by Arlene James
Cowboys for Christmas
The Rancher’s Christmas Baby by Arlene James
The quiet holiday season Dixon Lyons had planned is abruptly derailed when his long-absent mother appears at his doorstep with a baby and stunning beauty Fawn Ambor. Soon Fawn’s generous heart and endearing belief in the strength of family and forgiveness have him wondering if this might just be the Christmas he needs.
Christmas Eve Cowboy by Lois Richer
Dr. Elizabeth Kendall moved to Snowflake, Montana, wanting nothing more than a fresh start for herself and her daughter, Zoey. But when handsome local rancher Brett Carlisle convinces Elizabeth to lead the kids’ Christmas Eve choir, she discovers the idyllic town has a lot more in store for her—and her heart—than she ever imagined.
Praise for Arlene James
“Warm, rich details combine with Southern charm and hospitality in this touching story about healing deep emotional wounds.”
—RT Book Reviews on Second Chance Match
“Arlene James has an exquisite way with words and…the characters and intricate plot will resonate long after the last page is turned.”
—RT Book Reviews on To Heal a Heart
“Ms. James’s multilayered characters, along with a richly textured story line, takes the reader on an emotional roller-coaster that will have you reaching for the nearest tissue.”
—RT Book Reviews on Mr. Right Next Door
Praise for Lois Richer
“Lois Richer delivers a touching, evocative, wonderful story of selfless love.”
—RT Book Reviews on A Cowboy’s Honor
“A wonderful, emotionally heartwarming story about loss and love.”
—RT Book Reviews on Twice Upon a Time
“Lois Richer pens an excellent story.”
—RT Book Reviews on
Spring Flowers, Summer Love
Arlene James has been publishing steadily for nearly four decades and is a charter member of RWA. She is married to an acclaimed artist, and together they have traveled extensively. After growing up in Oklahoma, Arlene lived thirty-four years in Texas and now abides in beautiful northwest Arkansas, near two of the world’s three loveliest, smartest, most talented granddaughters. She is heavily involved in her family, church and community.
Lois Richer loves traveling, swimming and quilting, but mostly she loves writing stories that show God’s boundless love for His precious children. As she says, “His love never changes or gives up. It’s always waiting for me. My stories feature imperfect characters learning that love doesn’t mean attaining perfection. Love is about keeping on keeping on.” You can contact Lois via email, [email protected], or on Facebook (loisricherauthor).
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CHRISTMAS
ON THE RANCH
Arlene James
&
Lois Richer
Table of Contents
The Rancher’s Christmas Baby
Christmas Eve Cowboy
Excerpt from The Cowboy’s Family Christmas by Carolyne Aarsen
THE RANCHER’S CHRISTMAS BABY
Arlene James
Blessed are those who find wisdom,
those who gain understanding.
—Proverbs 3:13
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Dear Reader
Chapter One
“Sorry, Dad,” Dixon said into his cell phone. “You’ve got to get the plumber back in here before I can set these kitchen cabinets. Water’s running down the outside of this pipe.” Dixon listened to the expected complaints. He shared his father’s frustration. They’d hoped to have this old house completely renovated before Thanksgiving and rented by the end of November, but the first week of December had now come and gone, and the kitchen cabinets weren’t even installed.
Dixon blamed himself. Carpentry wasn’t his only occupation, and not since he’d inherited his maternal grandfather’s small ranch some eight years earlier had he experienced so much sickness in his herd as recently. These days it seemed he was constantly leaving the job to tend to some ailing cow. He had an injured heifer in the barn now, and he might as well get home to take care of it because he sure wasn’t going to get anything more done here today.
Fitting his brown beaver cowboy hat to his head, he briefly considered stopping in at the War Bonnet diner for an early dinner, but he was more tired of the diner’s meager offerings than he was hungry. Not that he had many choices. Like many small towns in Oklahoma, little War Bonnet’s options were severely limited. He decided he’d open a can at home. After all, he’d worked long and hard to update the kitchen in the 1970s-era ranch house. Might as well make use of it.
The hour hadn’t reached 5:00 p.m. when he turned his pickup truck onto the red dirt drive of the home place, but it was dark enough to see that he’d left lights on in the house. That wasn’t like him. He’d lived alone since before his twenty-first birthday and had learned long ago what it took to keep the utility bills in line with the budget. At just weeks shy of his twenty-ninth birthday, he prided himself on his ability to budget and manage his money. He wouldn’t have been able to remodel the house otherwise, let alone invest in rental property.
As he drew closer, he saw a small, battered, dark-colored sedan parked in front of the house. Obviously, he had a visitor, someone who felt they didn’t have to wait on the front veranda but could just go inside and make themselves at home. It had never occurred to him to lock up the place, even after he’d remodeled, painting the orange brick white and replacing the dark shingles on the low roof with red metal. The house had a Spanish flair now, which he felt suited the long, lean lines, with a red front door and red shutters flanking the wide front windows.
