C.J. Carmichael - Big Sky Christmas

But Olive hadn’t called back. And a month later Winnie had tried again, with a similar result.

“You could have written. Or sent word via Corb or Laurel.”

“I could have,” Winnie agreed. “But you may have guessed by now that I have a stubborn streak.”

She met Olive’s glare without backing down. The honest truth was she still resented Olive for being so cold toward her. She knew—because Brock had told her—that Olive had tried to talk him out of marrying her. Olive had thought that her youngest, and favorite, son was making a mistake in marrying a simple farm girl from Highwood. Brock had laughed about it later, when they were alone.

But she hadn’t.

“I was trying to save you and Brock both a lot of heartache. You weren’t suited for each other.”

Winnie’s heart raced. This woman was unbelievable. Like a snake, she struck quickly with her venom. “You can’t know that. He loved me. And I loved him, too.”

A drop of soda spilled onto her foot. Realizing her hands were shaking, she put her glass on a nearby table. She wanted to leave. But Olive had her cornered.

And she wasn’t finished.

“You don’t have any idea what it takes to be a rancher’s wife. You couldn’t have—”

Suddenly Winnie spotted a familiar figure, a man in a dark gray suit. He was headed for the bar, but he didn’t seem to have noticed her. She put out her arm and managed to snag a bit of his sleeve.

Jackson turned.

“You wanted to dance? We’d better do it now, since I have to go home early.”

Jackson’s gaze went from her to Olive. The widowed mother of four children—three, now that Brock was gone—had two spots of red burning on her cheeks.

“We aren’t finished here, Winnie,” Olive said.

“If you want to meet my son, then I think we are.”

Winnie kept her hold on Jackson and pulled him toward the dance floor. Sensing his reluctance, she figured he didn’t like to dance.

“Sorry to drag you out here,” she said, once he’d swung her into his arms with surprising finesse. “Olive was in attack mode and I needed to escape.”

“No one does attack mode quite like Olive.”

Jackson was two-stepping like a pro—why didn’t he like dancing when he was so good at it?

She glanced up at his handsome face. His gaze was fixed across the dance floor, almost as if he didn’t want to look at her. “You two don’t get along, either, do you?”

According to Brock, when his father decided to take Jackson in under the foster-care program, Olive had been opposed to the idea.

Dad almost never went against her wishes, Brock had said. But that time he did.

“No, we don’t. It’s one of the reasons I decided to go work on Silver Creek Ranch,” Jackson allowed, swinging her out, then pulling her back in.

“Holy cow, you’re good at this.” He led with assurance and moved perfectly with the beat.

“So are you.”

“It’s easy when you have a good partner.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed. He glanced away again.

“So tell me about Silver Creek Ranch.” She needed to distract herself from how nice his hands felt on her waist and her shoulder. Silver Creek was owned by Maddie Turner, Olive’s sister. The two women had been estranged for decades, since the death of their father.

“It’s in tough shape. Maddie is a good person, but a terrible businesswoman. I had to sell some land to raise enough money to begin restocking the herd. Fences need mending, and the barn could use some work, too. But I’m taking it one step at a time.”

He didn’t mention anything about the promise Maddie had made to him. Winnie knew the details thanks to Laurel. Maddie was suffering from terminal lung cancer and she’d told Jackson that if he came to live with her on the ranch and invested all his savings, she’d leave him everything.

Given that Maddie had no children of her own, it wasn’t such an outlandish proposition. But according to Laurel, Olive was furious. She felt the land ought to be going to one of her children. Never mind the fact that she hadn’t allowed any of them to speak to their aunt when they’d been growing up.

“I’m sure you’re very busy. But do you have time to come in to the café for coffee one night next week?”

For the first time Jackson’s step faltered. He recovered in the next second, found the beat and pulled her with him back into the rhythm.

“I’m not 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.