A Cowboy Christmas. Ann Major

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СКАЧАТЬ from the mud bog a week ago Monday, there hadn’t been much excitement in Logan’s day-to-day routine. The red Ford Focus hatchback winding its way along the ribbon of ranch road was about to change all that.

      He slunk into the shadows inside the barn doors. He’d rather go another round with a mud-bogged bull than face the woman heading in his direction.

      Three months had passed since he’d gone on a bender and had himself a hog-killin’ time at Billie’s Roadhouse ten miles south of Junket. When the local hairdresser had strolled into the honky-tonk, Logan’s boot heel had been planted on the brass rail long enough to take root.

      If Cassidy Ortiz hadn’t left him a note the following morning, he would have speculated the rest of his years about who had worn the sultry scent that had clung to his pillow. Until now he’d been successful in avoiding the lady—not an easy task in a town the size of Junket, Texas. Population two-hundred-sixty-nine.

      The hatchback stopped next to his truck parked in front of the house.

      Turn around and leave. He slunk deeper into the shadows.

      The car door opened.

      No. No.

      A cowboy boot appeared, then a jean-clad leg. No need for a jacket since the morning chill had worn off. A sweater would do—like the tight one that hugged her breasts when she reached across the front seat for…A dish?

      Object in her hands forgotten, he zeroed in on her curves. How did any man, even a drunk one, forget a body like Cassidy’s? A tightening below his belt buckle suggested that certain parts of his anatomy had no trouble recalling her.

      A wind gust blew her long midnight-colored hair against her face, blocking his view of her high cheekbones and dark, slanted eyes. She bumped the car door shut with her hip and strolled along the sidewalk. The swish-sway of her fanny reminded him that the stylist had nothing in common with Bethany, who’d been a small-boned, frail blonde.

      Cassidy knocked on the front door.

      Nobody’s home.

      Another round of knocking. Then she crossed to the front window by the porch swing and peered inside.

      Persistent woman.

      Right then Twister loped around the corner of the house. Logan didn’t know who was more surprised—the deaf German shepherd when he spotted the visitor or Cassidy when the dog snarled. Twister was all bark and no bite, so Logan didn’t intervene.

      She tossed a piece of whatever was on the plate to the dog. Twister caught the treat midair, then wagged his tail as if it were a checkered flag at a stock car race. Cassidy inched toward the porch steps, pausing every few feet to fling another morsel at Twister.

      If you don’t go out there and speak with her, she’ll stop by again.

      He’d lock the entrance gate off the main road.

      She’ll call.

      He wouldn’t answer the phone.

      What if she’s got something important to say?

      If it was that important why had she waited all this time to come around? Aw, hell. He might as well get this over with. He made it halfway to the house before she noticed him. Her smile knocked him sideways, but he didn’t break stride. “Cassidy.”

      “Hi, Logan. I was about to leave. I thought you weren’t home.” Twister growled and she jumped.

      Logan stomped his boot on the ground and the dog immediately quieted. At Cassidy’s raised eyebrow he explained. “Twister’s deaf. He wandered into the ranch yard a few years ago after a tornado blew through.” Logan shrugged. “Vet thinks the noise from the storm ruptured his eardrums.”

      “Oh, how sad.”

      “Is there a reason you stopped by?” Logan cleared his throat and she flinched at his rudeness.

      Damn. He hadn’t meant to sound like an ass. His social skills were rusty, considering he mostly kept to himself—except for that night at Billie’s Roadhouse.

      He blamed his behavior that day on the stupid drugstore window display in town. Who the hell put up Christmas decorations in September? Logan had snapped when he’d spotted the twinkling lights on the artificial tree and the toy train that circled the base. The cozy scene had dredged up memories he wanted no part of.

      To run from the recollections of that fateful day just before Christmas the previous year he’d headed to the nearest honky-tonk. After three beers Bethany’s memory had remained as vivid as ever and he’d switched to tequila shots. When Cassidy had strolled into the bar he’d been too drunk to hit the ground with his hat in three tries. No match for a pretty face and a sympathetic ear, he’d hadn’t objected when Cassidy had offered to drive him home. Logan shook his head as he realized she was staring at him.

      “I made you—” she glanced at the plate covered in green plastic wrap, then shoved it at him “—Christmas cookies.”

      Cookies? They’d had sex. One time. Maybe two. All that mattered was their relationship had lasted less than twenty-four hours. He hadn’t called her the next day. Or the next. Or the next day after that. And Cassidy hadn’t contacted him, leading him to believe that what had happened that night between them was over. Finished. Terminated.

      Done.

      The plate nudged his chest like a big fat finger poking his breastbone. There was only part of one cookie—a frosted reindeer head complete with antlers and a red nose—left. He gripped the dish. “Christmas is three weeks away.” And he intended to allow the day to pass without any fanfare.

      “Mom and I got a head start on our holiday baking.” She laughed nervously, and her breasts jiggled. He resisted the urge to rub his eyeballs, which suddenly felt too big for their sockets.

      “There were a dozen cookies—” she glanced at the reindeer head “—but I gave the others to the dog, so he wouldn’t attack,” she said.

      “He acts mean, but he won’t bite.”

      “If you say so.” Cassidy flashed a quick smile, showing off her pretty white teeth and full lower lip.

      He really needed her to leave. When she didn’t…“I’m busy. If that’s all you—”

      “Wait!” She stepped in front of him, blocking his getaway route. His damned foot itched again and a sense of foreboding settled in his bones like a bad case of rheumatism. He brushed past her and had almost escaped when…

      “Logan, I’m pregnant.”

      The heel of his boot caught the edge of the step, sending him sprawling onto the porch. The cookie plate flew from his hand, bounced off the front door, then slid to a stop under the swing. Twister vaulted over Logan’s body and snarfed up the broken reindeer head.

      “Oh, my God. Are you all right?” Cassidy rushed to his side.

      Shrugging off her touch, he crawled to his feet. His shins stung and his chin hurt like hell where he’d banged it against the step. But the worst pain settled in his chest—a tight squeezing pressure that СКАЧАТЬ