My Kind of Christmas Page 5

  “Not really. I know Hank started drinking after he lost his leg. It got so bad that his wife left him, took their little boy away, and remarried. Hank didn’t have any contact with his son for years. That’s all I know.”

  “But surely that wouldn’t have caused so much bitterness between them,” Maggie said. “Something else must’ve happened—something bad enough to tear them apart.”

  Francine wiped a dab of cheese off her chin. “Maybe so, honey. But Hank’s never said a word about it, not even to me.”

  “Travis would be glad to have somebody else take the animals and the sleigh. He didn’t want them in the first place, but Abner was afraid the horses and dog would be put down when he left them.”

  “It sounds like Travis has a good heart.” Francine gave her a teasing wink. “And it sounds like you’ve gotten to know him pretty well.”

  “Not that well. Believe me, he’s not all that easy to know.” Maggie felt the hated blush creep into her cheeks again. It was humiliating. Thirty-two-year-old mayors didn’t blush.

  Francine, who never missed a thing, finished her sandwich and leaned back in the booth. “This is how I see it, honey. We’ve both got guys we like, and we both want the same things for them. We want the two of them to settle the past and be family again.”

  “And to team up for the parade,” Maggie added. “As long as they’re not speaking to each other, that isn’t going to happen.”

  “Right,” Francine said. “I don’t know how we’re going to manage it. I just know that we’ll have a better chance if we work together. What do you say we think about it for a day or two and then check in, say, before the weekend?”

  “If this is going to happen, it’s got to happen fast,” Maggie said. “Otherwise, I’ll be wearing that Santa suit myself.”

  “And with that hair of yours, red isn’t your color. You’re more of an autumn,” Francine joked. “So do we have a deal?”

  “We do.” Maggie put a bill on the table and rose. “I have to go now, but I’m in, and I’ll get back to you. Thanks for your help, Francine.”

  “My pleasure, honey. And good luck.”

  The two women fist-bumped. Then Maggie hurried out to her car. Having Francine as her coconspirator could make a difference. But they were dealing with two stubborn men. There were plenty of pitfalls. And there was always the chance that their meddling would only make matters worse.

  But if they succeeded, it could mean a win for two good men, for the town of Branding Iron, and for the spirit of Christmas.

  * * *

  Travis had used eleven cans of tomato juice to bathe the dog and saved the last one for himself. The clothes he’d been wearing were buried, and the skunk had departed when he’d left a radio playing punk rock on the porch. That godawful smell would probably linger for weeks, but at least it was no longer knock-you-flat overpowering.

  Meanwhile, he couldn’t forget to take care of the horses. He’d given them fresh hay and water and shoveled steaming heaps of manure out of their bedding straw. At least it would help fertilize the spring hay crop. But the huge Percherons had nothing to do but stand in their stalls. While the weather was mild, they needed to be outside for fresh air and exercise.

  The ranch had no corral. But the hay pasture, which covered several acres, was fenced all around with rusty barbed wire. He’d seen horses in neighboring fields, so he guessed the Percherons would be safe there. But the distance from the barn to the pasture gate was about fifty yards. Could he lead them that far without spooking them? And could he catch them again when it was time to put them back into the barn? As long as they were calm and docile, that shouldn’t be a problem. But if anything went wrong, he was no match for an out-of-control one-ton horse. All he could do was get the hell out of the way.

  Truth be told, they made him damned nervous.

  The next morning, he decided to give it a try. He remembered how Abner had clipped the lead ropes to their nylon halters, which they were still wearing. The big animals had plodded along without resistance. The first time would be the hardest, he reminded himself. With luck, nothing would go wrong. After that, it would be easier.

  As he walked out to open the pasture gate, Bucket stuck to Travis’s heels. The dog seemed to follow him everywhere he went, always keeping a little behind, almost as if he were herding his new master. Bucket still smelled faintly of skunk, but after multiple baths, his black and white coat was like fluffy silk. He was a handsome animal, and he seemed to know it. He carried his plumed tail like a banner, letting the long hairs flutter in the breeze.

