A Very Cowboy Christmas

by Kim Redford

  Also by Kim Redford

  Smokin’ Hot Cowboys

  A Cowboy Firefighter for Christmas

  Blazing Hot Cowboy

  A Very Cowboy Christmas

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  Copyright © 2017 by Kim Redford

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © Rob Lang Photography

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  An Excerpt from A Cowboy Firefighter for Christmas

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  Sydney Steele stood on the side of Wildcat Road with her hands on her hips in frustration. Christmas was almost upon them, and she had a to-do list to check off that kept getting longer by the day. She didn’t need trouble, but it sure had a way of finding her.

  She kicked the whitewall front tire of her beauty of a vehicle—a powder-pink 1959 Cadillac convertible. Beauty was one thing. Dead beauty was quite another. She needed that gas-hog of a V8 engine to perk up and do its job so she could get to the Sure-Shot Drive-In and scope out the theater for a possible photo shoot. The Wildcat Bluff cowboy firefighters benefit calendar wasn’t going to get done all by its lonesome.

  She had about four weeks to get a move on or the season would come and go with no calendar, and they’d lose the much-needed fund-raiser to boost Wildcat Bluff Fire-Rescue’s bottom line. But she had a gigantic problem—namely, she’d been unable to round up local cowboy firefighters to complete a photo shoot.

  She couldn’t prove it, but she had a sneaking suspicion those cowboys would do about anything to avoid filling up a calendar with their photographs. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, but so far, they’d been cagey as mountain lions and found a way to sabotage every photo shoot she’d set up. She’d swear Jim Bob had left the county just so she couldn’t feature him as Mr. December. That left a gaping hole for the twelfth month. Much more of their recalcitrant attitude and she just might have to pull out her leather whip to get them in line.

  Frustrated, she kicked the flashy whitewall tire again for good measure, but it had little give, and she probably hurt her shoe more than her car. She immediately felt guilty about her disrespect for such a prime vintage vehicle—particularly when it now belonged to her.

  At her last visit with dear Mr. Werner, he had insisted on handing over the keys and the title, explaining that he trusted her more than anybody else to give Celeste the proper love and care that she’d had since he’d brought her home new. Maybe he’d had a premonition that he wasn’t going to make it to ninety-eight. She sighed aloud, feeling his loss. She missed their poker games every Sunday evening when she’d stop by to check on him. He’d been sharp as a tack and sassy as a teenager. Somehow, she’d thought he’d live forever. Now he was gone, and she had Celeste. As much as she admired the Caddy, it wasn’t nearly an even trade.

  Still, she had to carry on. Christmas waited for nobody. Mr. Werner had loved the holiday, so she knew he’d want her to use Celeste to help local celebrations. Unfortunately, the Cadillac had sputtered ominously on the road a little earlier, even after she’d had Celeste checked over and pronounced good as new. She’d quickly maneuvered onto the shoulder out of traffic just before the engine completely stopped. She’d looked under the hood, and everything appeared fine, but what did she know? At least she’d found a spare tire in the trunk, if that’d been her problem.

  “What a beauty!”

  She whipped around to see who’d hollered at her. Of all the people to come along when she needed help, it’d just have to be Dune Barrett. They’d been sparring since the moment they’d met months ago when he’d started work on Cougar Ranch, volunteered as a firefighter, and set her world ablaze. She didn’t need a man-size distraction—not then and not now. She had too much to do during the holidays, and she liked her life the way it was, thank you very much. Too bad her body was at war with her mind.

  Now here he was as large as life and sizzling with intent. All she could do was sigh out loud as her body perked up as if she’d been presented with a golden trophy engraved with his name.

  He gave her a little salute out the open window of his dually with his big, tanned hand before he slowed down, turned around, and headed back.

  At least he’d acknowledged her style effort. She’d cleaned up pretty good, getting all gussied up in her new retro outfit to match Celeste. Yet she longed for her comfy jeans, cowgirl boots, and stalwart pickup, even if being called “beauty” fed her ego.

  She smoothed down the sides of her long-sleeved forest-green sheath dress that left little room for movement or imagination. She’d like to see herself try to rope a steer in this tight dress with her legs encased in sheer nylons and her feet tottering in black peep-toe high heels. She was still looking for more shoes to add to her vintage collection, but women back then wore smaller sizes, and only open-toes gave her enough room to be comfortable. If she got caught out in a sudden snowstorm, she would simply have to endure cold tootsies.

