My Kind of Christmas Page 7

  The last time she’d cried over a man was eleven years ago, when her fiancé had broken their engagement two weeks before the wedding, with the invitations sent, the venue reserved, the cake ordered, and dozens of gifts to be returned. After cleaning up that mess, she’d sworn off serious relationships and focused on her career. It had been a wise move. She was independent, successful, and financially solid. But she was alone, and at thirty-two, she was facing the reality that she might never have a family of her own.

  Never mind, Maggie told herself. She had a town to run. And wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to get her a Santa Claus.

  She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and sat down at her computer to check her e-mail. Maybe she could advertise for a Santa in the Cottonwood Springs Gazette. But Abner had always played Santa for the fun and honor of it. A new applicant would expect to be paid, and there was no money allocated in the city budget for a Santa. She had to find someone who would do the job for free.

  She had nearly finished her e-mails when her phone rang. “Hi, honey!” The cheerful voice on the other end was Francine’s. “How’s it going? Any luck with that hot-looking man of yours?”

  Maggie hesitated, struggling with her emotions.

  “That bad, huh?” Francine spoke into the silence.

  “Oh, Francine! I’ve made such a mess of things!” Trying to pull herself together, Maggie told her story. “I don’t know if he’ll ever speak to me again!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Francine said. “He’s just going to need a little time, that’s all.”

  “I don’t have time. I need to make plans for the parade.”

  “Is that all this is about? The parade?” Francine clicked her tongue. “If you believe that, honey, I’ve got some beachfront property in Kansas you can buy cheap. You’ve fallen big-time for the man, haven’t you?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference. I still have a job to do.” Maggie took a deep breath and changed the subject. “How about you? Any luck with Hank?”

  Francine sighed. “We’re still friends. But I’ve hit a wall. I had him thinking about playing Santa. But when he found out who had the sleigh and horses, he shut it right down. I don’t know what happened between him and his son, but it must’ve been pretty heart-wrenching.”

  “You say he might play Santa?”

  “He was hemming and hawing at first. But he says that as long as Travis doesn’t want anything to do with him, he’s not interested. But don’t worry, honey. Things will work out. You’ll see.”

  “I wish I had your confidence,” Maggie said. “Maybe what we need is a go-between, somebody who isn’t emotionally involved.”

  “Now there’s a thought,” Francine said. “Got anybody in mind?”

  “Not a soul. And even if I did have somebody, I don’t know whether it would do any good. Right now, I’m out of options. All I want is to make myself a sandwich and crash in front of the TV.”

  “Then do that, girl. You’ve been working too hard. Get some rest. Things will look brighter in the morning.”

  Good luck with that, Maggie thought as she thanked Francine and ended the call. None of her problems were going to solve themselves overnight. Tomorrow morning, Travis and his father would still be enemies. Travis would still be angry with her. And Branding Iron would still be without a Santa Claus.

  For the space of a long breath, she stood by the kitchen window, watching the fine snowflakes pepper the glass. Then she turned to the sink and began soaping Bucket’s lingering skunk smell off her hands.

  * * *

  Sunday was cold and gloomy. But by Monday morning, the storm had moved on, leaving the land with a dusting of white that would melt in the midmorning sun. A flock of blackbirds had settled in a bare cottonwood. They rose in a cloud as a tan Jeep rumbled down the road, towing a small, closed trailer. At the sound, Travis glanced up from cleaning the horse stalls. His spirits brightened. Conner had arrived.

  He walked out of the barn as the Jeep pulled up to the house and stopped. Conner, dressed in jeans and a fringed leather jacket, opened the door and eased his way to the ground.

  He looked older and wearier than Travis remembered. Lines were etched beneath his startling blue eyes. But the close-clipped blond hair and wiry build were the same. Most champion riders were small men. Conner wasn’t much over five foot nine, but he’d always had a steely confidence about him. The girls who’d swarmed around him in high school had liked comparing him to Steve McQueen.