Dixon couldn’t imagine who would let themselves into his house. Unless... But surely not. She’d left right after Dixon’s eighteenth birthday and had been back only for Grandpa Crane’s funeral. He hadn’t seen her in over eight years. Some letters had come, none of which he’d answered, and he’d taken a few short calls from her, but that had been it. Must be two or more years since he’d last heard a peep from Jackie.
Still puzzled, he pulled his truck into the inner bay of the carport that he’d added to the end of the house after he’d converted the garage into a game room. The new parking placement allowed him to quietly enter the house via a mudroom off the kitchen. Still wearing his tan canvas coat and brown felt hat, he carefully walked to the kitchen door, which had been pushed aside on its trendy barn door rolling hinge.
At his stainless-steel stove stood a petite young woman with warm brown skin and very long, ink-black hair caught at her nape by a big silver clasp. She wore brown suede boots, plain, snug jeans and a simple top of black knit with pushed-up sleeves, a belt of silver links riding low on her slender hips. As if sensing his presence, she suddenly turned. On some level he registered the baby snuggled in the bend of her left arm, but a far larger part of his consciousness reeled in shock at the sheer perfection of her face. From the delicate roundness of her chin and the dusky rose of her lips to the straight line of her nose, the piercing
blackness of her exotic eyes and the gentle slashes of her brows beneath the sweep of thick hair that framed all that loveliness from a loose, haphazard center part.
“Hello,” she said, but he was too dumbfounded to return the greeting. She tilted her head, studying him as if he were a bug pinned in a display case. He wanted to feel his jaw to see if he needed a shave, but of course he needed a shave; he’d last taken care of the chore before daylight and despite his medium brown hair, he had an unusually heavy beard. By the end of most workdays, he looked like a vagrant.
A movement to his right pulled his attention toward the breakfast nook, where a tall, painfully thin woman slid around the corner to lean against the wall. Her dark blond hair, streaked liberally with gray, had been pulled back from her face in an apparent attempt to disguise its thinness. She looked familiar, but she had so many lines in her face that he didn’t immediately recognize her. Then she gave him that saucy grin, showing off the false teeth that he remembered her husband, Harry, had bought her to help hide the ravages of her meth addiction, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt what he had been trying not to see. Jackie. The very last person he wanted to find in his house. Grandpa Crane’s will had made it very clear that she had no claim to ownership.
“I really like what you’ve done with the place,” she said in a husky voice, glancing around the room.
Dixon sighed and got right to the heart of the matter.
“What are you doing here, Mother?”
* * *
“Well, that’s a nice greeting,” Jackie said, managing to toss her head.
“You expected a parade?” he asked.
“Some welcome would be nice.”
“Some notice would’ve been nice.”
Listening to this exchange, Fawn bounced the baby gently and reached for the bottle she’d been preparing. Dixon Lyons was not what she’d expected. He was more man than boy, though Jackie constantly referred to him as “my boy.” Also, he was amazingly attractive. She didn’t know why she’d never considered that possibility, but her concern for Jackie and the baby was so great that she hadn’t stopped to think about anything other than Dixon’s willingness to accept them into his home, and a lovely home it was. Jackie hadn’t stopped talking about all the improvements he’d made or what good taste he had—until he’d arrived. Now the woman had suddenly become defensive and snide, not at all like the brave, stoic Jackie whom Fawn knew.
“Uh, you did say that Dixon was unaware of Harry’s passing,” Fawn reminded her older friend. At that, Jackie bowed her head.
“Something happened to Harry?” Dixon asked, sounding both concerned and shocked.
Jackie nodded, wobbling slightly. “Highway accident.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. When did it happen?”
“Almost eight months ago.”
“Eight...” He lifted his hat and ran a hand over his short, thick hair. “And you’re just now letting me know because...?”
“It’s been a difficult time,” Jackie muttered, swaying on her feet.
Fawn hurried over and pulled out a chair at the round table with her right hand. “Sit down before you fall down.” Like most of the furniture in the house, the dinette was older but of good quality.
Jackie sank down onto the chair just as Dixon glanced at Fawn. “Maybe my mother and I should speak in private.”
“No,” Jackie insisted. “Fawn has a stake in this conversation.” She smiled wanly. “If not for her, I wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m Fawn Ambor, by the way,” Fawn introduced herself, holding out her right hand. Dixon merely glanced at her then at the baby before turning back to his mother. As if realizing she had been snubbed, the baby started to fuss.
“Give her to me,” Jackie said, holding out her thin arms. Not even the long sleeves of her cotton blouse could disguise her frailness.
“No, no. You rest a few more minutes,” Fawn said. “I’ll take care of her.”
Jackie nodded and pushed up from her chair. “Maybe you’re right. I do feel weak.”
Fawn went to get the bottle and give it to the whimpering baby.
