A Cowboy's Christmas Wedding. Pamela Britton
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to strangers, but their pain was still there, bubbling beneath the surface. It tugged at Alana’s heartstrings and she vowed to do whatever she could to help them both.
“You know what I think?”
Rana’s gaze hooked her own. “What?”
“I think we need to decorate the house for Christmas.”
“Oh, no. We couldn’t do that. My dad, he wouldn’t—”
“Approve,” Alana finished for her. “I know.” Just as she knew she had to tread carefully, too. “But how would you feel if the house was decorated?”
Rana’s smile brightened again. “I would love it.” She seemed almost ashamed to admit it, though. “I miss Christmas.”
She was still a child for all her outward appearance. A teenager, yes, but still young enough to be excited about presents and stockings and Christmas cheer.
“We should do it,” Saedra said.
“My dad—”
“Leave him to me.”
Fun.
They needed it bad, and she was just the person to show them how it was done.
* * *
HE MANAGED TO avoid Saedra the next day, which wasn’t hard to accomplish with guests in residence. All it took was the offer of a guided hunt and one of his best customers, a dealership owner from the city, leaped at the chance. Cabe leaped at the opportunity to leave the ranch.
He was gone all day. When he returned later that afternoon, it was to note every light in his house ablaze and the sound of music thumping through the window.
“Damn.”
He thought about turning around. There was always work to do in the barn. He could sweep out the feed room or rearrange the saddles, maybe muck some stalls.
His empty belly put a stop to such thoughts. It was his house and he’d be damned if he allowed a woman to scare him out of it.
The music coming from his study nearly deafened him, Cabe counseling himself to take it easy on Rana. Sometimes he forgot that she was a teenager and that blaring music at unhealthy levels was a rite of passage.
But it wasn’t Rana who was playing the music.
He drew up short in the doorway as Saedra glanced up, a smile unfurling across her face like the petals on a flower. She was seated behind his desk, a fuzzy off-white sweater with a cowl neckline hugging a body that belonged in a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Her long blond hair hung loose around her shoulders as she swung the chair from side to side. She half closed the screen of the laptop Rana must have allowed her to borrow.
“There you are,” she said, but she had to yell to be heard. “I was wondering when you’d get back.”
“Here I am,” he repeated back faintly. The truth was, the sight of her sitting there had completely poleaxed him.
“How was the great safari?”
He was so befuddled he heard himself ask, “Safari?”
“Your big-game hunt.” She fashioned a pistol out of her fingers, mimicked the sound of a gun. “Bag any big ones?” The pistol morphed into an antler at the side of her head, her other hand joining the first, fingers splayed. “Eight pointers.”
He glanced at the stereo, though if he were honest with himself he did so to prevent her from seeing a smile, although why he wanted to keep his grin to himself he had no idea. “Can we turn that down?”
“That,” she said over the pounding beat, “is our homework assignment for the night.”
Why did he have a feeling he wouldn’t like what she had to say?
“We need to choose music for the wedding.”
“Can’t Alana and Trent choose their own music?”
She tossed him a single shake of her head. “I suppose they could, but I would bet that between the two of us we can do a pretty good job. You know Alana like the back of your hand and I know Trent. Ergo, we can do it ourselves.”
When he straightened away from the stereo, the music blissfully silenced, he caught sight of something else. Stacked on a table near one of the bookcases were pink boxes, the kind one found in bakeries and doughnut shops.
“That’s our other task.” She pointed, giving him an impish smile. “You’re going to help me choose a wedding cake.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
He shook his head in case she had really missed his meaning. “I haven’t eaten today. The last thing I need is sugar.” And loud music, but he kept the last to himself.
“I thought of that.” She got up from her seat. “Before Rana left for her friend’s house, I made dinner. Fried chicken. One of my other specialties. Go ahead and eat.”
“Rana went to a friend’s?”
She nodded.
He suddenly felt as though he lost ten pints of blood. “We’re alone?”
She made scary fingers. “Yes,” she said in what sounded like a Russian accent. “But I promise not to drink your blood.”
He blinked, blood having come out sounding like blah-ud. He almost smiled again.
“When will she be back?”
“She was hoping to spend the night. Said she’d call you later on.”
No. That wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t spending a night under the same roof as Saedra Robbins. Alone. Just the thought did something to his body that he’d rather not think about.
“Actually, I have to go out tonight.”
“No, you don’t.”
He about did a double take.
“I had Rana check your schedule. You don’t have anything planned.”
“Rana’s not my social director.”
“No, but she said you always check in with her. Always.”
Busted. “Something came up.”
“What?”
None of your business. That’s what he wanted to shout. “I need to do some paperwork in my office.” He quickly pointed toward the front door. “The one in the barn.”
Her face lit up. It was amazing what happened to her eyes when that happened. They practically sparkled. “Okay, good. I can finish downloading the music while you finish up your work.”
If he protested any more, he’d end up sounding like a jerk. “Fine.”
And that didn’t sound jerklike?
He silenced himself by leaving. He wasn’t really lying. Not really. He always had paperwork to do, but she insisted on sending him off with a plate full of chicken. Once his belly was full, it was hard to resist the urge to hide in his office for the rest of the night, but a beep on his phone, followed by a voice announcing, “I’m done,” preempted the notion. Someone had taught her to use the intercom system. Great.
He took his time walking down the steps that ran alongside the back wall of the feed room. The smell of sweetened oats filled his nose, and the quiet nickering of horses soothed his frayed nerves. The twelve-stall barn was only a couple of years old, built when they opened the ranch to visitors, and it housed the horses they used for their therapy program. Fluorescent lights hung from the middle of the barn aisle. Horse heads popped up one by one as he walked by. They’d installed an arena off the front, and to his left and out back behind the barn stretched acres and acres of pasture, but for now he headed right and toward the pathway that led to his house. Through