Blue Sky Cowboy Christmas

by Joanne Kennedy

  “Darn truck. I don’t blame you.” Her laugh sounded even shakier than the smile, and she gave up the facade. “I have to go, though. Now.”

  “I’m not like that. Not usually.” He looked down at his lap. “It won’t happen again.” He looked up. “Stay, Riley.”

  He seemed so contrite that she wanted to trust him again.

  But she wouldn’t. She’d rather take her chances with the rising blizzard, her wonky battery, her bald tires, and her two-wheel-drive transmission than even think about staying.

  The Chevy LUV wasn’t a great option, but right now, it was a safer bet than Griff.

  * * *

  Griff watched Riley’s taillights shimmy down the drive and saw her fishtail, catch traction, and fishtail again. Obviously, his assessment of her driving skill had been optimistic. And wrong. He took a few steps as if he could catch her, then stopped.

  Everything in him wanted to jump in the Jeep and follow her. He could stay back a ways, make sure she made it to town okay. But he’d already scared her, idiot that he was, and following her would only make it worse.

  He’d go inside, read, maybe watch some TV, and put her out of his mind. She was a smart woman. She’d be fine.

  Her hot chocolate was still sitting on the counter, the marshmallow mountain slumping sadly to one side. He set it in the sink and looked around. Signs of her presence were everywhere—a fuzzy blanket draped over the sofa, a book splayed open on the end table. There was a stack of DVDs beside the TV, along with a portable player.

  The big dog lifted his head with a hopeful look, then sighed when he saw Griff was alone. Griff sighed, too.

  He picked up her book and couldn’t help smiling. There was a cowboy on the cover who for some inexplicable reason had taken his shirt off while working in a corral. A coil of rope was slung over his shoulder, and his face was turned away so all the viewer saw were the hat and the muscles.

  Yep, that was what Riley needed. A cowboy like the ones in Louis L’Amour—an honest man with simple needs and simple morals. A man in a white hat who rescued women and soothed their fears. A man who never, ever lost his temper.

  He went upstairs, wondering what else she might have left behind. She was sleeping in Jess’s room. That was clear from the rumpled covers and abandoned pajama pants she’d left behind. They had dancing dogs on them. He smiled, picturing her padding around the house, hair tousled, ready for bed, and something stirred down below.

  He could pack some of this stuff up, bring it to her. She might need it.

  Then again, as long as her things were here, she’d have to come back. So he’d just call, make sure she made it okay. He didn’t even have to talk to her—he’d just call Ed. Back off a little. Give her time to forget his temper tantrum.

  Why, dammit, why had he smacked the dashboard like that? Sure, he’d been frustrated, but he knew Riley had had bad experiences with violent men. So why had he opted to become one of them at the worst possible time?

  Because you can’t control it. Which proves she was smart to leave.

  Sighing, he headed back downstairs. As he loaded the woodstove and started a fire, he gave the dog a pat. “We’ll give her fifteen minutes, okay, dude? Then we’ll call Ed and make sure she made it home.”

  The dog’s tail thumped the floor, but he still looked awfully sad.

  Chapter 10

  Riley was halfway to town when the truck lost its grip and spun slowly off the side of the road. She was headed toward a massive drift, but she’d be okay. It would cushion the impact, and she had a shovel, some kitty litter, and a few old rugs for traction.

  The pickup slid backward into the snow, then suddenly tilted and slid some more. There was apparently a ditch under there, because she found herself staring up into the sky, the truck canted at a 45-degree angle.

  She wasn’t sure kitty litter could handle this, but she had to try. Trouble was, her door was jammed against the snow. She threw herself against it, again and again, and by the time she managed to crack it open, she was so tired, she nearly fell when she tried to slip out. Not that it mattered. The back tires were sunk so deeply in the snow-filled ditch that she doubted she could get to them.

  It’s two-wheel drive, has the clearance of an LA lowrider, and all four tires are bald.

  She hated to admit Griff was right, but getting the front tires cleared wouldn’t help. It was a rear-wheel-drive truck.

