Show Me a Family for Christmas : Small-Town Single-Father Cowboy Romance (Cowboy Crossing Romances Book 6)

by Alexa Verde

  That call earlier still spooked her. She’d wondered if God was nudging her to investigate what happened to Dad. Now, it seemed maybe someone else was, too. Tracing the caller’s number got her nowhere. Probably, a burner phone. No joy tracing the caller’s location, either. She didn’t have the contacts here to dig deeper, but Vera did. God willing, her friend could help.

  So instead of thinking about the blue sedan and the call, things she didn’t want to think about, she found herself remembering the guy she’d met today, and humming. She probably had a goofy smile as she thought about Conner and his little girl.

  What about the man drew her to him so strongly?

  Was it his obvious love for his daughter? Gwendolyn and Conner’s bond over their painful pasts, with him losing his wife and her losing her father? His charisma? His Texan twang, great build toned by years of working outdoors, or handsome features?

  Probably all of the above.

  Though probably not so much the great build. Muscular men surrounded her in her line of work. Most of her colleagues were buffed as if it were a job requirement. After all, people preferred to hide behind broad shoulders. Those muscles had never affected her before.

  Lord, I have horrible judgment about men. I’ve made my share of mistakes. Is Conner going to be one of those mistakes? Or is he the man You created for me?

  Wow. She was going too far with the last statement.

  Her phone rang and her pulse accelerated. Reaching out for her phone on the oak nightstand, she picked it up, and her heart skipped a beat at Conner’s name. “Hello,” she whispered into the phone.

  “Hi, Gwendolyn. Um, Daisy and I are going to look at Christmas lights tomorrow. You mentioned how beautiful they are.”

  Did she? Oh yes, she did.

  Conner cleared his throat. “Would you... would you like to join us?” There was a voice in the background. He chuckled. “Daisy told me to say pretty please.”

  Despite her best intentions, she smiled. “I... I don’t know.” She closed her eyes. She’d avoided looking at Christmas lights for over two decades. Worked through the holidays. Didn’t put up a Christmas tree.

  Besides, it wouldn’t be a good idea to see him again.

  “Oh. My daughter told me I was saying it the wrong way. I need to do it like Danica did.” He pitched his voice higher. “Pretty pretty please?”

  Laughter bubbled in her chest, and she heard herself saying okay.

  “Great.”

  “Yay!” An excited scream came from the background.

  What had she done? “I mean—”

  “See you tomorrow.” He disconnected.

  Her phone beeped, signaling an incoming text. Then the smile slid from her face as she stared at her phone screen.

  The text was from Vera, and her stomach clenched as she opened the message.

  I’m working on it.

  A low groan slid loose, and Gwendolyn banged her head back on the sturdy oak headboard. What was wrong with her? She should be participating in the investigation. She’d been the one in Springfield when her dad had been murdered. She was the one who’d let him down. She was the one seeing and hearing things that reminded her of him.

  Instead, she’d pawned it off on her friend. What kind of daughter did that?

  A guilty daughter. A daughter who didn’t want to remember her mistakes.

  Her throat clogged up as she forced herself to think about what had happened a quarter of a century ago, the memories she’d done her best to push away but couldn’t ignore any longer.

  At first, she’d been hurt when her father had accepted an assignment two weeks before Christmas. It had taken her a long time to realize he’d accepted that job, not because of the generous pay but because he could relate to the case.

  Brea Cohen, the daughter of a famous sculptor, was back from drug rehab, and her father wanted to make sure she didn’t relapse. He also didn’t want certain friends anywhere near her. Brea was fifteen, and the sculptor had been raising her on his own.

  Gwendolyn closed her eyes, willing the image to come to her mind. Though her father had never mixed business and personal life before, the small Cohen family was friendly, and with the holidays approaching, he’d taken Gwendolyn to his client’s place filled with beautiful sculptures several times. He and Mr. Cohen became somewhat close to friends.

  With long, straight, beach-blonde hair, an hourglass figure, and outfits rich in price and poor in fabric amount, Brea looked nothing like Gwendolyn.

