A Daddy for Christmas. Laura Altom Marie

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      GAGE SHOVED OPEN the bunkhouse door only to be hit by a wall of heat. Bless Doc. Before leaving, he must’ve made a fire in the cast-iron stove.

      Removing his hat, Gage hooked it over the foot-board of a white, wrought-iron bed. He pressed down on the quilt-covered mattress, testing the give. Not too hard or soft. Good. He could use a decent night’s rest.

      Setting his bag on the worn wood floor, wincing at the handle’s bite on his roughed-up hands, he shrugged off his jacket, hung it on a row of brass hooks on the wall. He’d seen a lot of bunkhouses in his day, but this one beat all. Frilly, flowery curtains hung over three wide-paned windows that gazed out on a rolling pasture—currently a grayish-white instead of the customary green. Paintings dotted the walls with color. Mountains, flowers and horses were the predominant themes.

      An older-model TV sat on a dresser, wearing a rabbit-ear antennae that looked like a hat. A bookshelf nestled alongside the dresser held a range of worn paperbacks and a few stacks of assorted magazines.

      A narrow door to the left of the bed led to a small bathroom complete with thick, white towels and a claw-foot tub.

      Gage looked around and groaned, running his hands through his hair.

      Well…Here he was. Home sweet home—at least until the roads cleared.

      He sat down in an oak rocker in front of the stove.

      You’re blaming what happened to Honey on me?

      Elbows on his knees, resting his chin on cold, fisted hands, Gage willed Jess’s question from his weary brain.

      Honestly? Yeah, maybe a small part of him did blame her. Why was she—like his sister—so damned stubborn to ask for help? How many times could Marnie have turned to him? Leaned on him for support? Instead, she’d insisted on handling the mess he’d put her in all by herself.

      Impossible. That’s what women were.

      He’d headed up here with the express intention of making sense of his life, and here he was, more confused than ever.

      Leaning forward, he grabbed the poker from a stand of fireplace tools. His fingers were so numb, the flame’s heat stung. He jabbed at the crackling pile of logs and glowing coals. Just his luck that he’d apparently jumped from one emotion-packed fire into another.

      A knock sounded at the door.

      “Come in,” he called out, voice wary.

      The older of Jess’s girls stumbled in with the cold.

      “Your mom know where you are?” he asked.

      “She’s taking a nap.”

      “So that’d be no?”

      “No, what?” she asked, standing there, dripping water all over the floor.

      Frowning, Gage turned his attention from her back to the fire. “What brings you all the way out here?”

      “This is my house,” she said, wagging a pink, briefcase-size box that had Barbie emblazoned across the front. “Me and my dolls live here—not you.”

      A glance over his shoulder showed a determined set to her jaw and eyes so squinty it was a wonder the kid’s freckles weren’t glowing. “Trust me, Tater Tot, I’ll be gone before you know it.”

      “Good.” After tossing her dripping pink case onto his bed, she crossed her arms.

      “Well? Is there something else I can help you with?”

      “You’re in my way.”

      “Of what?”

      “That’s where I set up my ranch.” She pointed to the fieldstone stove surround. “My dolls camp by the fire.”

      “Don’t you think it’s a little hot right now?”

      Lips pursed, she rolled her eyes.

      Flipping open the latch on her box, out came piles of doll clothes and hats and tiny shoes that’d be hell on his back if she inadvertently left one behind. “My dolls are Sooners. We learned in school that’s what the prairie people were who got their land first before the land rush started.”

      “Wasn’t that cheating?” Gage couldn’t resist asking.

      His question earned him a scowl. “If you’d’ve come here, even when the land rush officially started, they probably wouldn’t have let you stay.”

      “Fair enough,” he said over his shoulder. “Seeing how I’m a Texan, I wouldn’t have wanted any smelly old Oklahoma land.”

      “Hey,” she said, bristling, “our state’s not smelly.”