Deb Kastner - Texas Christmas Twins

“Blanche Stanton,” he said drily. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Miranda caught his gaze and her eyes widened. She hadn’t missed the dripping sarcasm oozing from his voice.

Blanche obviously wasn’t aware that waltzing onto someone else’s property was considered trespassing. Or maybe she just didn’t care. The hunchbacked, gray-haired old lady turned on him, brandishing her cane like a weapon. It was all he could do not to step back, but he straightened his shoulders and held his ground.

“More puppies?” she barked—her voice really did sound like a bark, all dry and coarse. Simon bit back a smile, recognizing that Blanche would be furious if she knew what he was thinking. “You justify bringing more dogs into this world when you already have too many running around this place as it is? This is outrageous. I’ve a good mind to call the animal control police and report you.”

Miranda’s brow scrunched over her nose. He could see the wheels of her mind turning as she tried to comprehend the incomprehensible.

“This is what Simon does for a living. He breeds herding dogs.”

Miranda sounded genuinely confused, as well she might. In Simon’s brief encounters with the old woman, she rarely made a lick of sense.

“What?” Blanche demanded, turning her attention to Miranda. “Who are you?”

“Miranda Morgan. And not that it’s any of your business, but Simon raises and trains Australian cattle dogs especially bred for herding,” she said, louder and slower, overenunciating each syllable as if somehow that would help Blanche understand what she was saying. “His dogs are supposed to have puppies.”

Wow.

Miranda had really been paying attention to what he’d been telling her. His appreciation for her bumped up a notch.

Blanche cackled, but not in amusement.

“Obviously, you don’t have the full story, my dear.”

Miranda stiffened at the artificial endearment, but her voice was steady when she answered. “Simon has been completely up front with me.”

She had no way of knowing that, nor did she have reason to trust him, and yet she was, thankfully, in his corner.

“Ask him what he does with the rest of his time here on the ranch.”

“If you mean about his rescue endeavors, he’s already told me,” Miranda said calmly, tipping up her chin in a silent show of defiance.

Simon was grateful that Miranda was fielding all the questions because he was about to implode, holding back his fury and frustration.

Hudson rolled to the edge of the quilt, gurgling happily and reaching out his chunky arm to grab a handful of hay.

Simon and Miranda reacted at the exact same moment, diving down to rid him of the straw in his little fist before it made it to his mouth. Miranda grabbed the baby and Simon shook Hudson’s fist until it was hay-free.

Miranda folded her legs on the quilt and pulled Hudson and Harper into her lap. That was probably a wise move, since Blanche would stand as judge and jury on everything she witnessed.

Simon stretched back to his full height to face his irate neighbor.

“This,” Blanche said, her wave encompassing both the dogs and the twins, “is totally unacceptable. It’s irresponsible for you to bring babies into this environment.”

Simon had to bite his tongue not to snap back at her that this was the country, and that nearly every baby in Wildhorn was growing up on a ranch, many of which had far more animals than Simon, and more variety, at that.

“That’s it.” Blanche pounded her cane against the ground, but because it was dirt covered with a bed of hay, the tip of the cane didn’t make a sound. It was probably not the dramatic impact Blanche had been going for. Simon’s eyes met Miranda’s and her lips quirked in amusement—at least until Blanche’s next words.

“I’ve made up my mind. I’m calling animal control.”

“You do that,” Simon said, his voice an octave lower than usual.

He had had about enough of Blanche Stanton. His nerves snapped along his skin and a fire raged in his chest, but the only outward indication of his annoyance was the way his fingers kept twitching into a fist. He couldn’t speak to his expression. He forced himself to relax his muscles and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his blue jeans, rocking back on the heels of his boots as if to put more distance between them.

“Now, if there’s nothing else,” he said through gritted teeth, “you know your way out. And I suggest you take it.”

Blanche shook a finger under his nose. It took every ounce of his self-control not to brush her hand away. He stood stock-still, not even allowing air to enter his lungs. He’d probably breathe fire out of his mouth like a dragon if he so much as exhaled.

“This isn’t over,” she warned.

“I didn’t think it was,” he snapped back.

He knew as soon as he spoke that he shouldn’t have taken the bait. A brief glance at Miranda’s wide eyes confirmed that, even if he hadn’t created the scene, he was at least an unwilling participant. All he was doing was playing right into the old woman’s hands. He knew better than that.

Do not engage.

And yet he had.

It was hard to consider any other way than the way he knew, the defense mechanisms that sometimes rose before he could stop them.

Should he be turning the other cheek here, or was it okay for him to defend his home and his dogs?

Unfortunately, Simon knew all too well that this was only the beginning of his problems with his new neighbor. That Miranda had been there to witness the whole sorry scene only made him feel worse.

How humiliating.

Blanche turned away and stomped a couple of feet toward the door—or at least as much of a stomp as she could make with a limp and a cane—and then slowly turned back to address Miranda, rudely pointing her finger directly at her.

“You’d do well to avoid this one,” Blanche warned, nodding her head toward Simon and sniffing loudly.

He stiffened. The nerve of the woman. Not that he and Miranda had a personal connection, but it wasn’t any of Blanche’s business if they did. No one had called her in to be judge and jury of his character, especially because she continued to malign him for no good reason.

What if Blanche put doubt in Miranda’s mind? Enough to make her reconsider about him spending time with the twins?

He swallowed the gall that rose to his throat at the thought.

Miranda merely lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Simon couldn’t tell, either by her expression or the inflection in the tone of her voice, whether Miranda was agreeing with Blanche or merely humoring the old woman, but Blanche seemed content with the answer and made her exit.

“Okay, then,” Miranda said as soon as Blanche was gone. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

* * *

Miranda’s naturally empathetic nature—even to a man who tended to be a bully and had issues trusting her—kicked in despite her best efforts to the contrary.

Poor Simon’s face had turned a distressing shade of red, followed by an unhealthy yellowish-green color, as if he was about to be sick.

She could see no reason why the strange old woman had gone off on Simon the way she had.

Over a litter of puppies? What was with that?

Practically all of Wildhorn was working ranch land. Horses. Cows. Pigs. Chickens. Llamas.

Simon’s endeavors might veer slightly away from the typical cattle ranch, but he was offering a much-needed product—if you could call a well-bred and well-trained cattle dog a product, or maybe a service—to grateful ranchers in Wildhorn and beyond.

Now that the elderly busybody was gone, Miranda stood and plunked the wriggling twins back onto the quilt in a demonstrative display of rebellion.