Ann Major - A Cowboy Christmas

He blamed his behavior that day on the stupid drugstore window display in town. Who the hell put up Christmas decorations in September? Logan had snapped when he’d spotted the twinkling lights on the artificial tree and the toy train that circled the base. The cozy scene had dredged up memories he wanted no part of.

To run from the recollections of that fateful day just before Christmas the previous year he’d headed to the nearest honky-tonk. After three beers Bethany’s memory had remained as vivid as ever and he’d switched to tequila shots. When Cassidy had strolled into the bar he’d been too drunk to hit the ground with his hat in three tries. No match for a pretty face and a sympathetic ear, he’d hadn’t objected when Cassidy had offered to drive him home. Logan shook his head as he realized she was staring at him.

“I made you—” she glanced at the plate covered in green plastic wrap, then shoved it at him “—Christmas cookies.”

Cookies? They’d had sex. One time. Maybe two. All that mattered was their relationship had lasted less than twenty-four hours. He hadn’t called her the next day. Or the next. Or the next day after that. And Cassidy hadn’t contacted him, leading him to believe that what had happened that night between them was over. Finished. Terminated.

Done.

The plate nudged his chest like a big fat finger poking his breastbone. There was only part of one cookie—a frosted reindeer head complete with antlers and a red nose—left. He gripped the dish. “Christmas is three weeks away.” And he intended to allow the day to pass without any fanfare.

“Mom and I got a head start on our holiday baking.” She laughed nervously, and her breasts jiggled. He resisted the urge to rub his eyeballs, which suddenly felt too big for their sockets.

“There were a dozen cookies—” she glanced at the reindeer head “—but I gave the others to the dog, so he wouldn’t attack,” she said.

“He acts mean, but he won’t bite.”

“If you say so.” Cassidy flashed a quick smile, showing off her pretty white teeth and full lower lip.

He really needed her to leave. When she didn’t…“I’m busy. If that’s all you—”

“Wait!” She stepped in front of him, blocking his getaway route. His damned foot itched again and a sense of foreboding settled in his bones like a bad case of rheumatism. He brushed past her and had almost escaped when…

“Logan, I’m pregnant.”

The heel of his boot caught the edge of the step, sending him sprawling onto the porch. The cookie plate flew from his hand, bounced off the front door, then slid to a stop under the swing. Twister vaulted over Logan’s body and snarfed up the broken reindeer head.

“Oh, my God. Are you all right?” Cassidy rushed to his side.

Shrugging off her touch, he crawled to his feet. His shins stung and his chin hurt like hell where he’d banged it against the step. But the worst pain settled in his chest—a tight squeezing pressure that threatened to suffocate him.

“Please listen, Logan.”

His legs wouldn’t move—his traitorous feet had frozen in place.

“Bethany mentioned to me how badly you’d both wanted a child…” Cassidy ceased rambling and for a moment Logan believed he might catch his breath, then she continued and his lungs pinched closed again. “I know how devastated you were—” her voice dropped to a whisper “—that Bethany was carrying your baby when she died.”

Lack of oxygen numbed his brain and Cassidy’s words sounded garbled as if water had flooded his ears.

“I…” She paused, then rushed on. “Plan to keep the baby.”

Unable to trust himself to say anything appropriate, he remained stone-faced. After a tense stare-down, she spun on her boot heel and trotted to the hatchback. The car sped off, leaving a cloud of dust lingering in the air and Logan with a knot the size of Texas in his chest.

DON’T YOU DARE CRY.

Cassidy stopped the car at the entrance to the Bar T Ranch and rested her head against the steering wheel.

She’d put off telling Logan about the baby for three months because she didn’t want to say anything until the risky first trimester was over. She’d expected the cowboy to be shocked by the news, but not so…so cold. Even now the memory of his flat stare left her shaky.

Her eyes watered and this time a tear dribbled down her cheek.

Logan still mourned Bethany—the love of his life. The girl he’d dated all through high school and had married after graduation. Like clockwork Bethany had scheduled a haircut once a month when Cassidy opened her salon five years ago. Not long after, Bethany had confided in Cassidy about her miscarriages. They’d mourned each time the young woman had lost a baby and celebrated every time the home pregnancy test showed a plus sign.

What broke Cassidy’s heart was Bethany’s teary confession that all she’d ever wanted was to give Logan a child. Then when Bethany had finally succeeded in carrying a baby through the first trimester, she’d been killed in a car accident on the way to a doctor’s appointment in Midland.

No one, no matter how pure or goodhearted, avoided life’s cruel twists and turns.

A tiny part of Cassidy had hoped for a hint of excitement from Logan. After all, he’d wanted a baby for years. You’re such a fool. He wanted Bethany’s baby—not yours.

Well, she possessed enough enthusiasm for both of them. Cassidy would be twenty-eight in January and she had always wanted to marry and have a family. Her situation with Logan might not be ideal, but a baby was a blessing no matter how the child was conceived, and she was determined that Logan’s cool reaction wouldn’t dampen her joy.

Lifting her foot from the brake, she drove east toward the trailer park on the outskirts of Junket where she and her mother lived. She suspected Logan wished Mr. Claus was in the business of granting “do-overs.” If so, he’d probably ask jolly old St. Nick to erase that September night she’d strolled into the bar to let her hair down after a stressful day of caring for her mother.

Billie’s Roadhouse was known for its live bands and big dance floor. That particular evening Cassidy had been on the hunt for a cowboy to dance with into the wee hours of the morning.

Dance with—not have sex with.

When she’d spotted Logan drinking shots at the bar she’d gone over to say hello. The silly, drunken grin he’d flashed had put her dancing plans on the back burner. The bartender had held out Logan’s truck keys, assuming she’d arrived to haul his inebriated carcass home. She could have said no. She could have phoned Logan’s friend, Fletcher, to come get him.

But you didn’t.

Her and Logan’s fate had been sealed the moment she’d grasped the truck keys from the bartender. Afterward, she’d spent weeks making up excuses for her behavior that night.

Logan had been too drunk to drive.

Logan had needed to eat, and she’d insisted on cooking him a meal.

Logan needed to sober up, so she’d helped him shower.

Logan needed a babysitter—in case he’d vomited—so she’d rested on the bed with him.

Her intent had been to slip away before dawn, but then he’d called out Bethany’s name in his sleep and Cassidy had woken to his hand on her breast, his eyes shimmering with grief and pain. Logan had hit rock bottom and Cassidy hadn’t had the heart or willpower to turn him away.

Forcing the memories aside, she flipped on the blinker and entered the Shady Acres Trailer Park. She could count on one hand the number of shade trees throughout the twenty acre patch of flat Texas dirt. The owner of the property had invested little money in landscaping. Most of the park’s tenants struggled to make their rent payment and what extra money they earned went toward food and clothing, not flowers or bushes.