A Cowboy for Christmas

by Lori Wilde

  It tore clean through her. She moved closer, scrunching pictures between them, and wrapped her arms around her mother-in-law.

  Claudia clung to her. Sobbed. “First we lose Jake and now . . . and now . . . poor little Kyle is going deaf. It isn’t fair, dammit. Life is not fair.”

  “No one ever said it was,” Lissette said calmly.

  Suddenly, Claudia reached out and grabbed Lissette’s left hand. “You stopped wearing your wedding ring.”

  “I’m a widow. It’s time to let go.”

  “It hasn’t even been a year,” Claudia protested. “Hell, it hasn’t even been six months.”

  Maybe not, but their marriage had been emotionally over for quite some time. “He’s not coming back,” she said gently.

  “I know that, I know that, but I thought you would honor his memory—”

  “I have honored his memory. I still do.” Lissette considered telling Claudia about her suspicions that Jake had cheated on her, but one glance in her mother-in-law’s face and she knew she couldn’t do it and there was no way she could tell her about Rafferty. Not now. Not while she’d been drinking. Claudia was hurting so badly.

  Lissette lowered her tone, drew in a deep breath to calm herself. “I have to do this for me, Claudia. I have to let go of Jake in order to be strong enough for Kyle. You understand that. I know you understand it because that’s what you did for Jake when Gordon died.”

  Claudia shook her head. “No. Jake was twenty when Gordon died. It wasn’t the same.” She reached up to pluck at a metal button on Rafferty’s denim jacket.

  Lissette gulped, prayed Claudia wouldn’t ask why she was wearing a man’s oversized jacket.

  “I’m afraid,” Claudia whispered.

  “Afraid of what?” Lissette leaned forward, touched her forehead to Claudia’s. She smelled of talcum powder, roses, and Merlot.

  She cupped Lissette’s cheek in her palm. “That you’ll forget Jake. That you won’t tell Kyle who his father is.”

  “Jake gave me my son,” Lissette said. “There’s no way I can ever forget that. And you’re going to be around to tell Kyle’s children about his father. There’s no way my boy is not going to know who his dad was.”

  “You mean that?” Claudia whispered. “You’re not going to cut me out of Kyle’s life?”

  Lissette pulled back, looked her squarely in the eyes. “Now why would I do that?”

  She shrugged, nodded at Lissette’s bare left hand. “You’ll meet a new man. Fall in love. Move away.”

  “No,” Lissette said. “I’m not moving away. My home is here. My friends are here. You’re here.”

  Relief and gratitude glistened in Claudia’s eyes. “You mean it?”

  “I’m expanding my business. If I wasn’t serious about staying would I do that?”

  “Expanding your business?”

  “Kyle’s got to have medical attention, therapy, special education classes. None of that is going to come cheaply. I’m planning on including cowboy-themed pastries. Then when that takes off, I hope to open a storefront in town.”

  Claudia brightened, wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I think I am hungry now,” she said. “But let’s not have soup. I’ve got a pint of Häagen-Dazs butter pecan in the freezer. Grab it and two spoons and come tell me all about your plans.”

  Lissette smiled, patted Claudia’s hand, got up, and wandered into the kitchen. They’d weathered that squall, but she knew the storms were far from over. Eventually, she’d have to tell Claudia about Rafferty.

  Not if you send Rafferty away first. Avoid the pain altogether.

  She opened the freezer door, stared unseeingly inside. Cold air blasted her face but at the thought of sending Rafferty away, her stomach turned hot and unsettled. He’d come out of nowhere, an answer to her prayers.

  That’s not good. You shouldn’t depend on anyone else. This is your son, your bakery business. Ask Rafferty to buy Slate from you and then send him on his way. It’s the best solution all around.

  But he was, after all, Kyle’s uncle. This might be the only time her son had a chance to know him. The boy needed a strong male role model. No denying that.

  Where was that ice cream? Rooted to the spot, Lissette nibbled her bottom lip, couldn’t see what was right in front of her.

