A Cowgirl's Christmas (10 page)

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C
allan turned on the television, but instead of making the house feel less empty it just made Hawksley’s absence all the more noticeable. It didn’t feel right to hear the TV and not see him sitting in his favorite chair.

So she switched it off then wandered from room to room, not knowing what to do.

She’d promised her sisters she wouldn’t sell until the New Year. She understood why they wanted one last Christmas holiday together in their family home. But Christmas was almost two months away. She simply couldn’t see staying here alone for all that time.

Especially if she wasn’t working. She’d go insane.

She hadn’t played to go to Grey’s Saloon for a third night in a row.

Somehow, it just happened.

One minute she was standing at the door to her fath—Hawksley’s study, feeling like she could scream. The next she was in her truck, considering her options. There were friends she could visit. Maybe she should grab a bite at the Main Street Diner.

Or...she could hang out at Grey’s.

Like a homing pigeon, her truck gravitated to her usual parking space a few blocks off Main Street, where she could leave it overnight if she had to. And face it, she didn’t often leave this place in any condition to drive.

But tonight, if she avoided the bourbon and stuck to beer, maybe it would be okay. She’d only have a few, and she’d grab a meal. That would help absorb the “poison” as Court liked to call it. Man, was he a prig, or what? Didn’t he ever let loose?

No sooner was she in the door than she ran into someone she knew. A skinny cowboy with cute puppy-dog eyes she’d sort-of-dated for a while a few years ago. Justin gave her hug.

“Aw, Callan, I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

“Sorry enough to buy me a beer?”

Justin drew back, looking surprised. Then he grinned. “Does nothing faze you?”

“Just like my truck, I’m built tough.”

She joined his friends at their table and had a couple beers before she remembered her plan to eat. Holding up her hand, she called out to one of the servers. “Nachos for me and my friends, please.”

By the time the order arrived, Justin had pulled her up to the dance floor.

“You seeing anyone these days, Callan?” he asked as he pulled her in for a two-step.

“Why would you ask that?”

“I dunno. Just wondering.”

“Well, don’t wonder, Justin. Why don’t we just dance?”

He shrugged. “Sure, Callan. You call the shots, I’m good with that.”

He shut his lips then, and focused on his moves, which were good. She’d forgotten how smooth Justin was on the dance floor. They stayed for the next song and the one after that. By the time they returned to their table, most of the nachos had been eaten.

She grabbed a few, then Gerry, the guy who’d given her a lift the other night, challenged her to a game of pool.

“You’re on.” She scarfed the nachos, grabbed a few more, then headed to the back where Gerry already had a beer waiting for her. “Rack ‘em up.”

She had a nice beer buzz going and was enjoying the game and the bantering with Gerry when suddenly she noticed someone new come in the door. Immediately the funk she’d walked in with settled back on her shoulders.

It was her barroom buddy, Dillon Sheenan.

Only he wasn’t just her barroom buddy anymore. He was her frigging half-brother. How messed up was that? And what was she supposed to do about it? Tell him?

No. She’d dealt with enough crap today. Maybe she’d just try to avoid him.

But of course that didn’t work.

“Hey, Callan.” He watched her make a shot. “You’re hot tonight, babe.”

Ewww. “Don’t call me babe.”

“What the hell? I always call you babe.”

“Not any more you don’t.” She bent over the table to line up her next shot. Sensing his eyes on her, she stood. “And don’t check out my cleavage, either.”

Dillon threw up his hands. “What’s gotten into you, tonight?”

“I know. Right?” Justin was on the sidelines, watching, too, now. “She’s been touchy all night.”

“Back off you guys,” Gerry said. “Haven’t you heard about her daddy’s will?”

Callan stiffened. She hadn’t expected word to get out this quickly. Someone from the family must have talked. But who? She knew Ren Fletcher was much too professional to be the source of the gossip. Maybe Savannah had overheard Dawson and Sage discussing the terms then said something to her friends? “Shut up, Gerry.”

But Gerry had an audience now, not just Dillon and Justin but about half-a-dozen other people who’d overheard and were now moving closer to get in on the rest.

“Hawksley’s left the Circle C ranch to that guy from Minnesota, the one who came in the bar the other night and put the moves on Callan.”

“No shit.” Dillon looked as affronted as if it were his own birthright that had been taken from him. “This isn’t true, is it Callan?”

Everyone was staring at her, waiting for her answer. She tossed her cue stick down. “Yeah. It’s true.” Then she started for the door, ignoring the follow-up questions, shrugging off the hands that tried to grab hold of her arms.

She stopped at her chair to retrieve her jacket, left some money for her tab, then made for the exit. She didn’t put her odds at a clean getaway very high, and she was right. Dillon followed right after her.

It was dark outside, and cold. She buttoned up her jacket then checked to make sure her keys were still in her pocket.

“What was that all about?” Dillon shoved his hands in his jean pockets and hunched his shoulders against the wind. He hadn’t stopped to put on a coat or anything. “It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t Hawksley leave his ranch to you?”

“It’s complicated, Dillon. And you might not like the answer.”

“Me? What do I have to do with this?”

“Last chance to go back into the bar and enjoy a fun, uncomplicated Saturday night.”

“No way. I want you to level with me.”

“Okay, well hang onto your boot straps. Because we found out that Hawksley wasn’t our biological father. That’s why he left the ranch to Court, because he was the closest blood relative on the Carrigan side.”

“But the guy’s name is McAllister, isn’t it?”

“His father’s mother was Hawksley’s father’s sister. She married a McAllister, but she was still a Carrigan by birth.” When she noticed Dillon frowning, she lost her patience. “Look, I’ll draw you a family tree sometime, okay? Make it nice and simple.”

