A Texas Cowboy's Christmas. Cathy Thacker Gillen
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and cars.”
“Trains?”
Braden shook his head.
Abruptly Molly saw where Chance was going with this.
If he did have an idea how to convince her son to yearn for the holiday gift she had chosen for Braden...could she afford to turn Chance down? Especially if the end result was Braden’s happiness?
Braden tugged on her sleeve. “Go now, Mommy!” He stood on his chair and held out his arms to their lunch companion. “Cowboy Chance, too!”
Chance caught Braden in his big arms.
Trying not to think how natural the two looked together, Molly said, “We won’t expect you to stay long.”
Chance stood, Braden still in his arms. “I won’t wear out my welcome. On the other hand...” He winked and shrugged in a way that opened up a ton of possibilities. A shiver of awareness swept through her. He probably would be a good time, Molly thought despite herself. Too good a time.
She shook off the awareness. Stacking their dishes and trays, she asked, “You know where I live?”
He nodded, looking as unexpectedly content in that moment as she felt. “Spring Street in Laramie.”
* * *
MOLLY LED THE WAY. The drive back to Laramie took thirty-five minutes. It was still raining when Chance parked behind Molly’s SUV and got out of his pickup truck.
Her home, a former carriage house, sported a three-foot-high white picket fence and was sandwiched between two large Victorians. The one-story abode, while much smaller and set back a ways from the sidewalk, was just as attractive—if not more so—than every other home on the prestigious street. A front porch with white wicker furniture spanned the width of the thousand-square-foot house, which featured gray clapboard sides, white trim and black shutters.
The scent of fresh-cut pine hit Chance the moment he walked in the door.
A Christmas tree stood in the corner of the comfortably outfitted living area, boxes of lights and decorations beside it.
The state-of-the-art kitchen, situated at the back of the main living area, was banked by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that flooded the small, cozy space with light. Plentiful cabinets, painted a dark slate, and an island that also served as a dining area were a nice counterpoint to the white quartz countertops, bleached wood floors and stainless steel appliances.
Standing there, noting how beautiful her home was, he couldn’t imagine why she would ever want to leave it.
Her son, however, had other things on his mind.
Barely standing still long enough for his mother to wrestle him out of his damp rain jacket, he set his Rudolph and sleigh on the coffee table, next to a soft blue blanket, then headed importantly for the kitchen, where a delicious fresh dough and orange smell emanated. “Come on, Mr. Chance. We cook!”
Braden grabbed a tyke-size navy chef’s apron off the hook, and then handed Chance one, as well—frilly and floral. “Put on!” he demanded.
Molly’s amused expression dared Chance to do so.
Clearly, he noted, she did not think he would. Which just showed how much she knew. “Sure thing, buddy,” Chance agreed drily, pulling the garment over his head. The cloth barely covered his broad chest, and the waist hit him at mid-sternum. Tying it seemed impossible, given the fact he couldn’t find the strings.
Grinning, Molly stepped behind him. “Allow me.”
Her hands brushed his spine as she secured it in place. His body reacted as if they’d kissed. Fortunately, she was too on task to notice. She opened a drawer and pulled out a plain white chef’s apron, that was, as it happened, much more his size.
She tilted her head, her gaze moving over him humorously. “Want to trade?”
Aware this was the first time he’d seen her eyes sparkle so mischievously, he motioned for her to turn so he could tie her apron strings, too. She needed to goof around like this more often. Not be so serious all the time. “Nah, I’m good.”
The three of them took turns washing their hands; then Braden climbed onto the step stool next to the island. “Ready, Mommy?” the tyke asked eagerly.
“Let’s see.” Molly pulled a linen towel away from the top of a large bowl. Inside was a billowy cloud of dough. “I think so.”
She positioned the bowl in front of her son. “Ready to punch it down?”
With a gleeful shout, Braden went to town, pummeling the buttery dough until all the air was released. “What are we making?” Chance asked. It sure smelled good, even at this early stage.
Molly moved close enough he could catch a whiff of her perfume. It was every bit as feminine and enticing and delectable as she was.
“Christmas stollen.” She tilted her head curiously. “Ever had it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat.” She turned the dough onto a floured wooden board and divided it into three sections—which she quickly rolled out into long loaves. Wordlessly, she retrieved a bowl of dried cherries, cranberries and almonds, soaking in what appeared to be orange juice, and drained the excess. “Time to sprinkle on the extras.”
Braden—no novice at baking—positioned his fruit and nuts very seriously, dropping them one by one onto the dough. “You, too, Cowboy Chance.”
“Yes, sir,” Chance said, soberly following Braden’s lead. Molly joined in.
When they’d finished, Braden clapped his hands. “I done now, Mommy?”
“Yes. You did a very good job.” She wiped his hands with a clean cloth. “You can go play while I get this ready for the second rise.”
He hurried off to retrieve his Rudolph and sleigh. Then he brought out his toy dump truck to give them a ride.
With Braden playing happily, Chance settled on a stool at the island. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“My mother taught me.” Molly showed him how to knead the dough until it was soft and elastic, and then shape it into loaves. Carefully, he followed her lead. “Her grandparents emigrated here from Germany. Baking was an important part of their holiday tradition, and she passed it on to me, as her mother had to her.”
Remembering his earlier faux pas, he trod carefully. “Where is your mom now?”
Sorrow pinched Molly’s face. “She died of meningitis when I was fourteen. My dad never really got over the loss, and he died in a car accident just before I graduated from high school.”
He wished he had been around to comfort her, but that had been years before he’d moved to Laramie. “That must have been rough.”
“It was.” Molly carefully transferred the loaves onto baking sheets and covered them with linen cloths, the actions of her hands delicate and sure. “But I had a lot of help from the people in the community. The local bank gave me a second mortgage on this house, so I’d have somewhere to live, and enough funds to get by on while I studied construction and interior design at the local community college and did what was necessary to obtain my general contractor’s license.”
His gaze drifted over her. She wore a long-sleeved emerald dress that made the most of her stunning curves, black tights and flats. Her auburn hair was curlier than usual—he supposed it was the rain. “What made you want to pursue that?”
Molly lounged against the counter, her hands braced on either side of her. “Tradition, I guess. My mom taught classes in nutrition and cooking at Laramie High, and she did interior design work on the side, and my dad was a general contractor who did mostly handyman work.”
She paused to rub a spot of flour from her hip. “Following