  “Travis! I’ll be damned!” A grin lit his face as he moved forward, limping slightly on a stiffened right leg. “You’re lookin’ good, man! Sorry you can’t say the same for me.”

  They shook hands and buddy-hugged. “I’m just glad you’re here,” Travis said. “Come on in. I’ll make you some eggs and coffee. Then we’ll get you unloaded. Or if you just want to crash, your room’s ready.”

  “Coffee and eggs sounds fine. I drove all night, but I’m too wired to sleep. Besides, I’m anxious to get a look at the place.”

  “Not much to look at,” Travis said. “You can see the house and barn from here. The horses are out in the field. And here’s the rest of the crew.”

  At the sound of a visitor, Bucket had come racing around the house. Too well-trained to jump on Conner, he circled his boots, wagging and looking up at him.

  “Hello, boy.” Conner scratched the scruffy mutt’s ears, then drew back. “Good Lord, he stinks!”

  Travis chuckled. “You think he’s bad now, you should’ve smelled him a couple days ago. His name’s Bucket. I wasn’t keen on having him at first, but he’s turned out to be a pretty good horse wrangler.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll make friends with him after he airs out a little. Let me grab a few things, and I’ll meet you in the house.”

  “What’s in the trailer?” Travis asked.

  Conner grinned. “That’s my new horse. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Intrigued, Travis followed his friend around the trailer. Conner hadn’t said anything about bringing a horse, only that he couldn’t ride anymore.

  Conner unlocked the back of the trailer and flung open the doors. “Here she is! What d’you think?”

  Travis stared at the four-seat, four-wheeler ATV. He burst out laughing. “That’s some horse!” he said.

  “Thanks. Traded most of my gun collection for it. I was looking for a two-seater, but I was running out of time, and the price was right. Figured it might come in handy out here.”

  “That it will, especially since neither of us can ride worth a dang. Come on in and wash up. You can get settled while I fix us some breakfast.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Travis had bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee ready in the kitchen. Conner came in wearing a clean sweatshirt, his face and hair glistening with water. He took a seat at the table while Travis dished up the food and poured the coffee.

  “So tell me about this place,” Conner said. “I drove through Branding Iron on my way here. Can’t say much for what I saw. What does a broken-down cowboy do for a good time around here?”

  “Not much,” Travis said, refilling his mug. “There’s a redneck bar called Rowdy’s Roost on the far end of town—good place to go if you’re looking for a fight. There’s a one-feature movie theater that shows family stuff, a hamburger joint, and a bed and breakfast. Oh—and the whole town seems to make a big fuss over Christmas. If you need more excitement than that, Cottonwood Springs, half an hour up the highway, has a mall and a megaplex.”

  “Whoopee.” Conner poured ketchup on his eggs. “How about the women? Any lookers?”

  “A few. But most of them are married, and you don’t want to tangle with their husbands.” This wasn’t going quite the way Travis had hoped. He’d wanted a partner to help him make the ranch pay. But so far, Conner only seemed interested in having a good time.

  “How about you?” Conner asked. “You’ve been here almost a year. Have you found yourself a woman yet?”

&nb
sp; The memory flooded Travis’s senses—Maggie’s sweet, trembling lips pressed against his, the nearness of her lush body tempting him to go further . . .

  He forced it away. “I thought I had once,” he said, “but it turned out she was just using me.”

  Conner grinned and shook his head. “There are worse things than being used by a pretty lady, my friend. What happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Travis scrambled to change the subject. “Looks like we’re about finished here. Do you want to see the ranch, or do you need to catch up on your sleep?”

  “That strong coffee of yours perked me right up. I’ll be good for hours. So how big is this ranch?”

  “Not that big. Only about four hundred acres. I raised a couple crops of hay last year, but most of the land is unused. I figure we could do with some stock—cattle or sheep. Hell, maybe even alpacas. They seem to be the new thing.”