  If she didn’t ask Rafferty to leave, then she had to tell Claudia before someone else did. As soon as word got out that he was living in her garage apartment, the town would be buzzing with the news.

  Let’s be honest, Lissette, whispered a subversive voice in the back of her head. About the real reason you want to send him away. He makes you feel something you’re ashamed of feeling.

  Yes. It was true. This afternoon at the river, she’d nearly begged him to kiss her, and that was the true root of the problem.

  She didn’t trust herself around him.

  Finally, she saw the pint of Häagen-Dazs, curled her fingers around the icy carton, the cold seeping into her skin.

  Asking Rafferty to leave would be far easier than causing Claudia more emotional pain. Far easier than examining the real meaning of the world-rocking chemistry surging between them.

  She had no choice. Rafferty had to go.

  Chapter Nine

  Whenever she baked, Lissette remembered what she’d been born for. Feeding people. Making them smile. Bringing a sweet taste of heaven straight down to earth.

  In pastry school, her instructor had been a flamboyant Frenchwoman aptly named Madame Boulanger. “I believe in zee church of dessert,” the raven-haired teacher, who could have been Cleopatra’s twin, declared on the first day of class. Eyebrows arched high, nose in the air, hand placed dramatically over her heart, she went on. “If you are not at this moment a true believer, then you must quickly become a convert or you will fail my class. Only believers are allowed in my kitchen. Only the lovers of cake. If you do not love cake . . .” She made a slicing motion with her index finger across her throat. “You are dead to me.”

  Lissette broke from her normally reticent nature. She’d grinned, pressed her palms together in supplication, bowed her head, and announced, “Let us pray. Dear Cake that art in Madame Boulanger’s kitchen—”

  The rest of the class gasped, gaped, and it was only then that Lissette realized she’d come across as if she were mocking the Frenchwoman, but the truth was the exact opposite. She’d been so swept up by finding a teacher who loved baking as much as she did—and took it as seriously as a religion—that spirit had moved her to express her joy in an impromptu kitchen prayer.

  Wincing, she’d raised her head, her mind frantically searching for an acceptable apology. How awful if she got kicked out of school on the first day.

  Her fellow students stood goggle-eyed; some looked uncomfortable and embarrassed for her. Others appeared gleeful in their schadenfreude.

  “What is your name?” Madame Boulanger demanded, hand on her hips.

  “L-Lissette.”

  “That is a French name.”

  Lissette gulped, barely managed to eke out, “Yes.”

  “You.” Madame Boulanger snapped her fingers. “Come here to me.”

  This was it. She was being dismissed. She was going to have to go home and confess to her parents she was a one-day washout. Hangdog, she’d shuffled over.

  The instructor rested her hand on Lissette’s shoulder. “For the rest of the semester, you are my favorite student.” She turned to the other students, delivered them a hard glare. “The rest of you must strive to be as inspired by baking as Lissette.” She pronounced her name Lees-ette.

  Stunned, Lissette stood there blinking for a moment until it sank in that not only had she not been tossed from the class, but Madame Boulanger had just anointed her teacher’s pet.

  Madame Boulanger was from Lyons and frequently expressed heartfelt contempt for all things Parisian. She hated Paris as much as she loved bread. “Lyons,” she loved to say, “is the true France.”

  She heaped special
attention and privileges upon Lissette, and while Lissette had soaked up every bit of the knowledge the eccentric French pastry chef bestowed on her, Lissette’s time at the Dallas Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts had been anything but pleasant.

  Her jealous peers ostracized her, and for someone who liked making other people happy, she spent her days navigating stormy kitchen seas. They would sabotage her desserts, changing the temperature on the oven when she wasn’t looking, tossing handfuls of salt in her batter behind her back, removing the labels from the extracts and replacing them with false ones.

  To blunt her loneliness, she threw herself into baking and quickly excelled far past everyone else in the class. Which only increased her isolation. Still, she persevered and graduated with top honors.

