by Arlene James
Elizabeth’s phone beeped. “Here’s another. I have to deliver a baby tonight.”
“I’ll drive you.” Brett threaded his fingers through hers. “Dad, can you take Zoey home? I’ll wait and bring Doc later.”
“It could take a while,” Elizabeth reminded.
“I will always wait for you for as long as it takes,” he promised.
Epilogue
One year later
Snowflake’s Christmas Eve Kids’ Choir Service
Elizabeth sustained the last note as long as she could then let silence fall on the hushed congregation, hoping no one would notice that she’d cut it short. Another contraction gripped her abdomen as applause rang out. She motioned for the children to bow, fingers twining around her music stand for support while she waited for it to end.
The stand gave way under pressure and a loud crash echoed through the sanctuary as Maisie Jones banged three discordant notes on the piano. Everyone stared.
“You all just help yourself to the lunch in the hall now,” the pianist ordered in an officious tone. “Doc has an emergency.” With that pronouncement, she strode to Elizabeth, wrapped a strong arm around her waist and shepherded her off stage. “Lean on me, Dr. Liz.”
“Can you please find my husband?”
“Right here, Doc.” Brett appeared beside her, his handsome face frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“She needs to get to the hospital. Now.” Maisie grinned. “My guess is she’s been havin’ pains since I hit the third bar of music.”
“Sweetheart, why didn’t you stop?” Brett slipped his arm around her waist, pausing until she let go of her pent-up breath before wrapping her coat around her. “Pretty close together, aren’t they?” he asked worriedly.
“Yes, but I am not delivering in church. Thanks, Maisie.” She waved a hand then stepped forward, gripped Brett’s fingers, closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, boy.”
“Better move, son.” Maisie held open the side door, grinning as Brett swept his wife into his arms and carried her outside. “Don’t drop her,” she warned.
“As if!” he snorted indignantly then grinned when he saw his dad waiting with the truck running. “Thanks, Dad.”
Once he and Doc were inside Clint headed for the hospital. Maisie must have called the police chief because he led the way, lights flashing.
“Great town, Snowflake. Everybody pitches in when they’re needed.” Clint pulled in under the emergency awning. “Love you, Elizabeth,” he said as his son eased her from the car.
“Love you, to—” Her voice died away as she continued her breathing exercises.
“I’ll look after Zoey.” Clint’s smile was huge. “I’m gonna be a grandfather again.”
“We love you, Dad.”
“It’s mutual, son.”
“There, Brett.” Pointing to a nurse with a wheelchair waiting, Elizabeth squeezed her hubby’s hand and held on, her gaze meeting his in a union of love and commitment. “Ready, Daddy?”
Brett’s nervous nod made her smile.
After that everything moved at lightning speed, though it seemed only moments later that their son was born.
And then their daughter.
* * *
“They’re not as pretty as my dollies.” Zoey’s freckled nose wrinkled early Christmas morning.
“They’re beautiful. So’s your mother.” Brett gazed at Doc, heart overflowing. “I am blessed. A year ago I had no idea this could happen.”
“Nothing is impossible for God,” Doc reminded him. Then she frowned. “Is that mistletoe in your pocket, honey?”
Brett nodded then winked at Zoey, who held it over her mom’s head.
“Merry Christmas, darling.” He kissed her tenderly.
“Yes, but mistletoe?” Elizabeth looked toward Clint, who grinned at Zoey.
“Daddy thought the babies’d be boys. He was gonna name ’em Misa and Toby.” Zoey’s laugh tinkled. “Get it? Mistletoe?”
Brett chuckled at Elizabeth’s groan.
“Come on, Zoey. Let’s go have some Christmas hot chocolate at home and make a new tradition.” Clint snuggled the little girl’s hand in his. “Merry Christmas, kids.”
“Merry Christmas.” Brett smiled at Doc. “I like our traditions.”
“Me, too.” Misty-eyed, Elizabeth reached out. “I need to hold them again.”
Brett placed one child in each arm and savored the sight.
“Thank you for my lovely Christmas gifts, sweetheart. I have everything any man could want.”
“We both do. Clint sailed through therapy and is doing great. My clinic work is fantastic and soon you’ll begin your second year of distance studies toward your degree.” Doc motioned him to sit next to her. “My Christmas Eve cowboy. Isn’t trusting God’s plan the best way?”
“Perfect.” Brett bent to kiss her. Through the window he saw his dad and Zoey throwing snowballs at each other. “Absolutely perfect.”
* * * * *
Don’t miss these other stories from Lois Richer:
THE RANCHER’S FAMILY WISH
HER CHRISTMAS FAMILY WISH
THE COWBOY’S EASTER FAMILY WISH
THE TWINS’ FAMILY WISH
Available now from Love Inspired!
Find more great reads at www.LoveInspired.com.
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE COWBOY’S FAMILY CHRISTMAS by Carolyne Aarsen.
Join Harlequin My Rewards today and earn a FREE ebook!
Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards
http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010003
Dear Reader,
I’m a self-confessed Christmas-a-holic. I love the songs, the decorations, the gift-giving and the food. But mostly I love traditions like my mom’s delicious chicken pot pie, driving through town to see the lights and taking just the right picture for our annual Christmas card.
Christmas is a time to expect the unexpected. Like a baby in a manger and shepherds seeing angels and rich men following a star. It’s okay to be childlike at Christmas, to let your heart bask in heaven-sent love. Why don’t we make Christmas happen all year long?
This Christmas may you know boundless love, immeasurable peace and uncontainable joy. Most of all, may you feel the Father’s love sent, as Zoey would say, ’specially from His heart to yours.
Merry Christmas to all.
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Love Inspired story.
You believe hearts can heal. Love Inspired stories show that faith, forgiveness and hope have the power to lift spirits and change lives—always.
Enjoy six new stories from Love Inspired every month!
Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
Join Harlequin My Rewards & Instantly earn a FREE ebook of your choice.
Earn points for every Harlequin print and ebook you buy, wherever & whenever you shop.
Turn your points into FREE BOOKS.
Don’t miss out. Reward the book lover in you!
Register Today & Earn a FREE BOOK*
*New members who join before December 31st, 2017 will receive 2000 points redeemable for eligible titles.
Click here to register
Or visit us online to register at
http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010001
The Cowboy’s Family Christmas
by Carolyne Aarsen
Chapter One
It was a surprisingly balmy Tuesday for No
vember. Fall seemed reluctant to leave and Leanne Walsh was fine with that. She had too much to do on the ranch.
Late afternoon sunshine softened the day, creating gentle shadows on the Porcupine Hills of Alberta. A chill cooled the air, a threat of winter coming. Leanne hoped it hung off for at least a week. They still had cows to move down from the upper pastures and then had to process them.
Her son, Austin, sat astride the palomino mare his grandfather purchased a half a year ago when Austin was only two. Leanne had protested the expense but George Walsh insisted that Walshes learned to ride a proper horse as young as possible.
Now Austin was laughing down at her, his shock of brown hair falling over his forehead, his chubby hands clutching the saddle horn, the cowboy hat he’d gotten a couple of weeks ago clamped firmly on his head. Since George had given it to Austin, he’d worn it nonstop.
“He looks comfortable up there.” George stood by the fence, his arms hooked over the top rail, his battered cowboy hat pushed back on his head. Though he was only fifty-eight, Leanne’s father-in-law looked twenty years older.
Life had knocked a lot out of the man, Leanne thought, acknowledging his gruff comment with a tight nod. He’d lost his first wife to cancer and was left with a young son, then he was abandoned by the second wife, leaving him with another young son. Dirk, his eldest son and Leanne’s late husband, now lay buried in the graveyard abutting the church in Cedar Ridge, and the son of his second marriage, Reuben was so far out of George’s life, he may as well be dead.
“Is that mare favoring her one leg?” George asked, concern edging his voice.
Leanne watched more carefully as the horse walked, each footfall of Heart’s Delight’s hooves raising small puffs of dust in the round pen. “I can’t see it,” she said glancing up at her son again, the sight of him pulling her mouth into a full smile. “But I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Not always easy for someone like you to catch that kind of thing.”
Someone like you.
Though Leanne knew he spoke of her ability to read horses, those three simple words had the power to make her shoulders hunch and her hands clench the halter rope.
Those three words held a weight of history behind them. George had tossed them at her when he discovered that she, a Rennie, daughter of one of the most hated and useless men in Cedar Ridge, dared to think she could date his favored son, Dirk Walsh, let alone marry him.
“I know enough about horses to see if one is lame or not,” she finally returned. “And if you have any further concerns, we can bring it to see Tabitha or Morgan.” Her sister held an equine specialist degree and her fiancé, Morgan Walsh, was a vet. Together they were starting a new vet clinic on some acreage Tabitha owned close to town.
“Morgan doesn’t even have his clinic done yet,” George groused.
“It will be. But for now they can still diagnose any problems Heart’s Delight might have.”
George’s only reply was a slight curl of his lip and she fought the urge to defend her sister. Leanne knew it was only because of her marriage to Dirk and because of his grandson, Austin, that George tolerated her presence.
Which had made her even more determined to prove herself to him. Prove she was worthy. As a result she spent every available minute working on the ranch. Showing that she could ride and rope better than any hired hand they had, including their latest, Chad. She did the bookkeeping and dealt with the accountant.
“Is Chad coming again tomorrow?” Leanne asked.
Their new hired hand had started a couple of days ago but hadn’t come to work yesterday and called in sick today. Which made her wonder if she would have to start looking for another hired hand all over again.
“He said he would. Though I don’t know why you hired him. He doesn’t know much about cows or horses,” George grumbled.
“He’s willing and I think he can be trained.” She wanted to say more but the sound of a truck engine caught both their attentions.
