Smokin' Hot Cowboy Christmas

by Kim Redford

  Heaven help all the local cowboy firefighters when this calendar was released in time for Christmas sales because Sydney Steele, head wrangler of the venture, was calling it “Wet and Wild Cowboy Firefighters.” She’d snagged photographs from the dunking booth at Wild West Days over Labor Day weekend, and they were all definitely wet with their clothes clinging to their bodies. They’d also been wild at the time…wild to get away from the dunking booth and the cowgirls who were taking the opportunity to get payback for real or imagined slights in the past.

  He bet the calendar would bring in a fresh batch of city gals looking for their own personal cowboy firefighter like the last calendars had done. They’d almost caused a riot at the fire station. Sydney was still kidding the cowboys about it. Guys who were footloose and fancy-free might have taken an opportunity or two, but the cowgirls of Wildcat Bluff County weren’t much for sharing, so trouble was brewing with the publication of this calendar.

  No doubt about it, he wouldn’t be sitting on the veranda sipping tea this year because he’d be riding herd on Belle and her shenanigans. He didn’t mind the riding herd part. What gave him pause was the possibility of earning her undying enmity and the fact that her brothers were no light-weights and protective of their little sister. He’d just have to make sure she never found out the truth. When she gave up on her dude ranch, he’d slip back into his own life, and nobody outside of the county would ever be the wiser…and he’d never see her again.

  “Uh…do you want me to show you around the place?” Belle gestured at the ranch house as she gave him a querying look.

  “Good idea.” He realized he’d been staring at her too long while not saying a word. Truth of the matter, she was inspiring him. On his better days, he was a poet. Not that anybody much cared or that there was much money in it, but cowboy poems were an old tradition like cowboy music, and he descended from a long line of Texans who put words to paper and words to music. Bottom line, they were all storytellers.

  “How soon can you start work?”

  He wanted to say, “Never,” but that wasn’t an acceptable answer. “Why don’t you show me around the place? I’d like to get an idea of what we’re looking at here.”

  “But when can you start the job?”

  “Pretty quick.” He realized he was actually going to do this for the county, even if he didn’t want to do it. “By the way, this is volunteer work on my part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d like you to donate whatever you think is right to Wildcat Bluff Fire-Rescue.”

  “What if I don’t think it’s worth much?”

  “That’s for you to decide. Like I said, I’m volunteering my services to benefit our local fire department.”

  “That’s good of you.” She gave him a high-watt smile. “I’ll be happy to make a very nice donation to the cause.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now…how quick can you get started here?”

  He could see she was a woman who liked to get her ducks in a row before she started a project. He was with her on that one…normally. He’d hate being left with the mess in her yard, but it was only going to get worse. He held back a sigh. He was the cowboy slated to make her life even more miserable. At least he wasn’t going to charge her for it. Nobody in the county wanted to see her or the ranch hurt, but they did want the construction process drawn out long enough and be complicated enough that she lost interest in the whole project and went back to the city.

  “Today? Tomorrow? Next week?” She stepped closer to him. “We’re quickly running out of time before Christmas.”

  “Today.” He forced the word out, regretting it even as he said it.

  “Wonderful!”

  “Yeah.” If she only knew how badly folks wanted her dude ranch to hit a dead end, she’d give up and go home now.

  “It needs a new roof.” She pointed up toward the roof and then down at stacks of plastic-wrapped dark shingles on wooden pallets and rolls of black tarpaper where they’d been unloaded from a truck onto the grass on the outside curve of her circular cement driveway.

  “How old is the roof? Are there two layers or one?”

  She looked at him in total puzzlement and then shrugged in defeat. “No idea.”

  “Did somebody say you needed a new roof?”

  “Yes. That’s why we ordered the shingles.”

  “I see.” He didn’t see, not exactly, but she needed to trust him, so he must appear confident. He didn’t know who-all had been out here checking the place and making decisions, but he wished he’d been in on it from the beginning so he had a better idea of what was going on. An even stronger urge was to do exactly what she thought he was here to do. He liked construction. He liked seeing homes made safe and sound and beautiful for happy families. And he liked creating furniture out of cedar and cherry and oak in his spare time. He really was the perfect person for this project, if he’d been in a different position.

  “We simply must get these shingles off the ground and onto the roof before my party. Imagine if they were still here? What a mess.”

  He nodded, thinking the shingles might very well be the perfect item to make her give up and go home. They were heavy, bulky, and smelly. They got hot and soft in the summer and cold and hard in the winter. They were best moved in bulk with a forklift. And they were an eyesore besides being in the way of guests or visitors.

  “You can shingle a house, can’t you?”

  He nodded again, deciding shingles were the last thing he was going to deal with because they were absolutely perfect for the Belle Tarleton removal plan. She should’ve checked out Wildcat Bluff County before she decided to change it to her satisfaction and found out hereabouts its residents were big on tradition.

  “Good. That’s a relief.”

