Big Sky Christmas. C.J. Carmichael
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big on coffee.”
Was that why in the past he’d come so seldom into the Cinnamon Stick?
“Or cinnamon buns, either, I assume.” The buns were the specialty of her café, baked fresh every morning by a former cowboy and recovering alcoholic who’d turned over a new leaf in his sixties, Vince Butterfield.
“Not much of a sweet tooth,” Jackson agreed.
“Well.” Was he just making excuses? “Maybe you could drop by just to talk, then?”
He swung her out, gave her a twirl and then swirled her back a little, just as the song ended. A few people dancing near them clapped.
“Nicely done, Jackson.” Corb had Laurel in his arms and they were both grinning.
Yes, nicely done, Winnie had to agree.
Jackson walked her off the dance floor, then dropped his arm. “Thanks for the dance, Winnie. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
And that was it? “What about next week?”
He looked off in the distance for a few seconds before meeting her gaze. “I know what you’re trying to do here. You want to tell me you don’t blame me for what happened to Brock.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s nice and charitable of you, Winnie. But can you really look at me and not think, there’s the guy who was driving when my fiancé died?”
His blunt words stole her breath. Before she could recover, he was leaning in to say some more.
“Last thing I want is to cause you more pain. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”
And then he was gone, walking toward the exit. She wanted to run after him, but Corb and Laurel were watching, as were several other couples. Better not create a scene.
So she forced a smile and tried to look as though she and Jackson had parted on friendly terms.
But man, was Laurel right. That guy had a serious chip on his shoulder. And the last thing she was going to do was let him leave it there.
* * *
JACKSON WANTED TO LEAVE, but he knew it was too early and his absence would be noted. He stood in the stairwell of the back exit, his body pressed against the wall of cool concrete.
What was wrong with him? Why did he feel this way?
Holding Winnie in his arms, dancing with her, had been the worst form of torture.
He’d tried thinking about cattle prices, the weather, anything except the beautiful, dark-haired woman who was following his moves so perfectly it was almost like having sex.
He groaned.
Sex and Winnie Hays should never be in the same sentence. Brock had been like a brother and a best friend all rolled into one. And here Jackson was lusting after the woman he had loved.
“Hey, cooling down?” Corb had found him. “I’m not surprised. You and Winnie sure worked up a sweat in there.”
Another layer of guilt settled in the pit of Jackson’s stomach. Soon he’d have no space in there for anything else.
“She looks good, doesn’t she?” Corb handed him a beer.
“I guess.”
“I think Mom resents it. She’d have Winnie dressed in black, withered to the bone and miserable for the rest of her life.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a mother to Brock’s son if she did that.”
“Winnie never could do anything to please Mom.” Corb shrugged. “But she’s done her share of suffering.” Corb looked at him pointedly. He didn’t have to say anything more for Jackson to know what he was thinking. Ever since the accident the Lambert kids had been trying to tell him he had no reason to feel responsible for what had happened.
He appreciated their intentions.
But none of them had been in the driver’s seat, so they couldn’t really understand.
“You liking the work at Silver Creek?”
“It’s a challenge,” Jackson allowed, glad that Corb had changed the subject. “But we’ve sold a parcel of land to Sam O’Neil. Come spring I intend to buy a hundred head of cattle and build from there.”
“This Sam fellow. Did you meet him? B.J. says he put in an offer for Savannah’s land, too.”
Jackson shook his head. “Not face-to-face. He’d already signed the papers when I took Maddie to the title office.”
Corb finished his drink, then pushed the door open. “We better get back. There’ll be a lineup of ladies waiting to dance with you now that they’ve seen what you can do. Where’d you learn to two-step like that, anyway?”
Jackson smiled. “My mom taught me. Haven’t danced in years. Funny how it all came back.”
“Your mom taught you?”
Jackson didn’t speak of her, usually. All the Lamberts knew was she’d gone to jail when he was thirteen. And died a few years later while still incarcerated.
“She wasn’t all bad.”
“I’m sure she wasn’t. She had you, didn’t she?”
It was a nice thing to say, but then Corb was a damn fine man that way. A lot like his father had been.
“Keep talking so sweet to me and Laurel will be getting jealous.”
Corb laughed, then shoved him in the direction of the dance floor, none too gently. “Laurel knows who gets my motor running. Now get. The ladies await.”
Chapter Three
“Who’s Mommy’s little boy?”
Bobby giggled as Winnie tickled the bottoms of his feet, then pointed his chubby finger at his own chest.
“That’s right.” She touched her nose to his. “You are my little boy.” Were all babies this cute? Winnie didn’t believe it. Bobby was special. She put on his socks and his adorable sneakers, and as soon as she was done, he started toddling out of her reach.
She sighed. He was such a going concern now that he’d started walking. She chased after him, scooped him into her arms and he giggled again.
She’d lined up a babysitter for weekdays from ten to two, a friend of Eugenia’s whose children were grown and out of the house, but not yet married with families of their own.
They were headed to Linda Hunter’s now.
She tucked Bobby into his new winter snowsuit, then grabbed the diaper bag she’d prepared earlier that morning. She left her apartment, which was above the café, through the back door and down the fire escape. More snow had fallen on Sunday and again last night, and Bobby wiggled in her arms. He wanted to play with all that cool white stuff.
“Later, honey.” Now that he was mobile, she needed to buy him boots, which would mean a trip to Lewistown. If not for the wedding this past weekend, she would have taken him shopping on Saturday.
A black Ford pickup truck turned onto Main Street. She recognized the vehicle even before she spotted Jackson behind the wheel. He had on aviator sunglasses and a dark brown cowboy hat. He slowed as he passed by, but didn’t stop.
She’d thought a lot about Jackson since Saturday night. His kind attempt to distract her during the ceremony. How much fun he’d been to dance with. But most of all, she’d thought about his parting words to her. Can you really look at me and not think, there’s the guy who was driving when my fiancé died?
He hadn’t given her time to answer. But if he had, she would have said, Of course I can. She’d never thought of him as the man who was responsible