by Diana Palmer
Ted shook his head. “Not quite yet.” He leaned in and kissed her. “I need to sort a few things out here, first—with you.”
“I thought we just did that?” Veronica breathed against his lips.
“Other things.” He kissed her again. “More important things, like ‘I think I might be falling in love with you’ kind of things.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Well, that’s good to know because, despite everything, I’ve been kind of feeling that way myself.”
“Yeah?” He ran a finger down her throat to the bodice of her dress. “Like sticking around, and making things work between us?”
“Definitely.” She bit her lip. “If you think you can trust me after all this mess I’ve involved you in.”
“I think I can. Even when I knew you weren’t quite being straight, I never gave up hope that you would change your mind and trust me.” He hesitated. “And I promise I’ll never treat you like Jason did.”
“I know that.” It was her turn to pause. “We’ve both had our reasons not to trust the people who were supposed to love us the most, but I want to move past that—to believe in someone. To believe in you.”
He took her hand and placed it over his heart, his voice hoarse. “I swear I’ll do everything in my power to make you the happiest woman in Morgantown.”
“And I’ll make you the happiest man,” Veronica promised in return. “I’ve learned a lot about myself since I left Jason. I know I can stand alone, but I’m not stupid enough to ignore an upstanding, honest, honorable man like you.”
He swallowed hard. “I need you to keep pushing me, yeah? To share your strength and remind me how lucky I am.”
“You already know all that in your heart,” Veronica said softly. “I’m just here to help you remember it.”
With a groan, he lowered his head, and Veronica stopped thinking about anything other than the delights of their lovemaking for a very long time.
* * *
“Hey, you.”
Ted opened the bathroom door a crack and went in, sitting on the pillow Veronica had left near Bacon’s bed. The little piglet came over and immediately jumped into his lap, making Ted wince as he only had his robe on, and who knew little pig hooves were hard?
He stroked Bacon’s head until he settled down and Ted got used to the unique odor of pig again.
“It’s all going to be okay, little buddy,” Ted murmured to the pig. “We’re going to take you out to your great-uncle Victor’s place. You’ll love it there. I guarantee it.”
Bacon snuffled happily and Ted relaxed against the wall. He’d sent a text to Tucker telling him that everything was okay, but that he and Veronica weren’t going to make it back to the wedding, and to make their excuses to everyone.
Tucker’s reply was short, to the point, and too rude to share with Veronica, who was currently fast asleep in his bed. He owed his friend one, that was for sure. The night had passed without any callouts for his tow truck services, mainly because everyone in the valley, including the deputy sheriff, was up at Morgan Ranch enjoying the wedding.
Glancing out of the small window, Ted noticed snow was falling, meaning they’d be getting their usual white Christmas—the best one he could remember since his mother had left the family. Careful not to disturb Bacon, he slid his phone out of his pocket and sent his dad a text wishing him a Merry Christmas, with a selfie he’d taken with Veronica earlier, which he knew his father would love.
He paused, his smile lingering before scrolling through his contacts with his thumb, and eventually stopping, and typing.
Happy Holidays, Mom. x
To his surprise, she replied immediately.
Same to you, son. Thank you for thinking of me. x
Ted hesitated and then channeled Veronica telling him to be brave.
Am thinking of popping up to see you before Dad gets back from his cruise.Would that be okay?
That would be wonderful. I always miss you most at Christmas.
Ted wondered whether she regretted what she’d done, but knew it wasn’t the right time to bring the subject up. That conversation would have to take place in person.
I might bring Veronica Hernandez with me.
You’re dating?
Yeah. Ted couldn’t help smiling even though he was alone.
That’s wonderful to hear, Ted. I can’t wait to meet her again. I have to go walk my dogs now. Let me know exactly when you think you might be coming, and I’ll clear my calendar. Love you, Mom. x.
Love you, too.
Ted stared down at the exchange, trying to read nuance into his mother’s words and failing. Maybe they’d finally get around to having that all-important conversation when he visited, or maybe he’d just let it go and forgive her. He was older and wiser now, and, he hoped, more willing to listen, understand, and accept her view of what had happened, even though it might still hurt him.
Bacon let out a snore, and Ted laid him gently back in his bed, checked that he had water and food, and let himself out into the hallway. He paused in his doorway to appreciate the sight of Veronica sleeping soundly in his bed. He wasn’t falling in love with her—he was one hundred percent fallen, and he didn’t regret that.
If things stayed like this, he’d no longer be the one dreading Christmas—he’d be celebrating it as the time when all his dreams came true....
Christmas Peanut Clusters for Ted
(You’ll need a 4-quart slow cooker for this recipe.)
Ingredients:
2 lbs white almond bark, broken or chopped up
12 oz bag semi-sweet chocolate chips
4 oz bar German chocolate, chopped
32 oz dry roasted or cocktail peanuts
Christmas sprinkles
Method:
1. Spray slow cooker lightly with oil; add almond bark and both kinds of chocolate. Place a clean, dry kitchen towel over the top of the cooker, place lid on top.