  “I can imagine.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You want the place looking nice for your Christmas party.”

  “Nice!” She gestured around her again. “I want more than nice. I want perfection. I want updates and upgrades. I want vintage with a wow.”

  “I got you.” He crossed his fingers behind his back. “You can put your faith in me. I’m totally behind Wildcat Bluff County and anything that benefits its residents.”

  “Perfect.” And she returned his smile. “Now let me give you a tour of the Lazy Q that I’m renaming Lulabelle & You Ranch.”

  “Catchy.” Maybe she didn’t realize it, but the ranch would always be known locally as the Lazy Q. That’s just the way it worked in the country. Houses, ranches, farms, and property were forever known by the original owner’s name or the name they’d given the property. Of course, Lazy Q probably couldn’t be marketed nearly as well as Lulabelle & You, but her plan was never going to get that far, so it didn’t much matter what she called the place.

  “I think so, too.” She gave him another smile. “Please come this way.”

  He followed her…or at least the sway of her hips. He wondered if her underwear matched the red shoes or the white blouse or the blue suit. He hoped it was red. He hoped it was sheer and lacy. He hoped he’d get to see it someday.

  And he stopped his thoughts right there. He was here to cause trouble, and if she ever found out, she’d hate him for life. He didn’t stand a chance in hell of ever seeing her lingerie, no matter if it was red, white, or blue. At the idea of those colors, he felt a swell of patriotism despite the fact that it was well past the Fourth of July. He’d probably always think of her when July 4 rolled around, and that’d be better than remembering the Christmas he’d played Scrooge.

  “First of all,” Belle said as she pointed at the front of the house, “the place screams eighties.”

  “That’s when it was built. The old farmhouse was just too much to repair, so the Simpsons replaced it.”

  “Really.” She stopped on the cement walkway and cocked her head to one side as sh
e looked at the house. “I wish they’d saved the old one. Wouldn’t that have been fun to restore?”

  “The family didn’t think so.”

  “I guess when you’re running a ranch you’re kind of busy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wish the house was bigger, too, but at least there’s a fairly large closet and bath for each of the four bedrooms.”

  “It was considered real nice when they built it.” He supposed one person’s palace was another person’s camper.

  “Yes, I can see it would’ve been wonderful for their family. But—”

  “Not fancy enough for Lulabelle & You.”

  “I’d like to update and upgrade everything.”

  “By Christmas?” He almost choked at the ridiculous idea—as if anything could be done that fast, even if he was actually working at it.

  “I guess that’s too much to ask.”

  “For one person, there’s no doubt about it.”

  She stomped her foot. “We’d be so much further along if anybody in all this time had completed even one item on my to-do list.”

  “Folks get busy with their own lives.”

  “But couldn’t they be professional?”

  “It’s different in the country.”

  “I know that, but I also know stuff gets done.”

  “That’s why I’m here. What’s your priority?”

  “Everything!” She gestured in a circle to include the house and all the debris distributed around it.

  He couldn’t blame her for being frustrated, even angry, because folks had done a good job of holding her up. Everybody’s main concern now was that she’d bring in a sharp team from Dallas and get it straightened out lickety-split. Fortunately, she was trying to work with locals and stay on their good side, so she was letting them run on a long lead before she hauled back, and so far she hadn’t done it. Too bad she didn’t realize she ought to go ahead and get plenty of outside professional help…but he wasn’t the one to tell her.

  It was a pretty ranch house made of peach brick with white trim. Traditional in that it was long with a garage on one end but not low since it had a peaked roof to accommodate a second floor. Double front doors opened onto a covered front porch with six square pillars set in the cement floor. An old, stained, pale-gray roof looked in need of replacement before it started leaking inside. Two chimneys rose above the roof, announcing that the fireplaces inside would be cozy round about Christmas.

  Architecture from the 1980s suited him just fine. It was a good, solid construction period. He never cared to see a building taken out of its time with a bunch of stuck-on new stuff that kept the structure from being one thing or the other. He was glad nothing had been done that couldn’t be undone.

  He also liked the old red barn in back that wasn’t used except for storage since they’d built the big, modern barn farther away. This barn had a steep peaked roof and center breezeway that separated the two halves of the building so that hay could be kept on one side and horse or cow stables on the other. It could use a new coat of paint and a touch-up of white trim.

  He realized that he was getting into the project, beginning to imagine how he could restore the place to its former glory. If he wasn’t careful, Belle Tarleton was going to lure him into all sorts of bad ideas.

  “What do you think?”

  “Looks like it could use a new roof.”

  “We’ve got one.” She pointed at the shingle stacks. “We just need to get it off the ground and onto the house.”

  He walked up to the house and checked the lower edge of the roof. “Looks like you’ve got two layers of shingles.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it makes a big difference. We’re talking about extra time and effort.” He realized she knew nothing about construction so she was on a steep learning curve. In this case, it was to his benefit since she wouldn’t know what was going on. “If there are two layers, the bottom layer will be old and crumbly.”