“Stop being an ass. I get the part about Court being a blood relative. But what does any of that have to do with me? And who was your birth father, if not old Hawk?”

Callan took a deep breath. “Remember last fall when Sage told us about that affair between my Mom and your father?”

Now it was Dillon’s turn to freeze. “Yeah...but that - ” He stopped. Shook his head. “How long did it go on for?”

“Apparently they were an item before Mom got married. Mattie, it turns out, was your father’s child.”

“Holy shit.”

“It gets stranger. After about a decade apart, they hooked up again and guess what? Your dad is also my dad. You and I, Dillon, are half-siblings.”

“No. You’re messing with me.” Dillon stepped back, and stared at her.

“I wish.” She jabbed at the sidewalk with the toe of her boot.

“You...
and
Mattie. Both Dad’s?”

“According to Mom’s letters. I guess only DNA tests could tell us for sure. But since it turns out Hawksley was sterile...”

“No effing way! Then what about Dani and Sage?”

“Mom went to a fertility clinic in Seattle. Used sperm donors.”

He looked away, shook his head, then suddenly pounded his fist against the door of the saloon. “God damnit. I wonder if Mom knew.”

Sage slumped against the wall of the Saloon. Dillon’s Mom’s tragic suicide might just be tied up with this. “I’m sorry, Dillon.”

“Not your fault. I just—” He nursed his fist, which had to be throbbing after that punch. “I need to go. You going to be okay?”

“Sure.” She understood. Like Dillon, she preferred solitude when she had heavy emotional crap to deal with.

He didn’t say anything else, just took off down the street. Slowly Callan sank until her butt hit the heels of her boots. Resting her head against the solid wall behind her, she closed her eyes. From within, music pounded, along with sounds of people having fun.

She shouldn’t have told Dillon that way. What a moron she was. He’d been one of her best friends. Now he probably hated her.

The night stretched out before her, as did the rest of her life. Where the hell should she go? She couldn’t face the empty house at the Circle C. She just couldn’t.

“So is this what the locals do on a Saturday night?”

The voice startled her. She opened her eyes to see a familiar pair of boots about three feet away from her.

She looked up. Yup, just her luck it was Court McAllister.

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“D
id you get tossed out of the bar?” Court asked.

“No!” She tried to scramble to her feet, but her center of gravity was askew. When Court held out a hand she ignored it, preferring to fall to her hands and knees, and then push herself upright. Only then did she notice Red was standing on the other side of Court. The grey-haired foreman was frowning. She guessed what the two of them were thinking.

“I only had three beers.” Why was she defending herself? She owed neither of them an explanation. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll walk to Sage’s place.” Occasionally, when she couldn’t coax someone into giving her a ride home, she camped on her sister’s sofa. She hadn’t done this since Sage and Dawson’s wedding, but her options right now were limited.

“Hang on, Callan,” Court said. “I can give you a lift back to the Circle C.”

She shook her head. “And then drive all the way back to the Graff? Nah, don’t bother. I’ll be fine on Sage’s couch.”

“It’s been a bad week,” Red said. “For all of us, but especially you. I get that, Callan, but why do you have to be so damn stubborn?”

“What do either of you care if I sleep at Sage’s or at home?”

“I don’t,” Red said impatiently. “I’m talking about the round-up. We’ve got to do it tomorrow. We’re already two weeks late and the forecast isn’t good.”

“Not my problem anymore, Red.”

“You trying to tell me you don’t care about those cattle? We’re short-handed without your father.  Now you’re going to bail on us, too?”

Callan bit back the urge to cry,
He’s not my father.
She realized it would just sound childish. And as soon as she admitted that much, she had to also acknowledge the rest of what Red was saying.

She
did
care about those damn cattle. She didn’t want to lose a single one to the bitter snow and cold of winter.

“We’ve got Sage and Dawson lined up,” Red continued. “If you’re not there, Sage will worry.”

“Oh, damn it, Red, okay. You win. I’ll do it.”

Red gave a short nod. “Fine. You can expect the cooking crew around six. I’ve asked the rest of the team to show up half an hour before sunrise.” He turned and went, leaving her and Court in awkward silence.

Crossing her arms, she refused to look at him. She’d agreed for the sake of the cattle. She hoped he got that.

Finally he broke the stand-off. “I’m parked this way.”

If she was going to work the round-up, she had to accept the ride, Callan realized. So she walked with him down the block to his dark red Ford truck, where he unlocked the passenger door for her and like a gentleman waited for her to get inside before closing it.

What the hell? This isn’t a bloody date.
Callan kept the words to herself. She was suddenly very, very tired. She slumped back into the seat and waited as Court went around to the other side and started the engine. Music started up, something kind of jazzy, with no lyrics.

She wrinkled her nose. “Is this the kind of music you like?”

“No. I generally play music I can’t stand when I’m driving.”

She fought back a smile. “If you want to be a rancher, you need to start listening to country.”

She expected him to blow her off. Instead he said, “Any suggestions?”

“The local country station for a start.” She recited the call letters.

But he didn’t change the radio setting.

Outside of the town limits traffic was minimal. Mostly they had the highway to themselves. The music, Callan had to admit, sort of suited the dark quiet of the night. She could feel something inside of her responding to it, relaxing and unwinding.

She glanced at the man beside her, holding the wheel with one relaxed hand, the other resting on his thigh. He looked confident. At ease. “You ever gone on a round-up before?”

“No. But I won a cutting competition at the Calgary Stampede once.”

“Seriously?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or be impressed. “It’s a bit more complicated when you’re working out in the high country.”

“I don’t doubt that it is. That’s why I’m glad you agreed to help. Red tells me you’re even better than your father was. I’m going to assume that’s high praise.”

It was. And she couldn’t help feeling warmed by it.