Cowboy Under the Mistletoe (6 page)

If he didn’t get back to work soon, his bank account would suffer and he’d risk falling behind on his loans. Loans that pointed to his future instead of the mess in Gabriel’s Crossing and a persistent past that intruded like flies at a picnic.

Occasionally, one of the other Buchanons seeped into the conversation. They’d been as close as family, and sometimes he yearned to be among them so much his chest ached. Being back in Gabriel’s Crossing messed with his mind worse than a head slam to the dirt.

“Mom’s already packing Christmas packages for all the soldiers in Trevor’s unit.” Allison sat at an angle in the bucket seat, the console open between them. He was glad for the divider, or he might have done something stupid like reach for her hand.

“Trevor?” he asked, instead.

“Charity’s husband. He’s with the navy in Africa.”

Ah, now he remembered. “She married Trevor Sandifer, right? Didn’t they have a kid?”

“Two.” She opened the tiny purse and extracted a cell phone. “Want to see their pictures?”

Before he could reply, she stuck the screen in front of his face. He glanced down at a blond boy with blue eyes and then back at the country road. Gravel spewed out behind them, leaving a dust trail.

“That’s Ryan. He’s eleven.”

“He looks like Charity.”

“I think so, too. He’s a mess sometimes without his daddy here, but a cute mess. Charity has her hands full.” She ran her index finger over the screen and produced another photo. “Amber is the dimpled princess of the Buchanon clan. She’s in first grade and learning to read. You should hear her. Last night she read to her daddy on Skype, and he got choked up.”

“Man. That must be tough.”

“Yeah.” She put the phone back in her tiny, overstuffed bag. “But they’re strong. Trevor will be home in another six months.”

“That’s good.” He’d considered joining the military after the accident. If not for the rodeo he would have. Anything to escape the daily censure, though he had to admit, the inner condemnation had followed him for years.

Another pickup rumbled past in a wake of dust. He wanted to see photos of the other Buchanons, especially Quinn, but wasn’t sure he was ready to face what he’d done, even in a picture. “Still have the big Buchanon get-togethers on Sunday?”

“Like always. You should—”

“Don’t finish that thought.” But the yearning hit him full force. He should come over, like before. While the smell of Mrs. B.’s pot roast or fried chicken filled the house, he could pile up on the floor with the guys and talk football and girls, cars and camo.

He gripped the steering wheel and strained toward the crossbars of Manny’s ranch.

Camo.
God, don’t let me think about hunting. Don’t let my mind go there.

But the pictures came anyway, flashing through his head like something out of a horror movie.

“Hey.” Allison’s voice broke through the ugly thoughts. “Earth to Jake.”

“Sorry.” He was sweating. He cranked up the AC. “There’s the ranch.”

“Will you let me ride one of your bulls?”

He offered a look meant to quell. “Not in this lifetime.”

She snickered. “I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t, you little hot dog. But I’ll hop on one and impress you with my finesse.”

“Remember when you took me to the rodeo in Sand Creek? I was scared to death you were going to get killed.”

“That was one of the first times I placed in the short go.”

“We had a great day.”

“Until Brady found out and you got grounded.”

“I wasn’t grounded because of you, Jake. I was grounded because I didn’t ask permission. I don’t have to ask anymore. If I want to go somewhere, I go. We should do it again. When is your next rodeo?”

“You’re kind of pushy, aren’t you? What if I’m taking someone else?”

“Are you?”

“Maybe.” He wasn’t, but she was walking on dangerous ground.

His hedge bought him some time. She fell silent, and the turmoil that was Allison Buchanon stirred in his belly. He had no right to be attracted to her, any more than she should be attracted to him. He gnawed the inside of his cheek.

He wasn’t attracted. He couldn’t be. He’d put all that to rest the day he’d left Gabriel’s Crossing for good.

“Hey.” Her small hand touched the forearm of his shirt. He could feel her warmth seeping through, the warmth of a relentless optimist with the biggest heart in Texas.

“What?”

“Just hey. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I’m here.”

Oh, boy. “Granny’s getting stronger every day. I have to get back pretty soon.”

“I know. I know. You’re only home through the holidays.” She beamed a wide smile that did weird things to his head. “But we can enjoy today.”

