A Very Cowboy Christmas

by Kim Redford

  “You really like this place, don’t you?” Dune turned to glance down at her with a smile.

  “It’s adorable. And all digital now. There’s not a projection booth or projectionist like there used to be to show films.”

  “Makes sense. Who’s handling the movies?”

  “Moore.”

  “He’s a jack of all trades, isn’t he?”

  “He’s turning out to be good for Sure-Shot.” She didn’t say it—and she hated to even think it—but she still felt a little uneasy about Moore despite all his hard work after starting the fires. She guessed she was just letting her firefighter training get in the way of completely accepting Moore’s change in attitude.

  “I heard Bert say they were thinking about having a swap meet out here once a month.”

  “That’s a good idea. It’ll draw people from all over and help out local businesses.”

  “Sure-Shot’s starting to be an up-and-coming town again.” He headed for the back door of the snack shed. “Right now, you know what’s on my mind.”

  She smiled as she followed in his wake, beginning to imagine sitting in Celeste, sharing snacks with Dune during a movie. But that wasn’t part of their deal, so she needed to keep her mind on business. The colorful chairs would make good props for her photo shoot, but she’d need more than that to garner interest in the calendar. On the other hand, maybe all she really needed were cowboy firefighters.

  “You got a key?” Dune called as he rattled the snack shed’s doorknob.

  She opened her handbag and extracted a key ring with a metal, white, red-rhinestone-eyed poodle fob.

  “Cute poodle,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Vintage, of course.” She laughed as she glanced up and caught the twinkle in his eyes. “I told you. I’m going retro all the way.”

  “I got it. No point in doing something halfway.”

  “Right.” She stepped in front of him to open the flat, pale, solid wood door with a single diamond-shape, upper window. She quickly stuck her key in the lock of the round doorknob surrounded by a shiny starburst escutcheon. She loved the retro door. Bert and Bert Two had really put wonderful detail into their renovation.

  She opened the door, found a light switch on the wall, flipped it, and stepped inside. A brass Sputnik chandelier with its many outstretched arms, each supporting a single small lightbulb, cast soft, golden light over a long glass counter. Along the back wall, a row of brass conical lamps illuminated the long aisle where servers would prepare hot dogs, curly fries, popcorn, and drinks while they also sold pickles, candy, and other goodies. A row of vinyl aqua booths with glitter laminate tabletops nestled invitingly against the opposite wall.

  Dune walked across the buffed-to-a-high-sheen turquoise vinyl floor, twisting his head in every direction. “They really did this up right, didn’t they?”

  “It’s absolutely perfect.”

  He pointed at the ceiling, then at several walls. “Sprinkler system. Fire extinguishers. Unobstructed exits. Looks updated and upgraded to county and state fire codes.”

  “I never doubted Bert and Bert Two would be on top of things.”

  “This looks good, but I still want to talk with them about security.”

  “We’ll do it.”

  He leaned over the glass counter, gave it a long look, and shook his head. “Missed one vital thing.”

  “What?”

  He tapped his fingertip against the countertop. “Candy’s not stocked yet.”

  “That’s a shame. I thought maybe the deliveries would be here. Looks like no treats for us.”

  He turned back around. “All’s not lost.”

  She smiled as she followed his gaze to the restored Seeburg jukebox set against a far wall with a small, square, parquet wood dance floor in front. The jukebox was a beauty with its aqua, yellow, and red innards visible through a clear, rounded top and two plastic translucent pilasters with rotating-color vertical cylinders on each corner of the front.

  “Now that jukebox is retro in overdrive,” he said.

  “Pretty is as pretty does. Bert told me it’ll play both sides of fifty 45s. He stocked it with rock ’n’ roll, as well as country and western classics, everything from Bill Haley’s ‘Rock Around the Clock’ to Hank Williams’s ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart.’”

  “That makes a hundred tunes to get stuck in your head.”

  She laughed. “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

  “You know what else I like about this place?” Dune flung his arms wide open. “It’s flat-out fun—and it’s going to be more fun when it all comes together for Christmas at the Sure-Shot Drive-In.”

  She took another look around, nodding in agreement. “You’re right. I think I got so caught up in all the work that I forgot the most important part of a drive-in. Fun.”

  “We can fix that right now.” He gave her a mischievous grin, then walked over to the jukebox, punched several play buttons, and turned to let his gaze trace over her body as if he was using a Fourth of July hot sparkler to outline her in bright, searing light.

  She felt her breath catch in her throat when she heard the snack shed fill with the romantic lyrics and soaring music of “Unchained Melody.”

  “Oh, my love, my darling… I’ve hungered for your touch…”

  He stepped onto the dance floor and held out his strong, long-fingered hand with palm turned upward in invitation. “Dance with me.”

  Chapter 7

  Dune had chosen the song, but he hadn’t counted on it feeling like a punch to his gut as soaring violins swept Elvis Presley’s unmistakably smooth voice into the stratosphere of emotional desire: “…I need your love, I need your love…”

  Now he had to wonder if he’d been kidding himself all along that what he’d wanted was a quick, simple roll in the hay. What if he needed love—two hearts that beat together with enough love to last a lifetime?