  Bottom line, she didn’t do half measures. She was going vintage all the way to plan and promote Christmas at the Sure-Shot Drive-In, a first-time community
event to be held at their recently restored small-town drive-in. Plans were for the festival to draw visitors from Wildcat Bluff’s popular Christmas in the Country—and vice versa—so folks could celebrate the Saturday before Christmas at the nearby towns with complementing, not competing, events.

  She’d volunteered to coordinate the festival at Sure-Shot, but she realized now that she needed help. Unfortunately, most folks were already too busy with Christmas in the Country and their regular lives to carve out time for her.

  For now, there was nothing to be done about it, so she thrust that worry from her mind as she kept an eye on Dune. He was unpredictable as wildfire. She preferred order in her life. She’d been spontaneous when she was younger, but not now. She had too many responsibilities. Single moms carried the full load of parenthood, and her daughter, Storm, was wild enough to keep Sydney’s heart in her throat much too often. Sydney also helped her mom, granny, and older brother, Slade, run Steele Trap Ranch, their family’s big spread on the Texas side of the muddy Red River.

  As far as men went, she’d lost her beloved husband, Emery, in the Middle East where he’d fought and died for his country. He’d been special in so many ways. He’d even insisted that she and Storm use her family name, since they’d always work Steele Trap Ranch, and he’d thought it was better to associate their name with their business. Maybe he was right. Maybe not. Some days, she wished she carried his last name simply as a way to keep him close, but other days, she knew her guilt was eating at her because it was getting harder to keep his memory alive as time spiraled outward.

  She hated to admit it, but Dune didn’t help her guilt one bit. He made her want to consider the possibility of a second chance at love. Two years was a long time to be alone. She knew even Emery would approve of her moving on in life, and her family wanted her to be happy. Still, she felt stuck—unable to go forward or backward.

  For now, she wasn’t standing on the side of Wildcat Road so she could think about Emery and what might have been if he’d come home to her. She was stranded here because she was determined to help others celebrate Christmas. Emery had always loved this special time of year, just like Mr. Werner, so he’d have supported what she was doing, and he’d have helped her do it. But he wasn’t here and wouldn’t be again, so she simply needed to continue as she’d been doing for a long time now.

  When Dune parked his truck behind her convertible, she wished he was Slade. She’d been about to call her brother for help, but Dune had now stopped that idea in its tracks. She couldn’t very well turn down help from another firefighter, particularly one who was always so helpful to others. It’d be insulting besides costing her too much time to get alternate help. She just needed to go with it. If Dune could get her car moving again, she’d be grateful even if the heat between them caused uncomfortable sparks to fly.

  She walked, or rather, carefully picked her way across the loose gravel alongside Celeste so as not to trip and fall at Dune’s feet. No telling how he’d take that bit of horseplay, but she suspected he’d view it as Sydney Steele finally succumbing to Dune Barrett’s bird-dogging persistence.

  She sighed again. She might as well go ahead and acknowledge the fact that there was something about him that resonated with her. Maybe it was the understanding tinged with kindness in his eyes that he usually kept hidden with his teasing ways. She kept a world of hurt hidden behind her own teasing ways, too.

  He was also real fine in another way. He had a cowboy’s eye for good vehicles. He drove a pristine white dually with red and yellow racing stripes that had the front bumper replaced by a large black metal cowcatcher with two tow hooks that protected the shiny chrome grill. The truck’s big, growly engine sounded like a one-ton that complemented the extra set of rear tires—plenty of muscle to get most any hauling job done—along with the obvious four-wheel drive, since the vehicle sat high off the ground. She smiled at the sight, knowing how tall cowboys loved their tall pickups. No doubt about it, Dune was as fine a specimen of a man as his dually was of a truck.

  He opened his door, stepped out with one long, muscular, jean-clad leg, and planted a cowboy boot the color of rich, aged whisky onto the chrome-edged ranch-hand bumper. When he stepped all the way down, he planted both feet firmly on the ground, adjusted his crimson pearl-snap shirt, tossed his russet felt cowboy hat back inside onto the seat, and stalked toward her Cadillac.

  As long as she was admitting things to herself, she might as well say he was one tall drink of water that probably left most gals as thirsty as a Texas summer scorcher. But she’d seen plenty of cowboys with their too-broad shoulders, too-tight butts, and way too-hot swaggers. She ought to be immune. Still, Dune had thick, shaggy dark-blond hair worn a trifle long that simply begged to be mussed by a cowgirl’s strong fingers, and he had eyes the color of a lapis pond that must surely make a gal wonder what passions lay hidden in those blue depths. She quickly shook her head as if she were a horse getting rid of an annoying fly. No way was she going to get caught by cowboy honey.