The truck rumbled to a dust-stirring stop in Manny’s driveway. Jake shifted out of gear and with an arm looped over the steering wheel turned toward her. He didn’t even want to think about how fresh and pretty she was.

“Yeah,” he said, resigned. “I guess we can.”

Chapter Six

J
ake needed to be alone. He needed to pray. About Allison. About money. About his grandmother.

And so he drove to the Double M where he spent a little time with Manny and Paulina before taking the Polaris out to the bull pasture.

Beneath a leaden sky, a north wind coaxed leaves from trees and hinted at the coming winter, a normally toothless beast in warm-blooded Texoma. Still, something about the autumn pastures and tree-lined creeks brought Jake closer to God. He supposed he and the Almighty had a strange relationship.

He parked the ATV at the pond and, hands deep in his jean jacket, walked around the edge noting deer tracks in the damp red earth. Deer season was upon them. He’d not hunted since the accident. Probably never would again, though he enjoyed a good deer chili.

He squatted on a rock and thought about his job. He was floundering here, growing poorer with each sunrise.

But what was a man to do?

Last night with Allison at the Morales dinner table had been both wonderful and unnerving. He liked her more than he wanted to, more than he should, but every minute spent with her was pure pleasure.

He was one messed-up hombre.

Leaving the Polaris on the pond dam, he walked across the fields, praying and thinking, though no flaming banner from Heaven answered his queries.

Around him, the woods and fields smelled of damp fallen leaves. Thanksgiving was around the corner and then Christmas. Already, the town workers erected candy cane and snowflake lights along First Street, a jump start on the holiday season.

For once in many years, he wanted to be here for the holidays. Granny wasn’t getting any younger, a fact that had slapped him in the face during her months in Carson Convalescence. He regretted the years of phone calls instead of visits, but then he regretted so many failures.

But more than Granny, he wanted to spend Christmas with Allison. He closed his eyes, fought the feelings that swam in on a current of warm pleasure. Allison was a ticking time bomb.

Between now and Christmas stretched a thousand miles of rodeos, and he prayed to make some of those events. A bull rider didn’t draw a paycheck unless he rode, and Jake wasn’t sure what to do about it. He couldn’t leave, wasn’t sure he wanted to, but being here cost him.

“In more ways than one, Lord,” he said, looking up into a sky scattered with flat gray clouds. The money was one thing. The cost to his heart and soul was another.

He crossed a skinny trickle of water, a natural spring that fed the pond and led to the cross-fenced bull pasture.

The sound of bawling calves reached his ears. He gazed into the horizon to where a young yellow bull bucked and jumped, his strong legs kicking out behind, a champion in the making. All Jake had to do was hold on a little longer and the bulls would make his living for him.

Then he saw something that jammed his breath in his throat. He stopped, squinted, hoping he was wrong. He wasn’t.

Two boys ran around inside the gathering pen with a half-dozen young bulls. His bulls. Horned and dangerous.

Jake broke into a lope. “Hey, you boys, get out of there!”

Two heads jerked toward him, one blond and one dark. The blond looked uncannily like the photo Allison had shown him of her nephew.

The boys spotted him and bolted for the gate.

“Hold up!” Jake yelled, but the pair scrambled over the closed gate and ran like rabbits across the pasture in the other direction.

By the time Jake arrived, they had disappeared over the rise. He stood breathless, wondering if he should get the Polaris and give chase but decided against it. They’d be long gone before he could return.

He stared across the fading green pasture toward the gentle slope of land. The boys had disappeared from sight.

When he was their age, he would have pulled the same kind of dangerous stunt. Probably had.

But danger was the point. Messing with bucking bulls, even young ones, could be deadly. They all had horns and even snubbed ones were dangerous. They were all unpredictable. Even grown men with professional training were sometimes badly injured. A boy didn’t stand a chance.

He wondered if one of the boys was Allison’s nephew, Ryan, but he couldn’t be certain. He’d seen only a photo of the kid.

The situation worried him, but he didn’t know what to do. Without a positive identification, there were no parents to contact.

After checking his animals to be sure they were all right, he started back to the Polaris.

He’d better warn Manny.

* * *

Jake never saw it coming.

He was pushing a borrowed mulcher around the Hamilton yard filled with oak leaves when an unfamiliar Dodge Ram rumbled to a stop out front. Late model. Shiny red. Nice truck.