  Teenage Gwendolyn had dressed in khaki pants and gray hoodies, doing her best to blend into the background. Gwendolyn’s hair was boy-short—a compromise with her father as he’d preferred military cut. She’d already been chubby despite her exercise routine.

  While Gwendolyn’s father had been strict with her, toughening her up for her future life, Brea had been obviously spoiled. It was as if Mr. Cohen had tried to overcompensate for being unable to give Brea a mother figure by giving her everything else she’d wanted.

  But while their appearances and characters were different, the situation itself must’ve raised Gwendolyn’s father’s protective instincts.

  He’d called Gwendolyn regularly while she’d stayed with her grandpa. He’d told her with a chuckle he didn’t understand what he was paid for. Brea stayed inside the house, glued to her phone. She hadn’t tried to sneak out at night—one of the female house employees watched the girl’s room at night due to sensitivity issues. He’d insisted that was part of the contract so he couldn’t later be accused of any lewd behavior.

  Even then, Gwendolyn had been surprised that a teen who’d had issues in the past would stick to the house regimen. Gwendolyn should’ve brought it up, and again, guilt jabbed her.

  Guilt had been her loyal companion since the day he’d died. The day before Christmas Eve, he’d called her, saying he’d asked for the holidays off and wanted to spend three days with her.

  She was excited, but she was supposed to have a date with a cute guy she’d met at the grocery store of all places. Her father agreed to her going on the date, though she could tell he was disappointed. But she’d always done what he’d wanted, so wasn’t it time to do something for herself, too?

  What happened on the night of December 23 still sliced her insides sharper than any knife could. Her father was found shot in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse many miles from the posh neighborhood he’d been surveilling.

  Why had he gone there? To meet with someone who didn’t want to be seen?

  Even then, why didn’t he tell anyone?

  Gwendolyn stared at the ceiling as if she could find answers there. She rubbed her throbbing temples, a migraine brewing as it did every time she’d thought about the horrible day.

  According to the police, Brea had said she had no clue what had happened, and Mr. Cohen had said the same thing. He’d confirmed his daughter had spent all the time in the house, and so had the female employee who’d been watching her.

  Could he... could he have lied for his daughter and paid his employee to do the same? Gwendolyn threw her shoulders back. She needed to talk to Brea, something she should’ve done twenty-five years ago.

  Migraine getting stronger, Gwendolyn slid out of bed and picked up her laptop from the desk. After powering it up, she searched for internet updates on her father’s last client and his family.

  Her heart sank.

  Oh no. Brea had overdosed eight years after Gwendolyn’s father’s death. Since then, Mr. Cohen hadn’t done a single exhibition despite many requests. He’d stayed away from any kind of media, becoming a hermit. To this day, he didn’t have any social accounts, unless he’d done it under a fake name. He’d never remarried, either.

  Compassion stirred her, but then doubt wriggled in, elbowing the more sensitive emotion aside. Was the man plagued by grief—or guilt? Had something her father overheard or witnessed in their house created a need for his elimination?

  She needed more plausible theories, of course.
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  Despite a million hammers knocking in her brain now, Gwendolyn searched her memory for her father’s cases, for any people who could’ve wished him dead. She started making a list for her friend and for herself, grading the people by probability.

  Amazingly, remembering details of the things that happened twenty-five years ago was easier than remembering something from a few days ago. Gwendolyn massaged her aching temples again. She did her best to dredge up anything the police officer investigating the case had cared to share with her, which wasn’t much. But then, all she’d done during their conversations was cry.

  Her phone rang again, and she reached for it.

  Uncle John, her father’s best friend and colleague.

  She called him an uncle since she was a child, though she wasn’t related to him. Uncle John had a paunch, a receding hairline, a goofy smile pushing up round cheeks, and an affection for sweatshirts with fun quotes. He smelled like the cookies his wife baked and he’d often brought Gwendolyn.