  “What we choose would depend on pasture—the soil, the graze, the terrain, the access to water, even fences. Since we can’t put grazing stock out till spring, we’ve got plenty of time to think about it.”

  “Especially since we can’t afford to buy stock,” Travis added. “Even with the ranch as security, the bank won’t lend money to an ex-convict.”

  “Or a broken-down rodeo cowboy with a bankruptcy in his recent past,” Conner said. “We need to figure out a way to make money. You say you inherited the ranch free and clear. Is there any part of it you could sell?”

  “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that. But who’d want to buy land out here? Far as I know, beyond what’s been cultivated, there’s nothing but rocks, weeds, and vermin.”

  “Far as you know? You mean you haven’t seen it all?”

  “Not all the way to the west boundary. It’s been as much as I could do to plow and harvest the hayfields. And there aren’t any roads, or even trails, going out that way. If I tear up my truck out there or get stuck in a wash, I’m in trouble.”

  “So do we even know where the boundaries are, and who owns the land next to them?” Conner’s interest was piqued, just as Travis had hoped. “Hell, what if we strike oil or find a gold mine out there?”

  “Don’t bet on it, friend.” Travis shook his head. “I found an old aerial map with survey lines drawn in when I moved into the house. It’s tacked to the wall, just this side of the front door. You can take a look while I clear away our breakfast.”

  Travis hurried to put the leftovers in the fridge and load the antiquated dishwasher. Then he joined Conner, who was studying the old map.

  “When was this made?” Conner asked.

  “There’s no date on it, but I’m guessing it’s at least ten years old. A couple from somewhere back east leased the place for a few years back then. Hippie types, the family lawyer called them. From what he told me, they had an option to buy it on contract, but they had some legal trouble and couldn’t make the payments. They gave up and left.”

  “I can see the house and barn and the road,” Conner said, peering at the map. “And I can see where the property line runs right up against that line of hills to the west. I’m guessing it might be government land beyond that. And then, on the north, it butts against your neighbor’s property.”

  “Jubal McFarland. Nice family. He raises organic, grass-fed beef, and he builds good fences.”

  “Was it Mark Twain who said that good fences make good neighbors?”

  “No, it was Robert Frost. But he was right.”

  “Well, keep in mind that good fences cost money, and you’ve got a lot of property,” Conner said. “So what do you say we do some exploring? It’s a nice day, even with that chilly breeze. And my four-wheeler can go anywhere.”

  Outside, they wheeled the ATV out of the trailer, donned helmets, and climbed into the seats. Conner was about to start the engine when Bucket came tearing around the house, leaped into the ATV, and settled onto one of the rear seats.

  “Oh, no!” Conner protested. “That stinky mutt isn’t coming along.”

  “Hey, he’s behind us. He’ll be downwind the whole time,” Travis said. “And look at him. How could you say no to that face?”

  “You’ve gone soft in the head over that mutt!” Conner started the engine. It caught with a deafening roar.

  “Lordy, I hope the neighbors don’t complain,” Travis said. But Conner, he realized, couldn’t hear him over the engine noise. There wouldn’t be much conversation on this ride, but Conner had studied the map, and he seemed to know the way. He was headed along the boundary of the property toward the west end at the base of the hills, a part of the ranch Travis had never seen. Last winter, after his arrival, it had been all he could do to get the house livable and stay warm. With the coming of spring, the hay crop had kept him too busy for exploring.

  The rugged vehicle seemed to eat up the terrain, its knobby, oversized tires bounding over rocks and shooting through hollows. Conner had been right. The big ATV could go anywhere—especially with Conner driving it like he was on a blasted bucking bull.

  He touched his friend’s shoulder. “Slow down, damn it!” he shouted. Conner only grinned. Travis glanced back at the dog. Bucket was balanced on the rear seat, eyes half closed, tongue lolling like he was in heaven. Travis hung on and tried to relax. Maybe he’d been a highway patrolman too long and seen too many bad accidents.

