Wyoming Rugged. Diana Palmer
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in to check on him.
“I’m not going to die anytime soon,” he assured her with a grin.
She grinned back. “Okay. Nice to see that you’re better. I won’t have to worry Doctor Fred again.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “I don’t think I’m going to catch whatever you’ve got. I don’t even have a sore throat.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” he said. “I don’t want to be responsible for putting you back in bed again.”
“Thanks. But I’m good. Want some more orange juice?”
“Please.”
“I’ll be right back.”
* * *
SHE SAT WITH Blair from time to time while he recovered. Once, she brought in her iPad and presented him with a graphic novel from the Alien vs. Predator series, one they both enjoyed.
“This is cool,” he chuckled. “You can carry graphic novels around without having to lug a suitcase full of them.”
“I thought so, too. I’ve got a Calvin and Hobbes collection on there, as well. It’s one of my favorites.”
He nodded. “Mine, too. Thanks, Niki.”
“No problem.” She got up. “I have to help Edna and the two temporary cooks with the breads. We have a huge spread for Christmas dinner.”
“That’s on Thursday,” he pointed out.
“Yes, and today is Tuesday. We start baking breads today for the dressing, and cooking giblets for the gravy and making pies and cakes. It takes a while. We set the big fancy table in the dining room, and we have the cowboys and their wives come by, in shifts, to share it with us. That’s a tradition that dates back to my grandfather’s time here.”
“It seems like a nice one,” he commented.
She smiled. “They work very hard for us all year. It’s little enough to do. We have presents for them, and their children, under the tree. It’s usually a madhouse here on Christmas Day. I hope you’ll be up to it,” she added with a grin.
“I’ve never been involved in Christmas celebrations,” he commented.
“Not even when you were a child?” she asked, surprised.
“My...father was an agnostic,” he said, hating the memory of his stepfather. “We didn’t celebrate Christmas.”
She hesitated. “Was your mother like that, too?”
His face was hard. “She did what he told her to do. It was a different generation, honey. He was old-school. God bless her, she put up with a lot from him. But she missed him when he died.”
“I’m sure you did, too.”
“In my way.”
Eager to lighten the atmosphere, because his face was painfully somber, she said, “We have eggnog on Christmas Eve. I make it from scratch.”
He made a face.
She grimaced. “I see. You don’t like eggs, so you won’t like eggnog, right?”
“Right. I’ll just have my whiskey neat instead of polluting it with eggs,” he said, tongue in cheek.
She sighed. “Are you always such a demanding dinner guest?” she despaired.
He chuckled. His black eyes twinkled at her. “I like pretty much anything except things with egg in them. Just don’t forget the whiskey.”
She sighed. He was very handsome. She loved the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. She loved the strong, chiseled lines of his wide mouth, the high cheekbones, the thick black wavy hair around his leonine face. His chest was a work of art in itself. She had to force herself not to look at it too much. It was broad and muscular, under a thick mat of curling black hair that ran down to the waistband of his silk pajamas. Apparently, he didn’t like jackets, because he never wore one with the bottoms. His arms were muscular, without being overly so. He would have delighted an artist.
“What are you thinking so hard about?” he wondered aloud.
“That an artist would love painting you,” she blurted out, and then flushed then cleared her throat. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
He lifted both eyebrows. “Miss Ashton,” he scoffed, “you aren’t by any chance flirting with me, are you?”
“Mr. Coleman, the thought never crossed my mind!”
“Don’t obsess over me,” he said firmly, but his eyes were still twinkling. “I’m a married man.”
She sighed. “Yes, thank goodness.”
His eyebrows lifted in a silent question.
“Well, if you weren’t married, I’d probably disgrace myself. Imagine, trying to ravish a sick man in bed because I’m obsessing over the way he looks without a shirt!”
He burst out laughing. “Go away, you bad girl.”
Her own eyes twinkled. “I’ll banish myself to the kitchen and make lovely things for you to eat.”
“I’ll look forward to that.”
She smiled and left him.
He looked after her with conflicting emotions. He had a wife. Sadly, one who was a disappointment in almost every way; a cold woman who took and took without a thought of giving anything back. He’d married her thinking she was the image of his mother. Elise had seemed very different while they were dating. But the minute the ring was on her finger, she was off on her travels, spending more and more of his money, linking up with old friends whom she paid to travel with her. She was never home. In fact, she made a point of avoiding her husband as much as possible.
This really was the last straw, though, ignoring him when he was ill. It had cut him to the quick to have Todd and Niki see the emptiness of their relationship. He wasn’t that sick. It was the principle of the thing. Well, he had some thinking to do when he left the Ashtons, didn’t he?
* * *
CHRISTMAS DAY WAS BOISTEROUS. Niki and Edna and three other women took turns putting food on the table for an unending succession of people who worked for the Ashtons. Most were cowboys, but several were executives from Todd’s oil corporation.
Niki liked them all, but she was especially fond of their children. She dreamed of having a child of her own one day. She spent hours in department stores, ogling the baby things.
She got down on the carpet with the children around the Christmas tree, oohing and aahing over the presents as they opened them. One little girl who was six years old got a Barbie doll with a holiday theme. The child cried when she opened the gaily wrapped package.
“Lisa, what’s wrong, baby?” Niki cooed, drawing her into her lap.
“Daddy never buys me dolls, and I love dolls so much, Niki,” she whispered. “Thank you!” She kissed Niki and held on tight.
“You should tell him that you like dolls, sweetheart,” Niki said, hugging her close.
“I did. He bought me a big yellow truck.”
“A what?”
“A truck, Niki,” the child said with a very grown-up sigh. “He wanted a little boy. He said so.”
Niki looked as indignant as she felt. But she forced herself to smile at the child. “I think little girls are very sweet,” she said softly, brushing back the pretty dark hair.
“So do I,” Blair said, kneeling down beside them. He smiled at the child, too. “I wish I had a little girl.”
“You do? Honest?” Lisa asked, wide-eyed.