  He didn’t look—or smell—like bodyguards Gwendolyn later had worked with. But, before he retired at sixty, Uncle John had more saved lives under his large belt than any man Gwendolyn knew. He’d told her he’d used the surprise element to his advantage and had taught her to do the same. Though the man could look like an elephant, he moved with the agility of a leopard.

  Thanks to Uncle John, Gwendolyn had stopped lamenting the fact that she didn’t look like a bodyguard and saw what could be her shortcoming as her strength. She’d made many clients see her point, too. And a few times when she’d worked with a partner bodyguard, Gwendolyn had been the one who’d saved the day. While her partner had been a target, Gwendolyn had stayed in the shadows and, just like Uncle John, used the element of surprise in her favor.

  Uncle John’s wife died two years ago, sadly, but his grown-up children and grandchildren often kept him company.

  Realizing she’d lingered too long, she swiped the screen to answer, nostalgia stirring inside her. “Hello, Uncle John.”

  “Hello, Gwendolyn.” His deep, tired voice somehow reduced the pounding in her temples. “How... How are you holding up?”

  First, he’d visited, then called her before Christmas every year. Not to wish her happy holidays like other people.

  To make sure she was okay.

  Those first two years, it had put her grandpa on guard. But she’d never sensed any romantic interest on Uncle John’s behalf, and there was none on hers. While he hadn’t turned into a father figure, he’d checked on her throughout the years, had helped her get training and her first bodyguard assignment, becoming her mentor.

  He was understanding, too. With him, she didn’t have to smile through the holidays and pretend all was merry and bright. “I’m hanging in there. You?”

  “You’re welcome to spend Christmas with me and my children and grands.” As always, the invitation came.

  As always, she declined. “Thank you, but no. I appreciate it, though.” She paused, then told him about the navy-blue sedan.

  He whistled. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence. Seriously, you should stay with us for the time being.”

  She shook her head as if he could see her. “I can’t go into hiding. What kind of a bodyguard would that make me?” She wanted her father to be proud of her, not ashamed of her. Her fingers wrapped tighter around the phone’s edge.

  “An alive one? Okay, never mind.”

  “Could you please email me anything you know about... well, when my father was shot.”

  “Will do. Remember, the invitation is still standing. Any time.”

  A beep signaled an incoming text. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.”

  “Take care of yourself. Please.” He disconnected.

  She opened the text from her friend.

  Cohen is going to have an exhibition. The first one since his daughter’s death. I’m going to email you a flyer and the info.

  Gwendolyn typed the reply quickly.

  Thank you. I have a list of suspects I made. I’m going to drop it off at your room in a few minutes if that’s okay.

  The phone beeped immediately.

  Sounds good.

  Eyes narrowed, Gwendolyn logged into her email on the laptop and opened the flyer. The sadness and pain in the small bronze figures pictured was palpable.

  She covered her face with her palms. What did this mean?

  Had Cohen healed after nearly two decades? At least enough to show his pain to the world?

  Or was there another reason?

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Gwendolyn checked her phone for updates. Vera might be busy with the baby—or her husband—so Gwendolyn didn’t go knocking on her door. Not that Vera’s husband was a big baby.

  Gwendolyn’s heart started beating fast. Vera had sent an email with an encrypted attachment. A password to open the attachment waited in a text, so Gwendolyn hurried to look through it. She had little time before the children woke up.

  The first suspect, Ron Amspoker, an abusive ex-husband of her father’s client, was in prison at the time of her father’s murder but could have an accomplice. Vera had checked whether any people Ron was in prison with had been released at the time of her father’s murder. The answer was no.

  Grimacing, Gwendolyn slumped further against her wooden headboard as she studied Vera’s next file. She’d gone through the list of people who’d visited Ron in prison. Two of Amspoker’s relatives had been overseas at the time of her father’s murder.

  O–okay.

  Several women who weren’t blood related to him had been among his other visitors.

  She zeroed in on the names and photos.

  Romantic interests?

  She cringed. Yes, from what she’d learned about him from his life history, he might be a charmer who could spin a great tale. She studied the photo of an attractive clean-shaven man with shoulder-length brown hair, sly eyes of an unusual green, and a square jaw. So he was handsome. But how could those women disregard that he was a known abuser?