  Climbing back in, she gripped the wheel and pressed the accelerator gently. The tires spun uselessly.

  Sighing, she slumped back against the seat and listened to the Christmas songs pouring from the radio. That was what gotten her stuck in the first place; the Waitresses had been singing “Christmas Wrapping,” and she’d been singing along, surprised to find she remembered all the words. Lost in the song’s sweet story, she’d stopped paying attention to the road.

  She hadn’t been paying attention to her gas meter, either. There was less than a quarter tank left. Why hadn’t she filled up before she left town?

  Because you were busy mooning over Griff, that’s why.

  She could probably walk the rest of the way. She studied her surroundings, squinting through the falling snow. Reddish rock outcroppings bordered the road on the east side, sagebrush somehow clinging to every nook and cranny. The fields beyond were dotted with bulky Black Angus cattle, their dark hides dusted with white. The long vista to the west was broken with more red rocks, including one in the distance that looked like a castle.

  Steamboat Rock. She hadn’t gotten far. Even in good weather, it was a very long walk to town.

  She sighed. Surely somebody would come by. In the meantime, she’d warm up the cab, then turn the engine off so she wouldn’t run out of gas.

  Five minutes later, she was singing along with Mariah Carey, wanting nothing for Christmas but yoooooou.

  After a dozen more Christmas songs, she was asleep, and the engine whirred softly under the blue Wyoming sky.

  * * *

  Griff woke to find the fire had dwindled to glowing coals, and the house had grown cold. The book he’d been reading lay forgotten in his lap, and darkness cloaked the world outside the windows. Bruce lay on his side, fast asleep.

  Rising, he wondered idly what time it was. Probably time to…

  Oh, no. Riley.

  He’d planned to call Ed to make sure she’d made it home.

  “Bruce,” he said. The dog lifted his head. “You should have woken me up, buddy.”

  He hurried to the phone, wondering when he’d started holding a dog responsible for his mistakes while he scanned the list of important numbers his dad kept taped to the refrigerator. A hardware store was always important to a rancher, right?

  Sure enough, Boone’s Hardware was listed halfway down.

  Dialing the number, he listened to the tinny ringing and thought of all the dangers that could have befallen Riley on the way home. She could have gone too fast, slid on ice, and hit a guardrail. She might have taken a turn at speed and flown off across a snowy field, the truck rolling before it stopped, upside down, with Riley dangling from her seat belt. Or she could have…

  “Hello?”

  Ed’s voice sounded creaky, as if he hadn’t spoken for a while. And he probably hadn’t, with those women around. Probably couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

  “Ed? Griff Bailey.”

  “Is everything okay?” Griff could tell the man had immediately shifted into worry mode. He might be a bit weak-willed, but there was no doubt the man loved Riley like a daughter.

  “I was just calling to make sure Riley made it home.”

  “Riley?” Ed’s voice rose at least one octave. “No, she’s not here. Should she be?”

  “Yeah, she left, um, a while ago. She’s probably on her way.”

  “You let that little girl drive home alone in this storm? I ho
pe you loaned her something decent to drive, at least. That truck of hers might as well be a sled.”

  Griff sighed. “That little girl does what she wants, sir. I couldn’t stop her. But don’t worry. I’ll go track her down.”

  “You’d better. What time did she leave?”

  Griff was wandering around the house as he talked, and now he glanced up at the clock in the kitchen and jerked involuntarily, stunned by the lateness of the hour.

  “Um, a while back. I’d better go after her. I’ll be in touch.”

  He clicked the phone off so he wouldn’t have to answer any more questions. Dammit, he’d slept far longer than he’d thought. It was nearly eight o’clock, and Riley had left—when had she left? Hours ago.

  Shoving his feet into his boots, Griff shrugged into his barn coat and grabbed a pair of gloves from the radiator in the mudroom. They were toasty warm, which only reminded him that Riley might be freezing somewhere out there.

  She must have stopped at a friend’s place. She and Sierra Dunn were close, so she might have decided to stay at the group home Sierra managed. Staying with six or eight energetic foster kids would be better than going home to Ed’s sisters.