  Returning to the barn, Travis steeled his resolve and opened the first box stall. The horse—Patch, the one with the white spot—snorted softly but stood still as Travis clipped the lead rope to the metal ring on the halter. Bucket sat at the entrance to the stall, ears perked, tongue lolling.

  Travis moved toward the open gate of the stall, tugging gently on the lead. With a low nicker, Patch responded, following him out of the barn and across the yard. Bucket trailed behind, staying just clear of the massive hooves.

  By the time he’d put the second horse in the pasture and closed the gate, Travis was feeling more confident. The big Percherons were docile and well trained. He was the one who needed training—how to handle them, how to give them commands, how to groom and care for them, how to put them in harness . . .

  But what was he thinking? Lord, he’d never wanted a horse, let alone two. He didn’t even like horses. There had to be somebody—maybe in Cottonwood Springs or one of the other towns, who would have a use for them. He could run an ad—but what if the person who replied was just after horseflesh to sell to a slaughterhouse for dog food?

  Damn! He was getting soft in the head! He was as sentimental as Abner!

  Pausing, he turned and watched the two horses amble into the open field, stopping to nibble at the alfalfa that had sprouted after the fall harvest. The sky was clear, the wind brisk. They should be fine until tonight, he told himself.

  Bucket nudged his hand and wagged his tail, wanting attention. Travis reached down and scratched his satiny head. Maybe the dog was lonesome for Abner. Dogs did get lonesome for their owners—at least the ones in books and movies did.

  “What am I supposed to do with you, you old rascal?” He glanced down at Bucket, who wagged his tail. “So far, you’ve done nothing but get skunk-sprayed, gobble up food, and follow me around like a shadow. Abner said you were a good watchdog, but there’s nothing around here worth stealing. How are you supposed to earn your keep?”

  Bucket gave a little yip. Travis shook his head. “Okay, I guess we’ll just have to figure it out as we go along.”

  But Bucket was the least of his worries. If he couldn’t get rid of the horses, at least he needed to learn to manage them. Horses were complicated animals. An old friend of his, who’d made it big as a rodeo star, had owned a book on horse care that was as thick as his fist.

  An old friend!

  Maybe that was the answer. He and Conner Branch had been best friends in high school, and they’d never really lost touch. Conner had even written him a few letters while he was doing time. Travis hadn’t contacted Conner since he’d been released and moved to Branding Iron, but he still had Conner’s old number on his phone. If anybody knew about horses, Conner did.

  The number might not be good anymore. But it was worth a try.

  Still standing in the yard, with Bucket at his feet, he took his phone out of his pocket, scrolled to the old number, and made the call.

  Conner answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Travis!” He sounded happy. “What’s up? I heard you were out, but then I lost track of you. I was afraid it might be for good.”

  “Sorry.” Just hearing his old friend’s voice raised Travis’s spirits. “I should’ve called. I’m back on the old family ranch in Branding Iron. The place is all mine now. I’m trying to make it work but, man, it’s a struggle. Nothing but beans and blisters. How about you? Still earning
those fancy buckles and dazzling the women?”

  There was a silent pause on the other end of the phone. “You haven’t heard?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “It was in the papers, but it’s been a while.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I read a newspaper. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m finished, Travis. Got stomped by a bull in the Vegas finals. Bastard broke my hip and shattered my leg. Spent months in traction and rehab. I can walk okay, but it hurts like hell to sit a horse, and I’ll never compete again.”

  A memory flashed through Travis’s mind—a young Conner on a bronc in the junior rodeo championships, a cocky grin on his face. Rodeo had been Conner’s whole life.

  “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry,” Travis said. “What rotten luck. Are you doing all right?”