  He felt as if the floor shifted under his feet, leaving him completely off-kilter as the song got deeper under his skin. If he’d wanted to stay a rolling stone and keep living the way he’d been living, he should’ve pushed any buttons on the jukebox except the ones that filled the snack shed with the unrelenting, driving force of “Unchained Melody.”

  And yet he stood there with his hand outstretched to Sydney, wanting her, needing her, maybe even loving her. And just like the song, he felt his emotions soar with trepidation and anticipation. Would she cross the shiny aqua floor—so similar to a wide blue sea that separated them—and take hold of his hand, or would she turn away and keep them an ocean apart forever?

  She stood there and looked at him, eyes wide with wonder. Finally, she gave a little shake, as if coming awake, took a step toward him, then stopped and hesitated, as if changing her mind about joining him.

  He raised his outstretched hand higher. At least she was of two minds where he was concerned, and that gave him hope that she’d tilt in his favor. Maybe she just needed a little persuasion. “I didn’t figure you jitterbugged, so I thought a slow dance was in order.”

  She gave a little half smile, raising one corner of her pink lips. “Didn’t I tell you I don’t do anything halfway?”

  He groaned under his breath. Couldn’t she say or do one blasted thing that didn’t turn his burners up to full flame? Nothing was halfway about her, and that was exactly the way he wanted her. Needed her. Maybe even…but he wasn’t going there, despite how the song was leading him along the path to red velvet roses and a white picket fence.

  She gave him a quick nod, walked over to the booths, set her purse down on top of a table with a snap, and turned toward him. “Do you two-step or, by any chance, do you jitterbug?”

  “And here I thought I could get away with a little slow dance.”

  “Did you really think I’d let you off that easy?”

  He gave a negati
ve shake of his head as the song came to an end, and he dropped his hand to his side. So much for getting Sydney into his arms and holding her close for the few tantalizing moments of a tune.

  “I’ve been taking dance lessons. At least, Morning Glory and Hedy have been instructing me in the finer points of the classic jitterbug.”

  He groaned out loud this time. “Oh no. I’ve seen those old movies where the guy is tossing his partner over his shoulder, sliding her across the floor, and twirling her around in circles.”

  “Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers we are not.” Sydney walked past him, studied the jukebox for a moment, punched several play buttons, and turned back toward him. “But wouldn’t it be fun to demonstrate a few jitterbug moves right here during Christmas at the Sure-Shot Drive-In?”

  “That sounds about as much up my alley as the photo shoot.” First, the calendar. Second, a dance demonstration. He didn’t even want to think about what might be waiting for him on third. Maybe, if he played his cards right, he’d hit a home run—with Sydney as his prize.

  No matter where it all ended up, he didn’t know how he’d gotten in so deep so fast. One thing for sure, she knew exactly how to pull his strings and make him dance like a marionette. If his brother down at the ranch ever found out, he’d laugh himself silly at the idea that Dune had finally met his match.

  If nothing else, he’d at least better give a good accounting, or he’d never be able to look himself in the mirror again.

  “Fun. I thought you wanted the drive-in to be fun.” She tossed him a mischievous look as she stepped onto the dance floor and held out her hand to him just as the first guitar riff of Chuck Berry’s “Maybellene” tore through the snack shed.

  “Pink in the mirror on top of the hill… First thing I saw that Cadillac grille.”

  Dune couldn’t keep from grinning at Sydney’s choice of songs. “Are you trying to make me regret I stopped to check out your pink Cadillac?” And then he thought of Bruce Springsteen’s classic “Pink Cadillac.” Most folks knew what that particular phrase meant by now. He grinned even bigger.

  “Nineteen fifty-five. Rockabilly. Top of the charts.” Sydney swung her hips to the rhythm of the music, twirled around twice, and held her hands straight out to him. “You’d never pass up the chance to ride in a pink Cadillac.”

  “Not with you in the driver’s seat.” He gave up trying to resist her, particularly not with her pink Cadillac on his mind. Anyway, he had a few moves of his own that he’d learned the hard way on the polka dance floors of the old German halls in the Hill Country.

  He clasped her hands, thinking that she was soft and warm and a little vulnerable since she was so much smaller and less muscular than him, even if she was a tall woman.

  He felt a little tender, knowing he must be gentle not to accidentally hurt her, till she abruptly slung their arms over their heads, still holding hands, and then released him to dramatically trail her fingertips down his shoulder with one hand while still holding his other hand so she could curl her body in next to him. Just when he was enjoying her close touch, she swept out from him again, twirled around, and then sashayed outward, still keeping their hands together.

  She threw back her head, laughing with delight as her hazel eyes—a fascinating mixture of brown, green, and gold—twinkled and her white teeth sparkled in the radiant light of the Sputnik chandelier.

  He was totally captivated by her. He’d never seen her let go and simply enjoy herself before now. And it was heady stuff. She took him right back in time before life had hit him like a sledgehammer and rocked him to his core. He grasped that feeling and clung to it as he caught her around the waist with one hand and clasped her hand with the other. He executed a modified polka move, a real fancy two-step, swung her out away from him, and twirled her back toward him.