  They were moving into a line of low, scrub-dotted hills that stretched like a ripple from north to south across the Texas plain. Travis had been aware that the hills ran along the west edge of his property. He’d watched the sun set over them almost every night. But only now did it sink in that this wild section of land—this small piece of the earth—was really his.

  Motor roaring, the ATV climbed a low ridge. At the top, the machine came to a sudden, silent stop with Conner staring down into the hollow below. “What the hell is that?” he muttered.

  Travis was staring, too. Below the ridge, covering a piece of ground that Travis estimated at a little over an acre, a patch of dark, vibrant green stood out against the faded autumn landscape.

  “Have you got somebody growing weed up here?” Conner wondered out loud.

  “Nobody who could get away with it.” Travis shaded his eyes against the bright sunlight. “No, it’s trees. A whole damned forest!”

  “Let’s check it out.” The engine roared as Conner started the ATV and gunned it down the hill. They stopped at the edge of the trees. Bucket jumped to the ground, trotted over to a spruce, and lifted his leg on the trunk. A blue jay scolded raucously from a branch.

  “This is unbelievable,” Conner muttered as they wandered among the closely spaced evergreens. “It’s like coming across an alien spaceship in the middle of nowhere.”

  “There’s got to be some explanation.” Travis studied the lushly green pines and firs, their uniform height—averaging about eight feet. There were no old trees here, although there were a few small trees mixed in with the larger ones, as if they might have sprouted from seed. An undergrowth of yellowed grass and weeds covered the ground, hiding the pattern that became clear only after a few minutes of walking.

  Travis swore in disbelief. “This isn’t a forest,” he said. “It’s a Christmas tree farm!”

  “You’re kidding!” Conner said.

  “Look around! The trees are growing in rows, and they all look to be about the same age. Somebody must have planted them.”

  “But who? They didn’t just fall out of the sky!”

  “The ranch was leased to those people about ten years ago. They were here for about five years before they went broke and left. They could’ve planted the trees, thinking they could sell them when they got big enough. But when they moved away, all they could do was leave them to grow.”

  “But why plant them clear out here?” Conner demanded. “Why not closer to the house?”

  “It’s higher here, cooler nights and summers for the trees. And maybe—” Travis paused
as a faint sound reached his ears. “Come on.” He strode ahead, with Conner and Bucket following close behind.

  The spring was little more than a trickle, flowing out of a rocky outcrop. The shallow trench dug from the foot of the rock was all but eroded away, the black plastic hoses leading from the trench cracked with age and buried by grass and weeds.

  “The young trees would’ve needed water,” Travis said. “But by the time the people left, the roots would’ve been deep enough to get it out of the ground.”

  Conner was silent, his forehead creased in thought. Suddenly he burst out laughing—laughing so hard that he had to bend over and clutch his sides.

  “What is it?” Travis stared at him, wondering if his friend had lost his mind.

  Conner took a deep breath, bringing himself partway under control. “I just figured it out, Travis,” he said. “Those folks weren’t just growing Christmas trees. The trees were camouflage and cover for the real crop. In between those trees, they were growing illegal weed!”

  “And when they moved, they harvested the crop, hauled it off, and left the trees!” Travis shook his head. It was a crazy idea, but it made perfect sense. He should have figured it out himself.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Conner asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Travis smiled. “You said something about finding a gold mine out here. I think maybe we just found one.”

  * * *

  By midday, they had explored the stand of trees and estimated their number at around two thousand. They had also discovered an overgrown dirt road winding down from the trees to the hayfields—easier than the route they’d taken over open ground. They were in high spirits as they parked the ATV in the shed next to the covered sleigh.

  “We owe ourselves a celebration,” Conner said. “Since you made breakfast, what do you say you let me buy you a late lunch at that place in town you mentioned.”