  Could he twist the truth that skillfully?

  She sighed.

  Wasn’t she gullible when her ex-fiancé had lied to her? That meant she shouldn’t be trusting the handsome newcomer in town, either. Her treacherous heart skipped a beat. Despite her thoughts, she couldn’t wait until the evening to go see the Christmas lights with him and his daughter. And she didn’t even want to see the lights.

  Concentrate.

  She forced herself to study the women’s files. He’d had three female visitors, and two of them stuck around for a while.

  Interesting. She nearly held her breath, her curiosity piqued.

  One, a weary-eyed thirtysomething woman named Odetta had not only stopped visiting him but had also moved to a different state shortly after said visits.

  Hmm. She was a waitress who lived in government-subsided housing. The apartment she’d moved to was much more expensive, and it had taken her two months to find a new job. How did she afford the move?

  Vera had done a lot of work in a short time. Had she stayed up all night? Argh.

  Let’s think.

  The throbbing in Gwendolyn’s head resumed full-force, and she grimaced.

  Odetta had already been in several abusive relationships and had grown up in a household where domestic violence calls had been made on a regular basis. Gwendolyn resisted the urge to grind her teeth. It appeared abuse was all Odetta knew, and she kept coming to such men instead of avoiding them. Codependency issues?

  As pressure built in Gwendolyn’s chest, she said a prayer for the woman.

  Then doubt shivered through her. What if her father had a protector’s complex? He might’ve gone to that abandoned warehouse if he thought he needed to help a woman in distress.

  Odetta could’ve played that role if Ron asked her to, couldn’t she? Gwendolyn looked at Odetta’s photo at the time. Long dirty strands fell on the woman’s slumped shoulders, and despair dulled her gray eyes as though she�
��d lost heart after years of abuse. A thin charcoal scarf wrapped around her neck, tied too tightly as if it were a noose ready to be pulled.

  The pressure heavier, Gwendolyn said another prayer for Odetta.

  Done with the file Vera had sent her, Gwendolyn started researching first on social media, then on the internet overall. It was disturbing how easily someone’s address could be found online.

  Gwendolyn let out a low whistle when she found the national house sale and rental site displaying photos of the mansion where Odetta was living now. The amount it sold for was more than impressive.

  Odetta had become a suburban wife with two teens and a dog. Not to mention a dentist husband whose teeth—based on the photo—were as white and straight as their picket fence and probably the best advertisement for good dental work.

  Gwendolyn found his dental clinic. Huh. Odetta was his office assistant. Gwendolyn studied the photo on the clinic’s site. Wow. Over two decades later, she seemed to look better instead of worse.

  Her much shorter hair, now professionally styled, had a rich chocolate hue to it. Gone were the dark circles around her eyes and their haunted expression as if she needed to jump back in case she’d get hit again. Her bright smile spoke highly of either her husband’s character or his professional skills.

  Maybe both.

  A cheerful turquoise silk scarf hung loosely around her neck. Peering into those no-longer haunted eyes, Gwendolyn hesitated. Odetta had put her past behind her and didn’t need anyone to drag it out and wave it around. Or pull it around her neck like a noose, for that matter.

  Then Gwendolyn’s desire for closure won over compassion. She glanced at her watch, then at the business hours on the site. The dental clinic should be just opening up. She punched the dentistry office number into her cell phone. Her pulse quickened for more reasons than one as she waited. She needed to hurry up and get ready, too.

  A melodic female voice named the dentistry, then said, “How may I help you?”

  “May I speak to Odetta?” Gwendolyn said the woman’s married name.

  “Speaking.”

  In that split-second, Gwendolyn decided to go for a direct approach. “My name is Gwendolyn Meyers. My father was murdered twenty-five years ago. I have reasons to suspect Ron Amspoker had a grudge against him. I need to know whether twenty-five years ago Ron asked you to call my father and arrange a meeting with you.”