  “It is painful, being a great artist,” Madame Boulanger whispered to her when she handed her a diploma. “You have a natural gift, Lissette. Do not waste it.”

  She had to wonder what Madame Boulanger would think of a Texas-themed bakery. Would she approve or turn up her nose and pronounce it beneath Lissette’s talent?

  Strive, strive, always strive for excellence. Her old teacher’s favorite mantra popped into her head.

  Which was what she was doing this very minute. Baking. For two reasons. One, to test out potential new recipes for her business, and two, to keep herself busy while she waited for Rafferty to return so she could tell him that he had to leave.

  After polishing off the pint of ice cream with Claudia, she’d gone to pick up Kyle from the babysitter and she’d come home feeling restless and edgy. She knew the only cure was to get elbow-deep in pastry dough. Kyle had been wired after playing all day with Jonah, so even though it was late afternoon, Lissette had put him down for a nap.

  She still hadn’t called her parents or told her friends about Kyle’s deafness, but she had at least talked to Claudia. One step at a time. Tomorrow. She’d tell her parents tomorrow.

  Tonight, she had to ask Rafferty to leave.

  As she mixed the ingredients, she practiced the speech in her head. You’re a nice guy. I really like you, but—

  A knock sounded at the French doors and she jerked her head up to see Rafferty cradling a stack of books in the crook of his arm. Feeling both apprehensive and stupidly happy to see him, she waved him inside with flour-dusted fingers.

  He came in, clicking the door closed behind him. His Stetson was tipped back on his head, giving him a rakish appearance. He smelled of autumn and musty yellowed paper. Just looking at him made her breathless.

  “Hey,” he said. “Something sure smells good.”

  “Roast in the Crock-Pot, dinner rolls in the oven, and I’m working on a prickly pear cactus cake for dessert. New recipe.” She might as well feed the man before she tossed him out. Unpleasant news went down easier on a full stomach.

  “You can make cake from a cactus?”

  “I can make dessert from anything,” she bragged.

  “Not the least bit cocky, huh?” His smile warmed her from the inside out.

  “It’s not cocky if you can back it up.”

  “I enjoy seeing you like this.”

  That comment had her dropping her gaze to the greased and floured pan she was pouring the prickly pear batter into. She hunched her shoulders against the weight of what she didn’t want to tell him and concentrated on scraping the bowl with a red rubber spoon. The final bit of batter dripped teardrops into the cake pan.

  He cleared his throat. “Lissette?”

  Reluctantly, she set down the bowl and raised her chin. Her kitchen suddenly seemed far too bright with the evening sun glinting through the windows and the recessed halogen lights shining down on the white marble countertop. She’d wanted a cheery kitchen, but now it was almost blindingly dazzling.

  “Hmm?” She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel so old the hem had started to unravel. A wisp of yellow thread dangled loose.

  “Is something wrong?” His voice lowered.

  “No, nothing wrong.” She licked batter from an index finger, tried to ignore the tension pulling down her spine.

  “You sure?” His gaze scorched her mouth.

  She froze with her finger on her bottom lip.

  He shifted the books in his arms, his gaze moving up to meet her eyes. “Lissette?”

  “Whatcha got?” She nodded at the books in his arm, desperate for something to look at besides his face.

  “I’ve been to the library,” he said.

  “Oh?” She felt faintly dizzy.

  “I was doing some research on my lineage. Did you know the Moncriefs are quite an influential family in North Texas?”

  “Wrong branch of the family tree. We aren’t kin to those Moncriefs.”

  “So I learned. Story of my life.” He turned and settled the books on the dining room table, then came into the kitchen with her. “But I checked out these books for you.”

  “You got a library card?”

  He looked amused. “It was the only way they’d allow me take out the books.”

  “You had to give a local address in order to get a library card.”

  “I put down your address. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Rafferty,” she exclaimed, hearing her voice peak high on the last syllable of his name. “Now everyone in town is going to know you’re staying here.”

