture of you than the one that was real. But even so, I wouldn’t have harmed you.”

  “I think I knew that,” she said. “But thank you for telling me.”

  His hand lay alongside her soft cheek and his metallic eyes went dark and sad. “I mourned you,” he said huskily. “Nothing was the same after you’d gone.”

  She lowered her eyes to his throat. “I didn’t have much fun in New York at first, either.”

  “Modeling wasn’t all it was cracked up to be?”

  She hesitated. Then she shook her head. “I did better as a stenographer.”

  “And you’ll do even better as a financial expert, right here,” he told her. He smiled, tilting up her chin. “Are you going to take the job I’ve offered you?”

  “Yes,” she said at once. Her gaze drew slowly over his face. “Are your brothers like you?”

  “Wait and see.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  He chuckled, moving slowly away from her to retrieve his cane from the chair. “They’re no worse, at least.”

  “Are they as outspoken as you?”

  “Definitely.” He saw her apprehension. “Think of the positive side. At least you’ll always know exactly where you stand with us.”

  “That must be a plus.”

  “Around here, it is. We’re hard cases. We don’t make friends easily.”

  “And you don’t marry. I remember.”

  His face went hard. “You have plenty of reason to remember that I said that. But I’m eight years older, and a lot wiser. I don’t have such concrete ideas anymore.”

  “You mean, you’re not still a confirmed bachelor?” She laughed nervously. “They say you’re taken with the gay divorcée, just the same.”

  “How did you hear about her?” he asked curtly.

  His level, challenging gaze made her uneasy. “People talk,” she said.

  “Well, the gay divorcée,” he emphasized, his expression becoming even more remote, “is a special case. And we’re not a couple. Despite what you may have heard. We’re friends.”

  She turned away. “That’s no concern of mine. I’ll do your bookkeeping on those household accounts, and thank you for the work. But I have no interest in your private life.”

  He didn’t return the compliment. He reached for his hat and perched it on his black hair. There were threads of gray at his temples now, and new lines in his dark, lean face.

  “I’m sorry about your accident,” she said abruptly, watching him lean heavily on the cane.

  �
�I’ll get by,” he said. “My leg is stiff, but I’m not crippled. It hurts right now because I took a toss off a horse, and I need the cane. As a rule, I walk well enough without one.”

  “I remember the way you used to ride,” she recalled. “I thought I’d never seen anything in my life as beautiful as you astride a horse at a fast gallop.”

  His posture went even more rigid. “You never said so.”

  She smiled. “You intimidated me. I was afraid of you. And not only because you wanted me.” She averted her eyes. “I wanted you, too. But I hadn’t been raised to believe in a promiscuous life-style. Which,” she added, looking up at his shocked face, “was all you were offering me. You said so.”

  “God help me, I never knew that your father was a minister and your mother a missionary,” he said heavily. “Not until it was far too late to do me any good. I expected that all young women were free with their favors in this age of no-consequences intimacy.”

  “It wouldn’t be of no consequence to me,” she said firmly. “I was never one to go with the crowd. I’m still not.”

  “Yes, I know,” he murmured dryly, giving her a long, meaningful glance. “It’s obvious.”

  “And it’s none of your business.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” He tilted his hat over his eyes. “I haven’t changed completely, you know. I still go after the things I want, even if I don’t go as fast as I used to.”

  “I expect you do,” she said. “Does the divorcée know?”

  “Know what? That I’m persistent? Sure she does.”

  “Good for her.”

  “She’s a beauty,” he added, propping on his stick. “Of an age to be sophisticated and good fun.”

  Her heart hurt. “I’m sure you enjoy her company.”

  “I enjoy yours as much,” he replied surprisingly. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Don’t you like cookies?” she asked, noting that he hadn’t touched them.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t care for sweets at all.”

  “Really?”

  He shrugged. “We never had them at home. Our mother wasn’t the homey sort.”

  “What was she like?” she had to ask.

  “She couldn’t cook, hated housework and spouted contempt for any woman who could sew and knit and crochet,” he replied.