Christmas in Cold Creek. RaeAnne Thayne

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СКАЧАТЬ recipes doesn’t really come from the sagebrushes out back, right?”

      She made a face at the teasing comment from Trace’s twin brother, Taft. “Of course I know it’s not the same. Just for that, you get to wash and dry the dishes.”

      â€œCome on. Have a little pity. I’ve been working all night.”

      â€œYou were on duty,” Trace corrected. “But did you go out on any actual calls or did you spend the night bunking at the firehouse?”

      â€œThat’s not the point,” Taft said, a self-righteous note in his voice. “Whether I was sleeping or not, I was ready if my community needed me.”

      The overnight demands of their respective jobs had long been a source of good-natured ribbing between the two of them. When Trace worked the night shift, he was out on patrol, responding to calls, taking care of paperwork at the police station. As chief of the Pine Gulch fire department and one of the few actual fulltime employees in the mostly volunteer department, Taft’s job could sometimes be quiet.

      They might bicker about it, but Trace knew no other person would have his back like his twin—though Caidy and their older brother, Ridge, would be close behind.

      â€œCut it out, you two.” Ridge, the de facto patriarch of the family, gave them both a stern look that reminded Trace remarkably of their father. “You’re going to ruin this delicious dessert Destry made.”

      â€œIt’s only boysenberry cobbler,” his daughter piped in. “It wasn’t hard at all.”

      â€œWell, it tastes like it was hard,” Taft said with a grin. “That’s the important thing.”

      Dinner at the family ranch, the River Bow, was a heralded tradition. No matter how busy they might be during the week with their respective lives and careers, the Bowman siblings tried to at least gather on Sundays when they could.

      If not for Caidy, these Sunday dinners would probably have died long ago, another victim of their parents’ brutal murders. For a few years after that fateful time a decade ago, the tradition had faded as Trace and his siblings struggled in their own ways to cope with their overwhelming grief.

      Right around the time Ridge’s wife left him and Caidy graduated from high school and started taking over caring for the ranch house and for Destry, his sister had revived the traditional Sunday dinners. Over the years it had become a way for them all to stay connected despite the hectic pace of their lives. He cherished these dinners, squabbles and all.

      â€œI worked all night, too, but I’m not such a wimp that I can’t take care of my fair share,” he said with a sanctimonious look at his brother. “You sit here and rest, Taft. I wouldn’t want you to overdo. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

      Of course his brother couldn’t let that insult stand, just as Trace expected. As a result, Taft became the designated dishwasher and Trace dried and put away the dishes while Destry and Ridge cleared the table.

      Taft was just running water in the sink when Destry came in on her father’s heels, her eyes as huge and plaintive as one of Caidy’s rescued mutts begging for a treat. “Please, Dad. If we wait much longer, it will be too late.”

      â€œToo late for what?” Taft asked innocently.

      â€œChristmas!” Destry exclaimed. “It’s already the last Sunday in November. If we don’t cut down our tree soon, the mountains will be too snowy. Please, Dad? Please, please, please?”

      Ridge heaved a sigh. He didn’t need to express his reluctance for Trace to understand it. None of his siblings had been very crazy about Christmas for nearly a decade, since their parents were killed just before Christmas Eve ten years ago.

      â€œWe’ll get one,” his brother assured Destry.

      â€œWhat’s the point of even putting up a tree if we wait much longer? Christmas will be over.”

      â€œIt’s not even December yet!”

      â€œIt’s almost December. It will be here before we know it.”

      â€œShe sounds like Mom,” Taft said. “Remember how she used to start hounding Dad to cut the tree a few weeks before Thanksgiving?”

      â€œAnd she always had it picked out by the middle of the summer,” Caidy answered with a sad little smile.

      â€œPlease, Daddy. Can we go?”

      Trace had to smile at his niece’s persistence. Destry was a sharp little thing. She was generally a happy kid, which he found quite amazing considering her mother was a major bitch who had left Ridge and Destry when the little girl was still just a toddler.

      â€œI guess you’re right.” Ridge eyed his brothers. “Either of you boys up for a ride to help me bring back the tree? We can get one for your places, too.”

      Taft shrugged. “I’ve got a date. Sorry.”

      â€œYou have a date on a Sunday afternoon?” Caidy asked with raised eyebrows.

      His brother seemed to find every available female between the ages of twenty-two and forty. “Not really a date. I’m going over to a friend’s house to watch a movie and order pizza.”

      â€œYou just had dinner,” Caidy pointed out.

      Taft grinned. “That’s the thing about food … and other things. No matter how good the feast, you’re always ready for more in a few hours.”

      â€œHow old are you? Sixteen?” Ridge asked with a roll of his eyes.

      â€œOld enough to thoroughly enjoy my pizza and everything that goes along with it,” Taft said with another grin. “But you boys have fun cutting down your Christmas trees.”

      â€œYou in?” Ridge asked Trace.

      Since he didn’t have a pizza buddy right now—or any other kind of euphemistically termed acquaintance—Trace figured he might as well. “Sure. I’m up for a ride. Let’s go find a tree.”

      He could use a ride into the mountains. It might help clear the cobwebs out of his head from a week of double shifts.

      The decision had been a good one, he decided a half hour later as he rode his favorite buckskin mare, Genie, up the trail leading to the evergreen forest above the ranch. He had needed to get out into the mountains on horseback again. The demands of his job as head honcho in an overworked and underfunded police department often left him with too little leisure time. He ought to make more time for himself, though. Right now, with feathery snowflakes drifting down and the air smelling crisp and clean, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

      He loved River Bow Ranch. This was home, despite the bad memories and their grim past. Counting Destry now, five generations of Bowmans had made their home here, starting just after World War I with his great-grandfather. It was a lovely spot, named СКАЧАТЬ