  Conner’s chuckle was laced with irony. “I don’t mean to dump on you, old friend, but you might as well hear the rest of the story. No insurance for bull riding. So my medical bills cost me damn near everything I had. Lost my big house. Had to sell my horses, and cars, and even auction off my buckles and trophies. Hell, my girlfriend left me, too, and took the dog—just like in those good old country songs. I’m living in this cheap rental in Waco while I figure out the rest of my life.”

  “Come live here, with me!” As soon as Travis spoke, he knew the words were right and true. “There’s plenty of room in this old house, and Lord knows I could use the help. I don’t know squat about running a ranch or taking care of these animals that got dumped on me. I couldn’t pay you. But you’d get a free roof over your head, and we could be partners in whatever we decide to do.”

  “Partners? You’re kidding!”

  “I’m absolutely serious. I called you because I need advice about the horses. But having you here to help out would be the best thing I could wish for. Will you at least think about it?”

  Conner laughed. “I don’t have to. I’m in. I can be there in the next few days.”

  “You’d better be sure. Before you make up your mind, let me send you a photo of the house.” Travis strode toward the front corner of the house, snapped a photo from the best angle, and sent it. The three-bedroom frame home might have been a nice place fifty years ago. But it had long since fallen into neglect. The structure was sound, the shingled roof still holding against the rain and snow. But the rest was about as homey as an old miner’s shack.

  There was silence on the phone while Conner studied the photo.

  “Well, what do you think?” Travis asked.

  “One question. Has it got indoor plumbing?”

  “If you don’t mind rusty pipes.”

  “And cockroaches? I hate cockroaches.”

  “Haven’t seen a one. If there ever were any, they must’ve all frozen to death.”

  “Then I’m in. I’ll see you in about three days.”

  “Need any help? Can you drive all right?”

  “I can manage, thanks. Just tell me how to get there.”

  * * *

  Travis ended the call with a new lightness of spirit. He’d done his best to go it alone out here, but the past year had been hellishly lonesome and hard. Having a capable friend, who needed to be here for his own reasons, could make all the difference. Maybe together, they could find a way to make this broken-down ranch pay.

  He found himself whistling as he set about getting a room ready for his friend, clearing out items that could be hauled away or stored elsewhere, scrubbing the floor and washing the single window. He was going to need a bed, a chair, and some kind of bureau with drawers, as well as curtains, bedding, and a rug. If he couldn’t find some furniture in the want ads, the thrift store in Cottonwood Springs should have most of what he needed. What he couldn’t find there, he would have to buy at Shop Mart, along with a fresh supply of groceries.

  Luckily, he’d sold a truckload of hay last week, so he had some cash. He’d planned to make it last, but he wanted his friend to be comfortable. Conner had made good money as a rodeo star. He’d lived like a millionaire—a big house with stables out back, fancy cars and fancy women. Travis could only hope he wouldn’t mind the shabby room that was the best he had to offer.

  By the time he’d cleaned the room and rearranged the house, the sun was low in the sky, and the air had taken on a biting chill. Patch and Chip were still in the field. It might be all right to leave them outside for the night—wild horses, after all, lived outdoors all the time. But what if something went wrong—a storm, an accident, or even some predator? He couldn’t take that chance. He needed to get the big Percherons back into the barn.

  But Abner hadn’t told him how to do that.

  Would he have to catch them on foot? Would they come if he whistled? Would they know their food was in the barn and come back on their own? Travis felt like a fool—but if he didn’t get them in soon, he’d be chasing them in the dark.

  He took time to put fresh hay and water in their stalls. Then, leaving the stall gates open as well as the barn door, he looped the two lead ropes over his arm and walked out to the fenced hayfield, opened the gate, and stepped inside.

  The horses were about a hundred yards out, standing close together. Would they let him approach, or would they spook and run if he went close? He was about to shut the gate behind him when a black and white streak rocketed past him, headed straight for the horses.

  “Bucket! Come back here, you fool dog!” he shouted. But Bucket ignored him. Circling the horses, he darted in close, yapping and nipping at their heels, then darting out again. In a moment, he had them moving together toward the gate.