The ranch was nestled in a valley, well off the main road snaking through the hills. People arriving at the ranch had to drive along a switchback road that traversed the hill leading down to the ranch. If they didn’t know the road, it could be trouble. And this person was driving far too fast.
“Idiot is going to overshoot the second turn,” George muttered, pushing away from the fence, irritation edging his voice. “Probably some salesman who doesn’t know how to drive his fancy truck in the back of the beyond.”
But whoever it was seemed to know the road because, in spite of the speed of the vehicle, the truck easily made it around the corner and then down the tree-lined road toward the ranch. It suddenly slowed at the cattle guard, and as it rattled across, unease niggled through Leanne.
Though the driver seemed familiar with the approach to the Bar W Ranch, Leanne didn’t recognize the black truck with the gleaming grill getting coated with dust.
It made the tight bend past the house, then came toward the corrals. As the driver killed the engine, silence fell again.
The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out wearing a cowboy hat over his collar-length hair. Sunglasses shaded his face and he dropped a cell phone into the pocket of a worn twill shirt, the sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms. Faded blue jeans hugged his hips and his boots were scuffed and worn at the heel.
He started walking toward them with the easy rolling gait of a man who had spent time on a horse. Definitely not a salesman.
“Can I help you?” George asked, the irritation in his voice shifting to aggression.
Leanne groaned. Please, Lord, she prayed as she led Austin and his horse to the rail fence, don’t let this be one of the officials from the association who promised to come and visit someday.
Seeing George in full-on Walsh mode wouldn’t help their cause. She was the temporary secretary for the Cedar Ridge Rodeo Group. For the past couple years the group had tried to get their town’s rodeo to be a part of the larger Milk River Rodeo Association. They needed all the goodwill they could muster.
“This is private land,” George continued as the man drew closer.
“Here, punkin, why don’t you come down?” Leanne asked, tying up the horse and reaching for Austin. She had to intervene before George took a notion to grab the shotgun stashed in the barn behind them.
Leanne lifted her son over the fence, clambered over herself, picked Austin up, then hurried over to where her father-in-law stood, hands planted on his hips, head thrust forward in an aggressive gesture. “What’s your business here?” George growled.
But the stranger was unfazed by George’s belligerence. A slow smile crawled across his well-shaped mouth, shaded by a scruff of whiskers, and the unease in Leanne grew.
“Hey, George,” the man said, sweeping his sunglasses off, tucking them in the pocket of his shirt and flicking his cowboy hat back. “Been a few years.”
Leanne’s legs suddenly went numb. Her heart turned to ice at the sound of that voice. At the sight of those brown eyes, crinkled at the corners.
Reuben Walsh.
Prodigal son come home.
And right behind all her initial reactions came a wave of anger so fierce it threatened to swamp her.
* * *
Reuben Walsh had known his father wouldn’t throw out the welcome mat when he saw him nor kill the fatted calf when he arrived. And he had guessed Leanne wouldn’t be thrilled either.
But the blatant rage in her narrowed eyes was unexpected.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d been lying in a hospital bed, her auburn hair tied up in a tangled ponytail he knew would have driven her crazy. Leanne always wore her thick hair loose, hanging halfway down her back. Always had her nails perfectly done. Always looked amazing even in the simple clothes she tended to wear.
But at that time sh
e lay unconscious, her pale features slack as if she were as dead as her husband, Dirk, was. His brother, Dirk.
She and Dirk had been on their way back from their honeymoon after a quick and unexpected wedding that happened before Reuben had flown back to Cedar Ridge.
To propose to Leanne himself.
He stopped in at the hospital to see her after his brother’s funeral, stood by her bed, the angry questions swirling around his mind unable to be asked, and then he left. Taking his ring and his broken heart with him. He hadn’t been back since. Nor had he and Leanne been in contact.
What could they possibly have to say to each other?
“Hey, Leanne,” he said, surprised at the hitch in his voice when their eyes met.
To his surprise and disappointment, old feelings gripped his heart.
For years she had occupied his waking thoughts and drifted through his dreams. Now here she stood, Dirk’s widow, with his nephew resting on her hip. Two reminders of the distance between them.
“Hey, Reuben.”
Her voice was cool and clipped. He felt his own ire rise up, wondering what right she had to be bent out of shape.
“What are you doing here?” His father’s gruff voice grated and once again Reuben fought the old inferiority his father always created in him.
When Reuben received the email from Owen Herne, chairman of the Cedar Ridge Rodeo Group, asking him to assess the unfinished arena for them, he’d been tempted to delete it. He had no desire to return to Cedar Ridge and face the woman he had loved, now the widow of his forever-favored older brother. And why would he deliberately put himself in the line of his father’s constant disapproval? He had lived with that long enough when he was a teenager.
The last time he was in Cedar Ridge was three years ago to attend his brother’s funeral. George had been so bitter, he hadn’t acknowledged Reuben’s presence. No personal greeting. No question about how he was doing. No recognition of Reuben’s own pain at the loss of a brother.