  But she’d told him she was going to Ed’s. And he’d let her go.

  You let that little girl drive home alone in this storm?

  Bruce followed him out to the Jeep, leaping into the back seat as if he’d been invited. Griff considered sending the dog back to the house, but the animal’s quiet dignity hid a stubborn spirit, and he’d yet to obey one single order from Griff.

  Jumper cables still trailed from the Jeep’s gaping hood. Cussing himself for leaving it open, Griff unclipped them, tossed them on the floor beneath the dog, and slammed the hood. The engine roused on the first try, and the big tires churned steadily through the snow, which was still falling. There were at least eight inches on the ground, and the drifts were downright dangerous. They’d already hidden all signs of her passing, so he couldn’t track her.

  He stared into the vortex of snow rushing toward him and thought of that night at the quarry. He’d created memories with Riley on his last night home that had lasted him through every deployment. She’d been a lot more sure of his heroism than he was. She’d said he was brave, trying to save the world, when the truth was he’d just wanted to escape his father’s ranch.

  How many times had he called up the things she’d said, the look in her eyes as she’d said goodbye? He’d gotten through basic training by trying to be the man she believed him to be. Hell, that had gotten him through his whole career.

  She’d sent him all those messages, too, on WhatsApp. Newsy notes about Wynott, gossip about people he’d gone to school with, even family news. His dad wasn’t exactly tech savvy, and Jess and Cade had been too busy with each other. Besides, he rarely answered anyone; often he’d been too preoccupied with staying alive. Riley had been the only one who seemed to understand that. She’d been his lifeline.

  He’d never told her, and now this was how he thanked her. First he scared her, thumping his fist on the dash like that, and then he let her hare off into the snow like he didn’t care.

  Ed was right to be angry. No decent man would have let her go.

  The Jeep slid, reminding him to pay attention to the road. He stared into the swirling tunnel of falling snow illuminated by his headlights. As he rushed into the vortex, the Jeep seemed to be the center of the universe, but that was an illusion.

  The center of his universe was out there somewhere, stuck in the snow, maybe hurt. Maybe worse.

  Chapter 11

  Griff drove slowly, scanning both sides of the road. There were two faint depressions that might be tire tracks under the snow, and he hoped they were Riley’s. He turned on the round PIAA lights on the Jeep’s roof. Two lit the road ahead, while one on each side lit the verge. They were designed to spot suicidal deer intent on leaping into the road, but they’d help him find Riley if she’d slid onto the shoulder or, heaven forbid, rolled down an embankment.

  He concentrated on the tracks, noting where the mystery driver had skidded, recovered, and driven on. It happened several times before Bruce rose from the back seat and whined.

  “What’s up, Bruce?”

  The tire tracks had been getting clearer, so he was catching up to the mystery vehicle that might be Riley. As the dog whined, Griff saw where it had slipped, slid, and slipped again. Then there it was—the rusted blue hood of Riley’s pickup, its crooked grill dented and cockeyed, the square headlights staring sightless at the sky. He hit his horn, hoping Riley would toot hers in return or flash her lights, but there was no response.

  The dog whined again, and Griff suddenly noticed the cold biting into his hands, his face, his heart, in spite of the Jeep’s heater.

  “Let’s check it out, buddy.”

  The dog didn’t wait for Griff to open the back door. Clambering over the back of the console, he nearly knocked Griff over as he leapt out the driver’s door and into the snow. Humping his back like an otter in the snow, the dog porpoised through the drift to paw at Riley’s truck.

  “I’m coming.”

  The drift was nearly up to Griff’s hips, and it wasn’t easy to fight his way through. The dog had given up his otter moves and was working more like a bulldozer, tossing snow on all sides.

  “Riley?”

  There was no answer but a deep bark from the dog. Griff waded farther, then slid down into the ditch, which was invisible under the snow. It was as if the wind and snow had carved a new, illusory landscape that hid all the familiar features of the road he’d traveled all his life, creating new hills and valleys where there’d been flat, open land and covering ditches and dips.