2. Cook on high for one hour, reduce heat to low, and cook for one more hour, stirring every 15 minutes until everything is melted.
3. Carefully remove lid and towel and add peanuts. Stir well.
4. Line baking sheets with waxed/parchment paper. Drop candy mix by spoonful onto sheets and add Christmas sprinkles before it sets.
5. Refrigerate for an hour, then store in an airtight container for a week, or freeze.
Makes 20+ servings.
Please turn the page for an exciting peek at:
THE SNOW MAN
by
Diana Palmer
Available at bookstores and e-retailers
Meadow Dawson just stared at the slim, older cowboy who was standing on her front porch with his hat held against his chest. His name was Ted. He was her father’s ranch foreman. And he was speaking Greek, she decided, or perhaps some form of archaic language that she couldn’t understand.
“The culls,” he persisted. “Mr. Jake wanted us to go ahead and ship them out to that rancher we bought the replacement heifers from.”
She blinked. She knew three stances that she could use to shoot a .40 caliber Glock from. She was experienced in interrogation techniques. She’d once participated in a drug raid with other agents from the St. Louis, Missouri, office where she’d been stationed during her brief tenure with the FBI as a special agent.
Sadly, none of those experiences had taught her what a cull was, or what to do with it. She pushed back her long, golden blond hair, and her pale green eyes narrowed on his elderly face.
She blinked. “Are culls some form of wildlife?” she asked blankly.
The cowboy doubled up laughing.
She grimaced. Her father and mother had divorced when she was six. She’d gone to live with her mother in Greenwood, Mississippi, while her father stayed here on this enormous Colorado ranch, just outside Raven Springs. Later, she’d spent some holidays with her dad, but only after she was in her senior year of high school and she could out-argue her bitter mother, who hated her ex-husband. What she remembered about cattle was
that they were loud and dusty. She really hadn’t paid much attention to the cattle on the ranch or her father’s infrequent references to ranching problems. She hadn’t been there often enough to learn the ropes.
“I worked for the FBI,” she said with faint belligerence. “I don’t know anything about cattle.”
He straightened up. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, still fighting laughter. “Culls are cows that didn’t drop calves this spring. Nonproductive cattle are removed from the herd, or culled. We sell them either as beef or surrogate mothers for purebred cattle.”
She nodded and tried to look intelligent. “I see.” She hesitated. “So we’re punishing poor female cattle for not being able to have calves repeatedly over a period of years.”
The cowboy’s face hardened. “Ma’am, can I give you some friendly advice about ranch management?”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
“I think you’d be doing yourself a favor if you sold this ranch,” he said bluntly. “It’s hard to make a living at ranching, even if you’ve done it for years. It would be a sin and a shame to let all your father’s hard work go to pot. Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he added respectfully. “Dal Blake was friends with your father, and he owns the biggest ranch around Raven Springs. Might be worthwhile to talk to him.”
Meadow managed a smile through homicidal rage. “Dariell Blake and I don’t speak,” she informed him.
“Ma’am?” The cowboy sounded surprised.
“He told my father that I’d turned into a manly woman who probably didn’t even have . . .” She bit down hard on the word she couldn’t bring herself to voice. “Anyway,” she added tersely, “he can keep his outdated opinions to himself.”
The cowboy grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she said, and managed a smile. “Thanks for the advice, though. I think I’ll go online and watch a few YouTube videos on cattle management. I might call one of those men, or women, for advice.”
The cowboy opened his mouth to speak, thought about how scarce jobs were, and closed it again. “Whatever you say, ma’am.” He put his hat back on. “I’ll just get back to work. It’s, uh, okay to ship out the culls?”
“Of course it’s all right,” she said, frowning. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You said it oppressed the cows . . .”
She rolled her eyes. “I was kidding!”
“Oh.” Ted brightened a little. He tilted his hat respectfully and went away.
Meadow went back into the house and felt empty. She and her father had been close. He loved his ranch and his daughter. Getting to know her as an adult had been great fun for both of them. Her mother had kept the tension going as long as she lived. She never would believe that Meadow could love her and her ex-husband equally. But Meadow did. They were both wonderful people. They just couldn’t live together without arguing.
She ran her fingers over the back of the cane-bottomed rocking chair where her father always sat, near the big stone fireplace. It was November, and Colorado was cold. Heavy snow was already falling. Meadow remembered Colorado winters from her childhood, before her parents divorced. It was going to be difficult to manage payroll, much less all the little added extras she’d need, like food and electricity . . .
She shook herself mentally. She’d manage, somehow. And she’d do it without Dariell Blake’s help. She could only imagine the smug, self-righteous expression that would come into those chiseled features if she asked him to teach her cattle ranching. She’d rather starve. Well, not really.
She considered her options, and there weren’t many. Her father owned this ranch outright. He owed for farm equipment, like combines to harvest grain crops and tractors to help with planting. He owed for feed and branding supplies and things like that. But the land was hers now, free and clear. There was a lot of land. It was worth millions.