  As “Maybellene” drilled down to the last searing note, they were breathing fast and laughing loud until the moment when Sydney completed her twirl and landed against his chest with her breasts pressed tight to him. And then silence descended on the snack shed as they gazed at each other, caught in a moment of joy and abandonment where nothing existed except the two of them.

  He’d never know how or why it happened, nor did he care, because the jukebox picked that moment to give him a second chance. The soaring music of “Unchained Melody” suddenly filled the snack shed again.

  “Oh my love, my darling… I’ve hungered for your touch…”

  He slowly caught Sydney’s wrists and raised her hands to his shoulders, watching her face for dismay or rejection. Instead, she gave him a slight smile, a mere lifting of the corners of her mouth, and ran her palms over his shoulders to clasp him behind his neck. Emboldened, he caught her waist with both hands and pulled her close, so close that their bodies became one as he guided them across the floor in the slowest of slow dances.

  When she pressed her cheek against his broad shoulder—and sighed in pleasure and contentment—he knew he’d forever remember this moment as a turning point. He could no longer go on alone or hide from life. It was unworthy of the way he’d been raised, because he’d been trained as a man to always step up to the plate. He didn’t know if what he felt was love or powerful lust, but he intended to follow his feelings to the end of the road, where maybe a white picket fence and a trellis of wild roses awaited him…along with Sydney.

  He didn’t expect a miracle. They both carried baggage from their pasts. Still and all, happiness could go a long way toward healing old wounds and creating new memories. He just wanted a chance for both of them to find their way into the future. Maybe together.

  But for now, he simply needed to hold her, be close to her, warm the cold places in his heart with her. He gently pressed a kiss to her soft hair, inhaling the lavender and sage and something-he-couldn’t-identify fragrance that could only be a Morning Glory special blend made for Sydney alone. It suited her—and it suited him even more to draw her scent deep into his lungs, feeling as if he were joining them beyond the closeness of their bodies.

  When she trembled in his arms, he pressed his lips to her hair again and then trailed a line of kisses to the pulse point of her temple. He lingered there, noticing how her pulse sped up until their hearts beat in time together. He slowly slid one hand upward, acutely aware of the smooth texture of her dress, the outline of her bra, and the strong muscles of her back. He rubbed her neck, massaging in slow circles till she tilted her face up to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

  He inhaled her tantalizing scent again as he studied her face with its high cheekbones, square jaw, and pointed chin. She had strong features—handsome rather than pretty—that suited her to a tee, because she was a mother, rancher, and cowgirl who took care of business first and herself last.

  For now, he wanted to put her first and foremost. Would she let him? Only a kiss would tell. And so he touched his lips to hers, as softly as if he were gentling a horse grown skittish from former negligent riders. He toyed with the fullness of her lower lip, teasing with his tongue, nibbling with his teeth, from one corner of her mouth to the other while he pulled her harder against his body until her heat melded with his own and they set each other on fire.

  When she thrust her fingers into his thick hair and opened her lips to draw him into her soft, warm depths, he instantly turned feral, like a stallion put too long out to pasture. He crushed her lips and delved deep in a kiss to possess, claim, ignite until there was nothing else in the world except the two of them—and he felt her hunger for his touch just as he’d long hungered for her.

  As the last refrain of the song faded away, he stopped any semblance of pretending to dance. Nothing mattered anymore—not music, not motion, not location—except the fact that they were wrapped in each other’s arms, straining for the deepest of connections with heated kisses, entwined bodies, and desperate desire.

  She tasted of bliss, as if every good thing in life had been
rolled into one searing kiss. She felt of heaven, as if an angel had descended to Earth to clasp him in her arms. And she smelled good enough to eat, so he clasped her face between his palms and kissed her deeper, harder, feeling caught in a powerful undertow that drove them relentlessly through the white-water rapids of a raging river.

  Yet none of it was enough. Maybe nothing would ever be enough until he was buried to the hilt in her hot, moist center with her cries of ecstasy ringing in his ears until he drove them both over the edge. And still maybe that wouldn’t be enough to sate him. He wanted to own her—body and soul—and he wanted her to own him.

  With that last thought, he felt as if he’d been dumped in cold water. Nobody thought that way nowadays. Own? Where the hell had that idea come from? He didn’t think that way, and he could be damn sure she didn’t either. And yet that desire stayed with him, wanting and needing in a way he never had before, not even with his dearest Vonda. He had to get a grip before he lost all sense of self-control, self-preservation, and self-interest.

  Sydney was special. Yes, he’d admit it. But no, he didn’t want to own or be owned. It just wasn’t in the cards, not for him or her. He wanted what he wanted, but he didn’t need to get in too deep to go there. He couldn’t fathom that she would want to be corralled any more than him.

  Christmas. He blamed his soft-headed and soft-hearted feelings on the time of year that had almost lured him into believing in miracles such as love and happiness and forever. He had to be stronger than the season.

  With reluctance that he didn’t understand, he raised his head, eased back from her, and gave a rueful smile. “Guess there’s a good reason they call this the Passion Pit.”