  When he reached the truck, it wasn’t running. He squinted, seeing no figure behind the wheel. Yet there were no tracks coming from the truck. It was as if she’d been abducted by aliens.

  Kicking away the snow, he staggered on, almost falling again before he reached the truck and yanked open the door.

  She lay across the bench seat in the glow of the dome light. Her silly hat had fallen to one side and her long hair was draped across the torn upholstery while one arm dangled over the edge. Tinny Christmas carols wafted from the radio, but this didn’t feel like Christmas. Not one bit.

  He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, his heart thumping. She was barely warm enough to be alive. Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t wake.

  He swore quietly. What if he hadn’t found her? She’d have frozen to death, sleeping out here like this. Why had she shut the engine off? He touched her shoulder, then, when she didn’t respond, gave her a shake.

  “Riley?”

  He eased her over onto her back and was alarmed to see how white her face was.

  “Dammit, Riley, wake up.”

  Tears sprang to his eyes. Riley was no fool. She’d been homeless for a while in Denver and knew better than to sleep in her car on a night like this. If she’d let this happen to her, it was because her survival instincts had been blunted somehow. Or because she didn’t care.

  Those women…

  This was their fault. Riley had come to Wynott with nothing and had worked hard to build a good life with Ed. She’d saved the old man’s life, no doubt, and now those damned women had brought their precious Only Heir to take it away.

  Their fault.

  He banked his anger, saving the heat for later, but a blue flame of guilt leapt from the ashes. If only he’d been kinder, gentler. If only he hadn’t hit the truck and scared her. If only he’d been more persuasive, more careful, she’d still be with him, back at the ranch.

  The thought made him dizzy and sick. He eyed the truck, wondering how they’d ever pull it out of the snow, and realized why she’d turned the engine off. With the entire back half of the truck buried in the drift, the tailpipe had to be stuffed with snow. If she’d lef
t the engine running, the cab would have filled up with…

  The music changed to another cheery Christmas tune, though Griff could barely hear it over the dog’s racket. Bruce was barking loudly, rhythmically, with a wild urgency.

  Griff ran a hand over his face, trying to clear his vision, organize his thoughts. He felt kind of sick. Nauseous.

  Oh, no.

  Fear gripped his heart like a clawed hand, squeezing hard. He looked down to see the keys, dangling in the ignition, then up at the gas gauge. It was on empty.

  He felt sick all right, for a very good reason. Riley had run the truck out of gas trying to stay warm, and the cab had filled with carbon monoxide. If he had come along just ten minutes later, he doubted she’d be alive.

  He tugged her onto his lap and touched his finger to her neck. There was a pulse, thank God, but not much of one. Taking her in his arms, he lunged out of the truck, then fell to his knees. He pulled in deep breaths of clean, cold winter air, holding her away from the snow as best he could.

  “Breathe, Riley. Breathe. Fresh air, okay? Breathe.”

  Struggling to his feet, he clasped her to his chest and followed the path the dog had plowed through the drift. The footing was slippery, and he bruised his knees repeatedly as he struggled to hold on to his burden and stay on his feet. Bruce bounced in front of him, turning to shout that rhythmic, desperate bark whenever Griff fell.

  By the time he reached the Jeep, Riley had started to stir. When he set her in the passenger seat, her eyelids fluttered, then blinked open, but her eyes were blank and unseeing.

  “Riley?” He raced to the driver’s side, climbed in, and hauled her close while he cranked the heat up to full and flicked all the vents in her direction. “Riley, talk to me.”

  She stared at him, her eyes still blank, and he thought about calling 911—but his phone was back at the house.

  Dumbass. Could you mess this up any worse?

  Get driving. Just GO.

  * * *

  Warm air blasted Riley’s face, but she didn’t want to wake up. She’d been nestled in a warm, dark place, wrapped in velvet—smooth, soft, smothering velvet. She hadn’t wanted to wake up. Not now. Maybe not ever.