A Husband For Christmas. Diana Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ You’re going to have to adjust—or bury yourself. You do realize that? You can’t possibly go on like this. Look at you!” she exclaimed, indicating the shapeless dress. “You don’t even look like a model, Abby, you look like a housekeeper!”

      “And that’s a fine thing to say about me,” came a deep but feminine voice from the doorway.

      Both girls turned at once. Calla Livingston had her hands on her ample hips, and she was wearing a scowl sour enough to curdle milk. She was somewhere near sixty, but she could still outrun most of the cowboys, and few of them crossed her. She took her irritation out on the food, which was a shame because she was the best cook in the territory.

      “And what do I look like, pray tell—the barn?” Calla continued, ruffled.

      Melly bit her lip to keep from smiling. Dressed in a homemade shift of pink and green, her straggly gray hair pulled into a half bun, her garter-supported hose hanging precariously just above her knees, Calla was nobody’s idea of haute couture. But only an idiot would have told her that, and Melly had good sense.

      “You look just fine, Calla,” Melly soothed. “I meant—” she searched for the right words “—that this isn’t Abby’s usual look.”

      Calla burst out laughing, her merry eyes going from one girl to the other. “Never could tell when I was serious and when I wasn’t, could you, darlin’?” she asked Melly. “I was only teasing. Come here, Abby, and give us a hug. It’s been months since I’ve seen you, remember!”

      Abby ran into her widespread arms and breathed in the scent of flour and vanilla that always clung to Calla.

      “Stay home this time, you hear?” Calla chided, brushing away a tear as she let go of the young woman. “Tearing off and coming back with city ways—this is the best you’ve looked to me since you were eighteen and hell-bent on modeling!”

      “But, Calla...” Melly interrupted.

      “Never you mind.” Calla threw her a sharp glance. “Call her dowdy again, and it’ll be no berry cobbler for you tonight!”

      Melly opened her mouth and quickly closed it again with a wicked grin. “I think she looks...mature,” Melly agreed. “Very...unique. Unusual. Rustically charming.”

      Calla threw up her hands. “What I put up with, Lord knows! As if that hard-eyed cowboy I work for isn’t enough on my plate.... Well, if I don’t rush, there’ll be no peace when he comes in and doesn’t find his meal waiting. Even if he doesn’t come in until ten o’clock.” She went away muttering irritably to herself.

      Melly sat down heavily on the couch with an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, saved! If I’d realized that she was out there, I’d have sung the praises of your new wardrobe.”

      “Still hooked on her berry cobbler, I notice?” Abby smiled, and for just an instant, a little of her old, vibrantly happy personality peeked out.

      “Please tell him,” Melly pleaded.

      “And give him a stick to beat me with?” Abby asked with a dry laugh. “He’s been down on me ever since I coaxed Dad into letting me go to New York. Every time I see him, all I hear is how stupid I was. Now he’s got the best reason in the world to say it all again, and add an ‘I told you so.’ But he’s not getting the chance, Melly. Not from me!”

      “You’re wrong about Cade,” Melly argued. “You always have been. He doesn’t hate you, Abby. He never did.”

      “Would you mind telling him that?” came the cool reply. “I don’t think he knows.”

      “Then why was he so anxious for you to come home?” Melly demanded. She folded her arms across her knees and leaned forward. “He even had Hank bring up your own furniture from the homestead, just so you’d feel more at home. Does that sound like a man who’s hating you?”

      “Then why does he avoid me like the plague?” Abby asked curtly. She searched momentarily for a way to change the subject. “I sure would like to freshen up before we eat,” she hinted.

      “Then come on up. You’ve got the room next to mine, so we can talk until all hours.”

      “I’ll like that,” Abby murmured with a smile. Impulsively, she put her arm around Melly’s shoulders as they went up the staircase. “Maybe we can have a pillow fight, for old time’s sake.”

      “Calla’s room is across the hall,” Melly informed her.

      Abby sighed. “Oh, well, we can always reminisce about the pillow fights we used to have,” she amended, and Melly grinned.

      It was just after dark, and Melly was helping Calla set the table in the dining room when the front door slammed open and hard, angry footsteps sounded on the bare wood floor of the hall.

      Abby, standing at the fireplace where Calla had built a small fire, turned just as Cade froze in the doorway.

      It didn’t seem like a year since she’d seen him. The hard, deeply tanned face under that wide-brimmed hat was as familiar as her own. But he’d aged, even she could see that. His firm, chiseled mouth was compressed, his brow marked with deep lines as if he’d made a habit of scowling. His cheeks were leaner, his square jaw firmer and his dark, fiery eyes were as uncompromising as she remembered them.

      He was dusted with snow, his shepherd’s coat flecked with it, his worn boots wet with it as were the batwing chaps strapped around his broad, heavy-muscled thighs. He was holding a cigarette in one lean, dark hand, and the look he was giving Abby would have backed down a puma.

      “What the hell happened to you?” he asked curtly, indicating the shapeless brown suede dress she was wearing.

      “Look who’s talking,” she returned. “Weren’t you wearing that same pair of chaps when I left for New York?”

      “Cattlemen are going bust all over, honey,” he returned, and a hint of amusement kindled in his eyes.

      “Sure,” she scoffed. “But most of them don’t run eight thousand head of cattle on three ranches in two states, now do they? And have oil leases and mining contracts....”

      “I didn’t say I was going bust,” he corrected. He leaned insolently against the doorjamb and tilted his head back. “Steal that dress off a fat lady?”

      She felt uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other. “It’s the latest style,” she lied, hoping he wouldn’t know the difference.

      “I don’t see how you women keep up with the latest styles,” he said. “It all looks like odds and ends to me.”

      “Is it snowing already?” she asked, changing the subject.

      He took his hat off and shook it. “Looks like. I hope Calla’s loading a table for the men, too. The nighthawks are going to have their hands full with those two-year-old heifers.”

      Abby couldn’t help smiling. Those were the first-time mothers, and they took a lot of looking after. One old cowhand—Hob, the one who’d resigned—always said he’d rather mend fence than babysit new mamas.

      “Who got stuck this year?” she asked.

      “Hank СКАЧАТЬ