One Cowboy, One Christmas. Kathleen Eagle

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ his mouth to overflowing with tea.

      “From now on, when in South Dakota, remember the dress code,” Sally said as she caught the dribble from the corner of his mouth with one of the towels he was no longer wearing. “Thermal skivvies after Halloween.”

      “‘S why I’m headin’…for Texas.”

      “Not tonight,” Sally said. “You been rode pretty hard.”

      “Thanks for not…p-puttin’ me up wet.” Eyes at half-mast he looked up at Ann and offered a wan smile. “S-sorry to b-bother you this t-time of n-night.”

      “Still cold?” She imagined crawling into bed with him, shook her head hard and tucked the comforter under his quivering chin. “We can still get you to the—”

      “No way,” he said. “I’m good.” He turned his head and pressed his lips to her fingers. “You’re an angel.”

      Hardly. Angels didn’t quiver over an innocent kiss on the hand. They glided away looking supremely serene.

      “Tree topper,” he whispered. Hypothermia had given him a brain freeze. Maybe tomorrow he’d remember her.

      And maybe she could learn to glide and look supremely serene.

      Chapter Two

      Waking up in a strange room was nothing new for Zach Beaudry, but waking up in a pretty room was pretty damn strange. His usual off-ramp motel—good for a thousand-of-a-kind room and a one-size-fits-all bed—suited him just fine. No fault, no foul, no pressure.

      He closed his eyes. Purple. Everything around him was purple. Motels didn’t do much purple. The color of pressure.

      Where the hell was he? He felt like he’d been wasted for a week and had no clue what he’d started out celebrating. If he’d been drinking to forget, he’d accomplished his mission. He remembered bits and pieces—a long walk, a glittering Christmas tree, a pretty woman in white—but they didn’t come together in a way that made a lot of sense. How had he landed in a bed—somebody’s personal bed—surrounded by personal pictures of real people, furniture that wasn’t bolted down, and colors only a woman could love?

      His head pounded. The pressure was on. If he had to pay the piper, he was owed at least a fond memory of the song, not to mention the wine and the woman. Hell, for all he knew, he might owe her. Before she walked in, he needed to neutralize his disadvantage by recalling who she was, what she looked like, and whether it had been good for her.

      But nothing was clicking for him except his badly abused joints. Jacking himself into a sitting position was a dizzying experience, and he was about ready to crawl back under the mostly purple covers when he heard female voices outside the door.

      “…take him into the clinic this morning.”

      “Why? I checked on him. He’s still breathing. His color is better.”

      “Even so…”

      They sounded familiar, these voices. Familiar to him and with him. Breathing? Check. Color? Approved.

      Even so?

      “They don’t like doctors, these guys. Doctors tell them all kinds of stuff they don’t want to hear.”

      “Nobody wants to be told his toes might fall off.”

      Zach pulled the flowery quilt into his lap as he looked down at his dangling feet. He counted ten toes, all attached. In a minute he’d try moving them.

      “Heard on the radio the temperature dropped more than thirty degrees last night. Old-timers say the winter’s gonna be one for the record books.”

      “They say that every fall.”

      “Sometimes they’re right.”

      “All the times they were wrong didn’t get recorded.”

      Zach smiled inside his head. His face wasn’t ready. Cracking wasn’t out of the question. But he was a cowboy, and like all dying breeds of men, he was particularly fond of old-timers. Kind women with soft voices gave him a good feeling, too, and the survivor in him was bent on rounding up all the good feelings he could find.

      “If he isn’t sick, he’s probably hungry. Either way…”

      A tentative fist knocked on the door.

      “Both, but hungry’s in the lead,” Zach answered.

      The door swung open, and an angel appeared.

      Where had that come from? Zach had used some sappy lines in his life, but angel wasn’t a word likely to leap off his tongue. Still, it fit. The mass of golden curls surrounded her doll’s face like a halo, and she looked so slight in her crisp white top and slim jeans that he could picture her taking flight in the right kind of updraft.

      “Oh!” She pinked up real pretty when she laid eyes on him. Doll face. He’d never say anything like that, either, but it sure fit. “You’re up,” she observed, considerably down the scale from her oh! “How…how are you feeling?”

      “Dazed and clueless.” He bunched up the quilt for better coverage below his waist. “Last I remember I was headed for Texas.”

      “You still have a long way to go, then.”

      “Ran outta gas.” He glanced at a bright window with frilly see-through curtains, looking for a hint. Tree branches didn’t cut it. “I’m pretty sure that’s a corner piece to this whole puzzle.”

      “Hoolie says it’s more than that, but the important thing is—”

      Tree outside the window. Tree inside the window.

      “Is it Christmas already?”

      “We have almost a month yet.” She glanced over her shoulder as she pushed the door wide. Back to him. “I think you should see a doctor. Do you need help getting dressed?”

      “I need to know where I am.”

      “You’re at the Double D Ranch in South Dakota, cowboy.” Voice number two rolled in on a wheelchair. “Sally Drexler,” she announced and then nodded toward the angel. “My sister, Ann.”

      “Drexler, the stock contractor? I remember the name.”

      “And I remember Zach Beaudry. I’ve been sidelined for quite a while now, but we’ve actually met before. Back when I was sassy and nimble.”

      “Hey, I hear you, Sally. Rodeo’s a cruel mistress. One good kick in the nimble and all you’ve got left is sass.” And his was kinda twisting naked in the wind here.

      “That’s the Zach Beaudry I remember,” Sally said with a slightly off-balance smile. “You’re a poet and you know it. Especially when those sports commentators come at you with a microphone.”

      “Not anymore. I don’t like questions that begin with how disappointing СКАЧАТЬ