Though the autumn temperature was a pleasant fifty, sweat leaked from his body and dripped into his eyes. His damp shirt stuck to him like salty skin. He removed his hat, swiped at the sweat with a blue bandana and watched the doors of the Ram swing open. All four of them.

Everything in Jake went still. The roar in his temples was louder than the mulching engine. He felt dizzy. Sick. And the cause wasn’t the sweaty job.

Four Buchanon brothers slid out of the truck and strode toward him across the lawn.

A wild mix of love and sorrow engulfed him.

From the stiff set of their shoulders, this was not a friendly visit. Not that he’d expected one.

Jake killed the machine and waited. Bits of dead leaves and dry grass fluttered to the ground in the sudden silence.

Stride for stride they came like something out of a TV commercial. Not a one of the oversize men wore a welcoming expression.

He was tired and thirsty and about to have to fight four men at once. The old Jake would have lowered his head and, like a mad bull, gone on the attack. His motto had been: “he might go down but he’d get in a few good punches before he did.” The new Jake understood. Whatever they chose to do, he had it coming.

Lord, I could use a little wisdom about now.

“Hamilton.” Brady Buchanon was six feet six inches of muscles, a warrior on the football field and off, with a temper that had gotten him into a few scrapes over the years.

“Brady.” Jake wanted to offer a handshake but knew he’d be rejected. Heck, he wanted to throw his arms around each of them in a man hug. But wanting and reality were as far apart as the earth and moon.

His eyes moved from one brother to the other. His friends. His enemies. How he’d missed them. “Dawson, Sawyer. Quinn.”

The blue eyed, black-haired twins stood like bookends with Brady and Quinn in the center.

Jake’s gaze centered on Quinn.

His former best friend was still built like an anvil with wide pro quarterback shoulders and a skinny waist. Standing before him was a champion athlete, the golden boy of Gabriel’s Crossing, left fist clenched while the right arm curved at his side, smaller than the other. Allison said he was an architect now, but the lost dream hovered in the grass-scented air between them. Jake Hamilton had destroyed Quinn Buchanon’s arm and with it his dream.

If he could only go back...

“Nice to see you guys.” What else was he supposed to say? He
was
glad to see them. He hurt with the pleasure.

Brady’s nostrils flared. Though a good guy who’d give the shirt off his back to a friend, Brady Buchanon was a formidable enemy. They all were. Buchanons protected their own. “This isn’t a social call.”

“I didn’t figure it was.” Jake wiped his hands on the bandana and shoved the blue cloth in his back jeans pocket. His throat was dry as sand and he’d give a dollar for a drink of water. “So, why are you here?”

“To offer a warning. Stay away from our sister.”

Jake heaved a weary sigh. He’d known Brady would say that. Though he’d managed to keep his friendship with Allison below Buchanon radar for a week, he’d also known this meeting was inevitable. “Have you discussed this with Allison?”

“What are you? A coward hiding behind a girl?” Quinn’s lips sneered.

Quinn, his best friend. How many times had he wished the accident had happened to him instead of this man he’d loved like a brother?

“She’s not a little girl anymore, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t want you noticing. That’s the deal. Stay away from our sister. Stay away from
us.
”

Sentiment only went so far. They were starting to get his back up. “I can’t stop Allison from visiting my grandmother.”

“We can.”

Jake gave a short bark of laughter, incredulous. “Good luck with that.”

Brady stepped closer, his massive size intimidating. Jake braced himself to fight or take a beating. “One warning, Hamilton. Back off.”

“I’m not here to cause a problem, Brady. I’m here for my grandmother. I can’t tell Allison what to do even if I wanted to. Believe me, I’ve tried. And neither can you.”

“She was seen in your truck last night.”

So that was the problem. The trip to the ranch for enchiladas. He wondered what they’d say when they found out—and they would—that Allison spent nearly every evening at the Hamilton house?

“I’ll repeat. She’s a grown woman, a fact she’s made very clear to me.”

Sawyer bowed up. “What does that mean?”

Jake shot the twin a narrow look. “You figure it out. Now, if that’s all the good news you Buchanons have to share, I have work to finish.”

