A Cowboy Christmas. Ann Major
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Cassidy said to never mind about the money—remember?
Ignoring the voice in his head playing devil’s advocate, Logan used the fence stretcher to pull the two broken ends of barbed wire taut, then fed the lines into a Gripple. The small metal cylinder prevented the wires from slipping back out. Satisfied with his handiwork, he rode on.
Cassidy hadn’t asked for a handout but the income from her hair salon wouldn’t cover the added expenses associated with raising a kid—diapers, baby formula, clothes, toys, doctor visits…college. Things he and Bethany had discussed, anticipated, then tried to forget with each failed pregnancy. Bethany’s and his baby’s deaths had gutted Logan. The only thing he had left to give was his money.
Tell Cassidy why you can’t be the child’s father.
After Bethany’s death he’d written off marriage and children for good. He’d had his chance at family and he’d blown it. Not even Pastor Ferguson had been able to convince Logan that Bethany and the baby were in a better place. How was dead better?
Cassidy has no one to turn to.
Although Logan’s intention had been to spare himself more emotional grief by staying on the fringes, deep in his gut he admitted he couldn’t stand by and not lift a finger to help.
For months he had hardened himself from the inside out—insulating his heart and soul against the pleasures of life. Not until he’d sat down at the kitchen table in Cassidy’s trailer had he realized the depth of his loneliness. The warmth of her home had wrapped around his cold heart and squeezed. Despite his reservations he’d do his best to be there for Cassidy and the baby.
“Looks like we’re done here, Twister.” An hour later both horse and dog had been fed, watered and settled in the barn. Twister preferred sleeping outside year-round and Logan had made up a bed of hay for the animal in one of the empty horse stalls.
There were a hundred chores that needed doing, but he hadn’t been able to shake the restless feeling plaguing him since supper at Cassidy’s trailer. Screw the chores. He showered and changed clothes, then grabbed the truck keys and headed into town.
With a population under three hundred the town wasn’t much more than a map dot. One four-way stop. Two historical buildings—the feed store, which had been around since 1864, and the bank, circa 1923. Baker’s Drugstore, now owned by the Polanskis managed to stay in business, but Maria’s Cantina had gone under. Two bars—Davies on the corner and the Tap House across the street from the bank were the local watering hole. A lone barbershop. Crusty’s Pizza. There were two blocks of residential homes but many of the locals who didn’t ranch lived in the same trailer park as Cassidy on the outskirts of town and worked at the fertilizer factory located between Junket and Midland.
The town council had voted on new Christmas decorations last year and Logan noticed the wreaths that now hung from the lamp posts along the sidewalk. The posts themselves had been wrapped with white lights and large red pots filled with poinsettias sat on the corners of both sides of the street.
He parked in front of the drugstore and went inside. The cow bell attached to the door handle announced his presence. He heard female voices and recognized one of them as the store owner’s—Helga Polanski. He headed for the beauty department where Helga stocked the men’s razor blades and shaving cream. As he searched for his brand, the women’s voices grew louder.
“I can’t believe Cassidy Ortiz is pregnant.”
“Well now, it’s best not to jump to conclusions,” Helga said.
“Mabel Wilson claims Logan asked Cassidy if the baby was his.”
Logan’s ears burned.
“What did she say?” Helga asked.
“Mabel said Cassidy got to feelin’ poorly and had to sit down before she gave him an answer.”
“See there. We don’t know for sure whose baby it is.”
“Logan’s had a rough time.”
Logan believed the second voice belonged to Mrs. Gilbert, the local school-board president. The woman had a nasty habit of butting into people’s private affairs. “That poor man drags himself around town like a beaten dog.”
Jeez, did he look that pathetic?
“I bet Cassidy’s hoping to trap Logan into marrying her.” Mrs. Gilbert lowered her voice and Logan edged toward the end of the aisle. “You know Cassidy’s mother had her out of wedlock.”
If he didn’t acknowledge that he was the father of Cassidy’s baby folks would believe the worst of her.
“Sonja did just fine raising Cassidy on her own,” Helga said.
“I wouldn’t doubt she’s looking for a handout.”
Handout? Logan recalled Cassidy’s face as she told him she didn’t need his help.
“If Cassidy’s pregnant she’ll expect our understanding not our censure.” At least Helga possessed a little compassion.
“I don’t know how that girl manages. Wilma stopped by for tea this morning and said Cassidy had to drive Sonja into Midland for another doctor’s appointment today.”
“Cassidy takes good care of her mother. Can’t find fault with her for that.”
Logan had heard enough. Cassidy didn’t deserve to be talked about. “Afternoon, ladies.” He walked up the aisle.
Helga’s face flushed beet-red and Mrs. Gilbert’s mouth sagged open—wide enough to see the silver fillings in her bottom molars.
“What brings you by this afternoon, Logan?” Helga smoothed a hand down the front of the white smock she wore over her long-sleeved blouse.
He lifted the shaving supplies in his hand.
“I’d better go.” The school-board president flashed a nervous smile.
“Before you leave, Mrs. Gilbert, I’d like to set the record straight.” The old biddy’s eyes rounded. “The rumors are true. I’m the father of Cassidy’s baby.” He glanced at both women. “You’ll see that the correct information makes the rounds, won’t you?”
Mrs. Gilbert nodded, then scurried off.
Helga wrung her hands. “That was rude of us. I’m sorry for gossiping.”
Ignoring the apology, he asked, “Where can I find a blow-up snowman like the one next to the checkout counter up front?”
“We’ve got several in the storeroom.”
If Logan intended to change Cassidy’s we-don’t-need-your-help attitude, he’d best do so bearing gifts.
WHAT IN THE WORLD?
Cassidy parked the car and gaped at her trailer—lit up like a cheap motel off the Las Vegas strip.
“Look, Cassidy. Isn’t that pretty?” Her mother leaned forward and stared out the windshield.
Strands of colored lights outlined the trailer, its windows and the door. More lights had been wound around the porch rails, down the steps and stretched along the short sidewalk like an airport runway. And icicle lights hung from the gutters. She hadn’t remembered buying those last year, but maybe she had.
The large red and white peppermint lollipops she’d purchased during the after-Christmas sales were stuck in the ground along the edge of the grass and white lights had been wrapped around the sticks. Rudolph stood in the middle of the yard with his blinking red nose. Every few seconds he turned his head and pawed the ground. Her Christmas wreath made of miniature Santa Clauses hung on the door and one made of wrapped gift boxes decorated the front window.
The carport next door was empty. As soon as her neighbors arrived home she’d thank them. Betty and Alice must have dug out the Christmas boxes from