  “So?”

  “When I take it off, it’ll break up into small pieces if it doesn’t disintegrate entirely, and there’ll be a lot of debris—along with a lot of nails—that’ll fall to the ground no matter how careful I am when I shovel off the shingles. After that, I’ll have to check for damage. I may need to replace part of the deck here and there. Hopefully, there won’t be much of that, but you never know until you remove the shingles.”

  “Oh my…that sounds like a lot of complicated and time-consuming work.”

  “That’s not all. Once deck repairs are made, I’ll lay down tarpaper over the entire structure. After that, I’ll use my gun to nail the shingles onto the roof.”

  “Gun?”

  “Nail gun.”

  “Right.” She walked over to a shingle stack and patted the plastic cover with the flat of her hand. “I suppose it’d better be shingles first. The last thing I want is for these to be on the ground and not on my roof when it’s time for the party.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Could you put together a team to get the work done faster?”

  “I’ll see about it.”

  “Perfect.” She headed toward the front door. “Let me show you inside.”

  And he followed her again, wondering not so much about the shingles as about the underwear that might match her fancy boots.

  Chapter 3

  Belle was a pretty good judge of character. She had to be in her business. Right now she couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something not quite right about Rowdy’s story. She just hoped he could and would do the job. Whatever else was going on with him didn’t matter…at least she hoped it wouldn’t affect her one way or another. He could be having personal problems or ranch problems or any number of other problems. That was life. She just needed him, and as many of his cowboy friends as he could corral, to get her place beautified by Christmas.

  She thrust open the double front doors made of what appeared to be hand-stained and oil-rubbed cedar with big brass handles. Fortunately, she liked the doors, although the beige trim around them was not her personal choice. If there was time, she could easily remedy that issue with a pop of color. Anyway, that was for later after more urgent matters were completed to her satisfaction.

  She stepped inside onto the glossy oak floor of the entry and heard Rowdy right behind her.

  “You okay with the front doors?” he asked in his deep, sexy voice so typical of Texas men.

  “Yes.” She turned to look at him, getting that odd vibe again. “I wouldn’t change a thing. They’re perfect.”

  “Good.” He grinned, flashing white teeth and dimple as his eyes lit up in pleasure.

  She took a step back from the wattage, feeling it drill deep. What was it about this guy? He was just another hunky cowboy slated to be a blip on her radar of life.

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  “My work.”

  “You made the doors?”

  “Yeah. Woodworking is a hobby of mine.”

  She gazed at him a little harder, feeling that uneasiness ratchet up a notch. Who was he? If she had friends in the area, she could’ve asked somebody and found out why a cowboy with so much talent, looks, and strength appeared to be living life on the edge. She didn’t like things that made her ponder their significance because they might come back to bite her at the worst possible moment.

  He raised his arms to reveal thick, muscular wrists topped by broad-palmed, long-fingered hands that looked like they could make anything come alive, be it wood or…she stopped her thoughts right there.

  She swallowed hard. “You do nice work.”

  “I like it.” He smiled again. “Morning Glory carries a few of my smaller pieces in her store.”

  “Morning Glory?” She could only wonder if that was a person’s real name or an alia
s. In this neck of the woods, it was surely an alias.

  “She sells local artisan creations in Morning’s Glory. It’s located in Old Town.”

  “Sounds interesting.” She did think it sounded like a good place to shop. She loved talent of all kinds, and she liked to support it. Maybe she’d even see something that would work into her line or fit into the house.

  “MG makes perfumes and bath salts and creams and such stuff. I think you’d enjoy her place. Most out-of-towners do.”

  “I’m not an out-of-towner.” She felt a little deflated at the idea that he considered her an outsider just when she was trying to be part of the community…particularly the local creative community.

  “Right.” He gave her a little quizzical look that said volumes about what he really thought her status to be.

  “Exactly.” She wouldn’t let his opinion matter. She was now a Wildcat Bluff resident who intended to make a positive difference.

  “You want to show me the house?”

  “Yes, of course.” She tugged her mind back on track. Why did she keep letting him throw her off-kilter?

  “You can tell me what you have in mind to change.”

  “If there was time, I’d say pretty much everything.”

  “I wish you’d start thinking in terms of the original time period when this house was created to be the best of the best.”

  “But that was the eighties.”

  “Think about it.” He took off his hat, appearing thoughtful as he turned it around and around in his hands. “You can’t go back in time and change how this house was constructed, so why don’t you visualize instead how you can enhance what you’ve got with color and texture and upgrades that fit the time period?”

  She just stood there, thinking like he’d told her to do as she felt the house around her. There’d been a lot of love here. And pride, too. Maybe she needed to respect it. Had she been running so hard and fast for so long, always trying to catch the next wave of style, that she’d lost track of what was most important? A house wasn’t just a house. It was a home. And if it was filled with love, it was the best of all possible worlds.