He started to turn away but Quinn stepped forward and grabbed his arm. “We’ll say when this conversation is over.”

Jake shook him off. “Back off, Quinn.”

“Or what, Jake? What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

As if the other man had sucker punched him, the wind went out of Jake. His shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes. In a voice ripped with pain, he said, “Do you know how many times I’ve wished I could change that day? It was an accident, Quinn. An accident.”

“Yeah. What about the illegal booze you
accidentally
brought along?”

The truth was a chain saw tearing through him. Never mind that Quinn had drunk the beer, too. Jake had the fake ID. Jake had bought alcohol on the hunting trip. In the misty morning, with a beer in his brain, he was the one who’d thought he’d seen a deer.
He,
and he alone, had been the one who’d pulled the trigger.

The memory of the report that blasted through the chilly autumn stillness, the thundering exhilaration when what he’d thought was a deer crashed into the brush. But it was Quinn’s hoarse scream that haunted Jake, the electric realization that he’d shot his best friend with a deer rifle, a gun powerful enough to destroy bone and nerves and muscles.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the flashing video. Bloodstained grass. The weight of Quinn’s much larger body as he’d carried him to the truck. The river of tears he’d wept.

“I was a stupid kid.”

“So, don’t be a stupid man. Leave the Buchanons alone, and we’ll leave you alone.” Brady tapped Jake’s chest with his index finger. “Got it?”

Jake backed up a step, trying to hold his temper in check. Turn the other cheek. Walk away.

Dawson grabbed his brother’s arm. “Come on, Brady. We’ve delivered the message. Let’s go.”

“Dawson’s right,” Sawyer said. “We’ve got work to do.”

Brady stood like a towering giant, stretched to his full height. Intimidating seemed a mild word. Of all the Buchanon men, he was the biggest, and the rest were six footers or better.

With his eyes holding Jake’s, Brady said, “You boys load up. I’ll be there in a second.”

Jake breathed a sigh of relief. One Buchanon alone, he could survive, even if that particular Buchanon was eight inches taller and seventy pounds heavier.

Dawson, ever the sane voice, shook his head. “Not happening. Let’s go. We’re done here.”

“He’s right, Brady,” Sawyer said, though none of them moved. “Message delivered, and I got a hot date tonight. If we don’t finish the framing at the McGowen house, I’ll be late.”

Brady continued to hold Jake’s eyes in a silent challenge, an old game of who would look away first. Jake didn’t want to play. He backed down, looked to the side.

Turn the other cheek. Do the right thing.

A brown car puttered to the stop sign. The driver rubbernecked at the men in the yard.

As if satisfied, Brady spun away and walked with his brothers to the truck. Jake stood in the yard, sweating and sad, watching them leave.

Long ago, he would have leaped into the bed of the truck, whooped and pounded the heel of his hand on the cab top and gone with them. It didn’t matter where. Anywhere with the Buchanon boys was a good time.

He watched Quinn and saw that the damaged arm was useful as Quinn reached for the truck door. Though weaker and smaller, the arm had function.
Thank you, Lord, for that.

Throat thick, Jake desperately wanted to make amends. He’d forgotten exactly how desperately until faced with the man whose life he’d ruined.

“Quinn,” Jake called, startled to hear his voice but certain he had to say something more, something that mattered.

Quinn turned his head, his injured hand braced against the open door. He didn’t speak, only stared at Jake.

The other three Buchanons looked his way. Sun glinted off the truck, gilded them, especially Quinn, the golden boy.

A tumble of emotion rose in Jake’s throat, words trapped inside that had no names.

“I—” What did he say? What
could
he say? He’d give his right arm in place of Quinn’s? He wished he’d been the victim that November morning?

But he’d said all those things and dozens more, and not a one of them changed anything.

Tension stretched like a wire between Jake and the man he’d wronged. Stretched until it snapped, and the moment passed. Quinn slid into the truck and slammed the door, and the Buchanons drove away.

* * *

Allison’s first indication that something had gone wrong occurred the moment she entered the office warehouse at nine o’clock Tuesday morning. All five Buchanon men stood in a huddle, voices raised as they talked in strained tones. Even the usually chipper Dawson wore a grim expression. Allison set a steaming caramel latte on the counter, tossed her keys and bag toward her computer and joined them.