“So what happened?” Dixon asked, coming to lean against the rust-and-gold granite countertop. “Harry throw her out before the accident?”
Fawn turned to find Jackie standing, stiff-backed, in the wide, cased doorway. “No! Why would you think that?”
Dixon didn’t so much as glance in his mother’s direction. “She’s back here, isn’t she?”
Lifting her chin, Jackie slowly made her way into the other room. Fawn leaned closer, holding the baby to the side, and demanded softly, “Are you always so disrespectful of your mother?”
“She’s never given me any reason not to be,” he answered bluntly.
“She gave birth to you,” Fawn told him. “That should be reason enough.”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t here when she was the talk of the town, running off to anywhere and everywhere she could find a party and her drug of choice.”
“No, I wasn’t here then,” Fawn conceded softly, “but did you ever ask yourself why your mother did those things?”
He lifted a rather heavy eyebrow, his clear gray eyes coldly impassive. “Little boys don’t ask why their mothers are zonked-out druggies. Instead, they blame themselves. Until they grow up and figure out personal responsibility.”
Slapping his hat onto his head, he walked out through the same door from which he’d entered. Shaken, Fawn turned and followed Jackie from the room. She found her friend snuggled into an oversize armchair in front of the cold fireplace, a fuzzy blanket over her legs.
“Think you can hold her while she nurses?” Fawn asked, handing the baby and bottle down to Jackie.
Jackie’s face lit with delight. “Of course.” She smiled down at Bella Jo. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“I want to make a phone call before I start supper.”
Jackie nodded, cooing to baby Bella. Fawn paused to watch Bella grin around the milky nipple of the bottle. This was a new trick for the four-month-old, one she employed often with great success.
Slipping down the central hall to the bedroom that Jackie had pointed out to her, Fawn pulled her cell phone from the hip pocket of her jeans. Little remodeling had been done in here. The yellowed walls hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years, and the hardwood floor badly needed polishing, not to mention a throw rug. At least the twin-size bed, which boasted neither head-nor footboard, had sheets on it. The room could have used a bedside lamp. And a table to set it on.
Fawn dropped down onto the bed and punched in the familiar numbers. Within moments her grandmother answered the phone.
“Auweni?”
“It’s Fawn, Grandmother.”
“Mamalis!” Grandmother exclaimed, using Fawn’s Lenape name. “I am happy to hear from you. I have prayed to Jesus for your safe trip. How is Jackie?”
“She is tired and weak, Grandmother, and her son is not what I expected. Your prayers are appreciated.”
“He is kikape?”
“Yes, he is single,” Fawn confirmed. It had been one of their fears. Unattached men did not respond well to illness. Or infants. Or anything that hampered their freedom. A married man who had given up his freedom willingly would have been more inclined to open his heart and home. He would also have had help.
“But that’s not the problem,” she continued. “Things are worse between him and his mother than I realized. He’s very resentful.”
“I remember two girls with much resentment toward a parent.”
“A drunkard who kills himself and your mother is a little different from a woman who deadens her pain with drugs,” Fawn pointed out.
“Is it?” Grandmother asked. “Seems to me the only real difference is an accidental house fire.”
&
nbsp; Fawn bit her lip. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“My daughter’s husband was a habitual drunk,” Grandmother said calmly, “but he meant no harm, Mamalis.”
“He meant no harm,” Fawn pointed out softly, “but they are both dead. Besides, it’s been years since Jackie used illicit drugs.”
“But does her son know this?”
“I’m not sure,” Fawn admitted. “Apparently, they’ve been estranged for a long time.”
“Patience,” Grandmother counseled. “Patience—”
“And prayer,” Fawn said for her, smiling. It was Grandmother’s prescription for every situation.
Her kmis, or elder sister, was not so sanguine. Though older by only sixteen minutes, Dawn took her position as kmis very seriously. Those slim sixteen minutes might as well have been sixteen years, given how protective Dawn could be with her twin. She had not been in favor of Fawn undertaking this mission before Christmas.
Both Fawn and Grandmother had argued that putting it off until after the first of the year would be unwise, given the precarious state of Jackie’s health. They thought it best to settle the matter and hopefully give Jackie a peaceful, happy Christmas, especially considering that it could be her last.
Dawn got on the phone as soon as Grandmother and Fawn ended their conversation. Obviously she’d been near their grandmother, listening in on every word.
“You knew Dixon Lyons could be single,” Dawn pointed out, skipping right over the greeting, “so what’s the real problem?”
Fawn mentally sighed. “Like I told Grandmother, he’s more resentful than I expected.”
“No. I don’t buy it. You were prepared to deal with a single man. There’s something more.” Fawn could almost feel the thoughts churning in her twin’s mind. “He’s hunky, isn’t he?”
Fawn plopped back onto the bed. “He’s gorgeous,” she admitted. “But he can see that Jackie is ill, and it makes no difference to him.”