  “I see.” He stood incredibly still, not moving, not saying another word. The kitchen island was between them, wide and safe. He stepped around it, demolishing her safety zone. His boot made a soft but determined sound against the terrazzo. Not so secure now. Closer. Quite close.

  Too close.

  Habit twisted her hands around the cup towel, not just wiping off remnants of cake batter, but building a thin barrier between them. She hitched in a breath, trying to draw in air past the sparks of desire and shroud of misfortune that made her long for a man she should not, could not want.

  “Come here,” he said so tenderly it set her bones quaking. He reached out his hand and gently encircled her left wrist with his thumb and index finger.

  She didn’t resist. Let herself be led. Oh, why was she such a bendable dandelion? Swaying whichever way the wind blew? Why couldn’t she have been born a sunflower? Thick and stalky. Following the light instead of getting caught in life’s currents. Why was taking a stand and sticking to it so difficult for her? Why couldn’t she be tough and bitchy?

  But here she was, allowing Rafferty to lead her smooth and easy—as if they were waltzing—into the dining room. His calloused palm was so sweetly rough she fought against closing her eyes and committing the feeling to memory before she lost it forever.

  Tumult.

  Stop it. Stop it. Whatever you’re feeling is just some weird reaction to finding out about Kyle’s condition. It’s sexual attraction or loneliness or a messy combination of both. It’s a distraction. A dream. Nothing real. Nothing to bank on.

  He let go of her hand, picked up a thin book with a green spine and cookies on the front cover, and put it in her hand. How to Start a Cottage Bakery in Texas. Another book. How to Write a Business Plan. Then another. Your Road to Financial Freedom.

  The books weighted her arm, anchoring her to the spot. He’d been thinking of her. Checked out these books for her. Jake never read, much less went to the library. He had enough reading in school, he’d told her once when she tried to get him to read To Kill a Mockingbird. But Lissette loved books. She read to Kyle all the time.

  Read.

  To her deaf son.

  Why hadn’t she known?

  The title of the next book Rafferty stacked on top of the others caused her heart to stumble. Hearing Loss in Children. There were two more books. One on baby sign language, the other book on American sign. Her knees trembled.

  The last book on the table was another thin volume. Black with gold lettering. The Poems of Charles Baudelaire.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  He snatched it up, tucked it behind his back. Looked as e
mbarrassed as if she’d caught him with a copy of Penthouse. “That’s for me.”

  Bemused, she met his gaze for the first time since he’d brought her into the dining room.

  “Poetry?”

  “Reading poetry helps me relax when I have trouble sleeping.”

  “Okay,” she teased, but she loved how incongruous it seemed—a rugged cowboy reading poetry. “If you say so.”

  “You’ve never heard of cowboy poetry?” he asked, eerily reading her mind.

  “Sure.”

  “Stop smirking.”

  “Who me?” She couldn’t stop smirking and she had no idea why.

  “Just because I never finished high school doesn’t mean I can’t read. I did get a GED.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry if you thought I was making fun of you. Thanks for the books. That was kind of you to think of me.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe black and white facts can help you see your way through this rough patch.”

  “That’s why poetry doesn’t fit,” she said. “Not because you’re a cowboy, but because you’re a pragmatist.”

  He wagged a finger and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “You don’t know me well enough to make that assumption.”

  She didn’t know him at all. Lissette settled the books back on the table. “Thank you for the books. You’re right. I need to make a plan. Both for the business and for Kyle.”

  “I hate seeing you struggle.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “I have no doubt.” His eyes burned golden in the slanting orange rays of the setting sun, slipping through the thin sheers covering the French doors.

  This was it, the perfect time to ask him to leave.

  She straightened her shoulders, forced her chin up, and met his eyes. “Rafferty.”

  “Lissette,” he mocked, his tone lightheartedly somber.

  “About this afternoon at the river . . .”

  He took a step closer. Bent his head. His masculine scent stirred her in untold ways. “Yes?”

  “It was . . . I was . . .”