She could have sold it and started over. But he’d made her promise not to. He’d known her very well by then. She never made a promise she didn’t keep. Her own sense of ethics locked her into a position she hated. She didn’t know anything about ranching!
Her father mentioned Dariell, whom everyone locally called Dal, all the time. Fine young man, he commented. Full of pepper, good disposition, loves animals.
The loving animals part was becoming a problem. She had a beautiful white Siberian husky, a rescue, with just a hint of red-tipped fur in her ears and tail. She was named Snow, and Meadow had fought the authorities to keep her in her small apartment. She was immaculate, and Meadow brushed her and bathed her faithfully. Finally the apartment manager had given in, reluctantly, after Meadow offered a sizable deposit for the apartment, which was close to her work. She made friends with a lab tech in the next-door apartment, who kept Snow when Meadow had to travel for work. It was a nice arrangement, except that the lab tech really liked Meadow, who didn’t return the admiration. While kind and sweet, the tech did absolutely nothing for Meadow physically or emotionally.
She wondered sometimes if she was really cold. Men were nice. She dated. She’d even indulged in light petting with one of them. But she didn’t feel the sense of need that made women marry and settle and have kids with a man. Most of the ones she’d dated were career oriented and didn’t want marriage in the first place. Meadow’s mother had been devout. Meadow grew up with deep religious beliefs that were in constant conflict with society’s norms.
She kept to herself mostly. She’d loved her job when she started as an investigator for the Bureau. But there had been a minor slipup.
Meadow was clumsy. There was no other way to put it. She had two left feet, and she was always falling down or doing things the wrong way. It was a curse. Her mother had named her Meadow because she was reading a novel at the time and the heroine had that name. The heroine had been gentle and sweet and a credit to the community where she lived, in 1900s Fort Worth, Texas. Meadow, sadly, was nothing like her namesake.
There had been a stakeout. Meadow had been assigned, with another special agent, to keep tabs on a criminal who’d shot a police officer. The officer lived, but the man responsible was facing felony charges, and he ran.
A CI, or Confidential Informant, had told them where the man was likely to be on a Friday night. It was a local club, frequented by people who were out of the mainstream of society.
Meadow had been assigned to watch the back door while the other special agent went through the front of the club and tried to spot him.
Sure enough, the man was there. The other agent was recognized by a patron, who warned the perpetrator. The criminal took off out the back door.
While Meadow was trying to get her gun out of the holster, the fugitive ran into her and they both tumbled onto the ground.
“Clumsy cow!” he exclaimed. He turned her over and pushed her face hard into the asphalt of the parking lot, and then jumped up and ran.
Bruised and bleeding, Meadow managed to get to her feet and pull her service revolver. “FBI! Stop or I’ll shoot!”
“You couldn’t hit a barn from the inside!” came the sarcastic reply from the running man.
“I’ll show . . . you!” As she spoke, she stepped back onto a big rock, her feet went out from under her, and the gun discharged right into the windshield of the SUV she and the special agent arrived in.
The criminal was long gone by the time Meadow was recovering from the fall.
“Did you get him?” the other agent panted as he joined her. He frowned. “What the hell happened to you?”
“He fell over me and pushed my face into the asphalt,” she muttered, feeling the blood on her nose. “I ordered him to halt and tried to fire when I tripped over a rock . . .”
The other agent’s face told a story that he was too kind to voice.
She swallowed, hard. “Sorry about the windshield,” she added.
He glanced at the Bureau SUV and shook his head. “Maybe we could tell them it was a vulture. You know, they sometimes fly into car windshields.”
&n
bsp; “No,” she replied grimly. “It’s always better to tell them the truth. Even when it’s painful.”
“Guess you’re right.” He grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Hey. We all have talents. I think mine is to trip over my own feet at any given dangerous moment.”
“The SAC is going to be upset,” he remarked.
“I don’t doubt it,” she replied.
* * *
In fact, the Special Agent in Charge was eloquent about her failure to secure the fugitive. He also wondered aloud, rhetorically, how any firearms instructor ever got drunk enough to pass her in the academy. She kept quiet, figuring that anything she said would only make matters worse.
He didn’t take her badge. He did, however, assign her as an aide to another agent who was redoing files in the basement of the building. It was clerical work, for which she wasn’t even trained. And from that point, her career as an FBI agent started going drastically downhill.
She’d always had problems with balance. She thought that her training would help her compensate for it, but she’d been wrong. She seemed to be a complete failure as an FBI agent. Her superior obviously thought so.
He did give her a second chance, months later. He sent her to interrogate a man who’d confessed to kidnapping an underage girl for immoral purposes. Meadow’s questions, which she’d formulated beforehand, irritated him to the point of physical violence. He’d attacked Meadow, who was totally unprepared for what amounted to a beating. She’d fought, and screamed, to no avail. It had taken a jailer to extricate the man’s hands from her throat. Of course, that added another charge to the bevy he was already facing: assault on a federal officer.