  “Even more beautiful up close,” Dune said in a deep, reverential tone.

  She nodded politely at his words, feeling a righteous sense of accomplishment. She’d worked hard to achieve this elegant look to complement Celeste’s beauty. Of course, she’d be modest in her response so as not to let him think he had anything to do with her current ultra-feminine appearance. “Thank you.”

  And yet Dune didn’t give her a single glance as he walked right up to the trunk of her convertible, gave a slight growl deep in his throat as he touched the tip of the round red taillight, then reached up and stroked down the long rocket fin with its top line of bright, shiny chrome.

  She felt her jaw drop in surprise, then quickly snapped her teeth together. He hadn’t noticed her at all, hot vintage clothes or not. All he had eyes for was her pretty pink Cadillac.

  He never broke contact with the lustrous paint that gleamed like satin in the sunlight as he slowly walked down the long length—on par with a prize Texas football field—to the chrome door handle. He stopped to clutch it, looking into the interior of black leather bench seats, chrome steering wheel, black carpet floors, and an AM radio display with a round dial.

  She took a deep breath, reevaluating the situation as she caught up to him, almost tripping in the gravel with her high heels.

  When he reached the front end, he whistled in appreciation. “What an absolute beauty! I’d heard Mr. Werner gave you his prize Caddy, but I never dreamed you’d actually drive her around the county.”

  “I’ll do anything to help launch Christmas at the Sure-Shot Drive-In, and that includes using Celeste to promote the event. She’s perfect, isn’t she?” Sydney tried to keep the irritation out of her voice at his lack of appreciation for her, but doubted if she’d managed it. Not that Dune would notice, seeing as how he was mired in the depths of starstruck infatuation.

  “You nailed it perfectly. I didn’t know this legendary Cadillac had a name, but I’m not surprised at the news. I’d heard Mr. Werner doted on her and kept her squirreled away in a temperature-controlled garage. I never thought I’d get a chance to see her, much less touch her.” Dune pointed at the front. “Look, she’s even got longhorns!”

  Sydney cocked her head as she examined her handiwork. She had to admit the red and green tinsel looked festive. She’d snaked it around the pale, dark-tipped horns that spanned the width of the hood in front of the shiny chrome snarl of a grill with its impressive dual headlights on each side.

  “What year?” He rubbed out a smudge on the hood with the pad of his thumb. “No, wait. Let me guess. Nineteen sixty. Right?”

  “Close. Fifty-nine. Series 62 convertible. Eight cylinder. Automatic. I was told this is the most sought after Cadillac.”

  “I believe it.” He stroked down one side of the longhorns, but still didn’t toss a single glance her way. “Luxury at its finest—then or now.”

  She
knew she shouldn’t feel irritated that he was all about Celeste instead of her, but she couldn’t help it. She was stranded on the side of the road, and he was doing nothing but ogling her vehicle. “If you don’t mind, you’re getting my pristine car dirty.”

  “Oh no!” He jerked his hand back as if stung. “You’re right. Who knows what kind of dirt and oil I’ve got on my hands.” He quickly popped open his pearl-snap shirt, pulled the tail out from under his wide leather belt with the big gold rodeo buckle, and jerked the fabric off his shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” She stared at him in shock, because he was giving her a feast of sun-kissed skin stretched tight across thick muscles with a line of dark-blond hair that ran suggestively from his chest down into his tight jeans. She caught his scent, somewhere between sage and leather and testosterone. All of a sudden, the cool December day felt as hot as the Fourth of July. Talk about cowboy honey.

  He quickly bunched his shirt in his right fist and got busy putting elbow grease into rubbing his fingerprints off the pink paint.

  She no longer felt irritation. She felt steamy and achy and hungry as she watched the play of his muscles. Arms, shoulders, back were just plain yummy. Soon he added a sheen of sweat to the smooth skin of his rippling muscles. She swallowed hard. When he leaned over farther and gave her a great view of his tight ass, she actually felt weak in the knees—or maybe that was from standing in heels for too long.

  “Like what you see?”

  Embarrassed, she tore her gaze from his butt to his face. Wouldn’t you just know it, now he saw her. “I’m only making sure you don’t scratch the paint.”

  “Sure you are.” He grinned, revealing bright-white teeth with one front tooth slightly overlapped to mar his perfection. “Just so you know, I’m an appreciative kind of guy with the right kind of gal.”

  “I suppose my Caddy is the right kind of gal for you.”

  “I’d never turn down taking Celeste for a spin.” He grinned even bigger. “Not too many hot beauties around nowadays. They’re a treasure.”