Silver James - The Cowboy's Christmas Proposition

He poured out the rest of the words, his voice growing husky with emotion. Deke had watched each of his cousins find and fall in love with the women who completed them. Something inside him wanted the same thing, in a vague someday way. But none of his brothers had taken the plunge and there was something wrong with that picture. The Barrons were the wild bunch, the Tates the steady gatekeepers. Well, except for him. His mother said often and loudly that he was more Barron than Tate, but her eyes twinkled when she said it.

Deke sang of finding love, of losing it. He sang of getting it back and when he sang the chorus again, the women in the front row had faces slick with tears. His voice broke a little as he finished the last few lines and added, “You’ll be my home, my love song, my forever song and the last song I ever sing.”

The spotlight went out. Stunned silence filled the theater, where 2,500 fans were jammed in wall-to-wall. Then pandemonium erupted. Strobes flashed and spotlights probed the stage, but Deacon had disappeared. People screamed and whistled. They clapped their hands and stomped their feet. When the band launched into the opening strains of “Native Son,” the noise volume doubled. Normally, this song was the finale but tonight, it was the encore.

When it was over, Deke and the band retreated backstage to the dressing rooms. The party had already started. Local radio personalities filtered in, some with contest winners tagging along. A few VIPs—politicians and business leaders—crowded around, congratulating him before moving along to the free bar and buffet. A low-level headache throbbed behind his eyes, and Deke only wanted to get on his bus and go home.

A loud squeal caught his attention and he looked up just in time to catch an armful of curves and red hair. Lips smacked his cheek. “You sang our song!” Roxanne Barron screamed.

Deke winced and was thankful when his cousin Cash peeled his wife away. He was surrounded now by family. His brothers, Cooper and Bridger, were harassing Dillon, the baby Tate. Cash was doing his best to contain Roxie, while his other cousins and their spouses, Chance and Cassidy, along with Cord and Jolie, laughed.

“You totally have to record that song, Deke,” Cassidy said. “And have Jolie and I mentioned that we’re totally PO’d you didn’t write songs for our weddings?”

He ducked his head, slightly embarrassed. He’d been on the road and missed both Chance’s and Cord’s weddings though he’d played a cover song at their brother Clay’s. Forcing his headache away, he listened to his cousins and their wives chatter and his brothers tease Dillon. This was family and he loved his.

There was life and love here. Sound and confusion. Friendship and flirting. Deke wasn’t quite so ready to go home now, knowing his house was empty. There’d be no lights on, unless someone had gone by. He had a ranch foreman who lived on the property, keeping an eye on things when Deke was on the road or recording in Nashville, but he doubted the man would think of switching on lights.

The party finally wrapped up and those who lingered spilled into the parking lot. The band would ride the tour bus to Oklahoma City. Those who lived in Nashville had reservations at the Barron Hotel. They’d sleep during what was left of the night and fly home later in the day.

The roadies would break down the sets, instruments and sound systems, and leave the semitrucks and trailers in the secured storage yard where the local guys stored their vehicles during tours. That was where Deacon had left his pickup. He was ready to get home, even if the place would be dark and silent when he arrived.

“Mr. Tate!” The agitated yell disrupted his reverie; he and his three brothers all looked up. “Deacon!” The tour bus driver, Max, clarified. He was all but jumping up and down, alternating between waving and wringing his hands.

“Maxie? What’s going on?”

“I didn’t know what to do, Mr. T. I called the police and I was gettin’ ready to come inside to get you but I couldn’t leave it.”

“Calm down, Max. Police? Why would you—” Deke’s question was interrupted by a loud wail.

The driver pointed at a basket perched on the curving steps leading into the bus. “That’s why, Mr. T. I found a baby.”

* * *

Quincy Kincaid carefully sipped the hot coffee in her to-go cup. Five more hours until her shift change at 7:00 a.m. Her night had been quiet so far. A few speeders. Backing up a Cleveland County deputy on a domestic. She checked the dash clock on her Highway Patrol cruiser. Four hours, fifty-five minutes. And then she was off for three days before her next set of duty days, putting her that much closer to her vacation. Seventeen days, most of them spent far away from everyone. And one more item marked off her bucket list.

Aspen, Colorado, and Rocky Mountain high country, here she came. She’d saved up vacation time and money for this trip since she’d graduated from the Oklahoma Highway Patrol academy five years before. Five-star hotel. Beautiful scenery. Learning to ski. And Christmas far away from her family. She wasn’t a Scrooge. Christmas was okay. It was her family that drove her batty.

Another sip of coffee, and she discovered it was cool enough to drink without caution but still hot enough to be satisfying. Thunder River Truck Stop always had fresh coffee, no matter the time of day or night. She gazed toward the bright splash of LED lights just over a mile down the road. The casino, like the truck stop, was a 24-7-365 operation. She’d set up here earlier and had caught some speeders leaving the concert. Deacon Tate and the Sons of Nashville. The concert had sold out and she’d been lucky not to get roped into extra security duty at the casino. That had gone to the off-duty guys who wanted to pick up extra money for Christmas.

The only present she was buying this Christmas was for herself—the trip to Aspen, to stay in that five-star hotel through the holidays. No family—not that hers really cared. No responsibilities and woo-hoo for that. Just snow and pine trees and mountains and, if she was lucky, a hot guy to share drinks with while sitting in front of a roaring fire. Quin rolled her head on her neck and eased the tightness in her shoulders. Only four hours and forty—

“Adam-109.” The dispatcher’s voice crackled from her radio.

“Adam-109.”

“Respond to Thunder River Casino. In the parking lot. Report of a found infant.”

She opened her mouth to respond when the import of the message filtered through her brain. “Say again, Dispatch.”

“Report of a found infant, Adam-109. Look for the Sons of Nashville tour bus.”

“Ten-four.”

Seriously? A found baby? Who loses their baby? Oh, wait, she thought sarcastically. She was headed to a casino. People addicted to gambling did dumb things. Like losing their kids. Still, what did the band’s bus have to do with the situation? Good thing she was less than five minutes away. She’d be able to satisfy her curiosity quickly. Unable to resist, she hit her overhead emergency lights but without sirens. Traffic stopped on the highway to let her exit the truck stop and she gunned her engine.

The tour bus wasn’t hard to miss. It was one of those custom motor coaches that cost more than most people’s houses. Why people would call such a lavish vehicle a bus was beyond her comprehension. She’d worked event security a few times. Spoiled musicians and Hollywood people just irritated her.

She rolled up on the scene and notified Dispatch. Settling her Smokey Bear hat on her head, she stepped out of her cruiser, adjusted her weapons belt on her hips and strode toward the knot of people gathered around the open door of the motor coach.

A dark-haired woman was arguing with a tall man dressed like a cowboy holding a bundle in his arms. As Quin walked up, she overheard him say, “Forget it, Jolie. You can’t have her.”