  Travis watched in drop-jawed amazement as the dog herded the giant horses through the gate, across the yard, and into the barn. Chip and Patch seemed to know the drill. They ambled along together, making no move to resist Bucket’s barks and nips.

  When they were in their stalls, Travis closed and latched the gates. Bucket sat at his feet, grinning, as if to say, See, I showed you something, didn’t I?

  Travis scratched the dog’s ears. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “I don’t just have one new partner. I’ve got two!”

  Chapter 5

  By the next afternoon, Travis had found the furniture he needed, including a nearly new mattress set and a rug, at a Branding Iron moving sale. He paid the seller, loaded the pieces in the back of the pickup, and tied them down.

  Driving away, he checked off one more item on his mental list of things to do before Conner arrived. He’d been lucky to find all the furniture in one place, and at a bargain price. But he still needed bedding and maybe a few extra towels, since Conner had implied that he wasn’t bringing much. He wanted to lay in some groceries, too. He could find everything he needed at Shop Mart—hopefully, some of it on sale.

  Travis had wondered, in passing, what Conner was living on. The money from the hay sales wouldn’t be enough to support two people. But he dismissed the worry. Conner was a proud man—too proud to be a freeloader. He would find a way to pull his own weight.

  He pulled into the crowded parking lot at Shop Mart and found an empty space. Only as he was climbing out of the truck did he notice that he was parked next to a familiar black Lincoln Town Car.

  All thoughts of his errand fled. For the past couple of days, he’d been too busy to dwell on sexy Mayor Maggie. But she hadn’t been far from his mind. Now, gazing across the sea of parked vehicles, he caught a glimpse of her coming out of the store with a tall paper bag in her arms. She didn’t appear to have seen him, but she was moving steadily in his direction, toward her car. She was wearing jeans, a black motorcycle jacket, and the green scarf he liked. Her mahogany hair fluttered loose in the breeze.

  Damn, but she was beautiful. And way out of his league. But at least he could thank her for the tomato juice and maybe offer to buy her coffee. The worst she could do was say no.

  Leaning against the side of his truck, he took a shameless pleasure in watching her walk toward him.

  * * *

/>   Maggie was two rows away from her car when she caught sight of Travis, leaning against the side of his truck. When he tipped his hat and grinned, she knew he’d been waiting for her. The hormone surge was like homemade fudge boiling over on a hot stove. Heaven help her, the man was a convicted felon—bad news for any respectable woman. But the chemistry was all too real.

  As she reached her car, he stepped forward and took the bag from her hands. “Here, I’ll hold this while you open your trunk,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said, finding her keys and clicking open the lock. “It’s not heavy, but it’s nice to have an extra hand. You can put it right there, next to the spare tire.”

  He put the bag down and closed the trunk lid. “I was hoping to run into you,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for the tomato juice.”

  “Did it work?”

  “About as well as anything could. At least Bucket smells better. As for me . . .” He pulled up his sleeve and offered her his wrist. She sniffed deeply. His cool skin smelled of bargain brand soap, but the skunk aroma, faint but unmistakable, was not entirely gone.

  “I won’t be going on any hot dates for a while.” His grin deepened a dimple in his cheek. “But I was hoping you’d at least let me treat you to Buckaroo’s coffee and pie.”

  A prudent woman would have made her excuses, thanked him, and driven away, Maggie told herself. Travis Morgan was heartbreak on the hoof. But she had an agenda, and this was the perfect opening to carry it out. Learning about Travis’s past, and his relationship with his father, could provide the key to healing the rift between them and giving her town its Christmas Santa.

  “Thanks, I’d enjoy that.” She glanced at his loaded pickup. “We can take my car. Nobody will bother your truck here. What are you doing with all that?”

  “Upgrading my house. A friend is coming to stay with me. He’s going to need a bedroom.”

  “Well, I hope I get to meet him.” This was a new development. Dared she hope the newcomer would help her solve her problem?