Christine Rimmer - The Rancher's Christmas Princess

Preston and Silas had taken a back booth and were waiting for them. One of them must have thought to ask for a high chair. It stood at the end of the booth. Preston, who faced the door, had a swollen lower lip and a small cut above his right eye. His gaze locked with Belle’s for a too-brief moment. An echo of last night’s magic arced between them.

And then was gone.

He and Silas both stood up as Belle, pushing Ben’s stroller, came toward them, Charlotte at her side. Marcus hung back near the door.

Belle reached the men looming by the booth. She moved around to the side of the stroller to take care of Ben and suggested over her shoulder, “If you two gentlemen wouldn’t mind sitting in the inner seats? Charlotte and I need to be next to the high chair for Ben.”

Neither of the McCade men answered. She glanced over at them. Neither had moved either. Both of them stood stock-still, wearing identical expressions of dumbstruck wonder, staring down at the child in the stroller.

Ben, bundled up in blankets and a miniature down jacket, a blue wool hat over his white-blond hair, gazed solemnly back at them.

Charlotte broke the silence. “Ahem. Sit down, please.” She made a shooing motion with both slim hands. “Sit down and slide over. Both of you.”

That seemed to break the spell. The men sat and slid to the window side of the booth. Charlotte hung up her heavy coat and took the remaining seat on Silas’s side of the table. Belle got Ben out of his warm hat and fat coat.

When she eased him into the high chair, he smiled up at her, sweet as any angel, his earlier misery completely forgotten. “Belle. Eat!” He pounded his hands flat on the chair tray—but not too hard. Just enough to punctuate his excitement at the thrilling prospect of breakfast. He loosed a happy string of nonsense noises.

She laughed low as she took off her coat. It was so good to see him back to his cheerful little self again. “Yes, Benjamin. We shall eat.” She gave him a biscuit to keep him occupied until his meal arrived and then took the seat next to Preston, who wore a winter-green corduroy shirt and a look both stern and completely stunned.

The waitress from yesterday, Selma, arrived with a coffeepot and an order pad. She poured coffee for all of them. Belle and Charlotte ordered.

Selma glanced at Silas and then at Preston. Both of them said, “The usual.”

The meal was a strange one, which really wasn’t all that surprising under the circumstances. Charlotte bravely tried to contribute something resembling conversation. She spoke of the weather and of the beauty and majesty of the local forests and mountains. Belle agreed with her companion that Montana was wild and rugged and beautiful. Charlotte had purchased a copy of the most recent edition of the Elk Creek Gazette. She’d read about the various holiday events that were coming up in the next few weeks.

“If we’re still here, we must attend the craft fair,” she said.

Belle agreed that, indeed, they must.

Preston methodically shoveled in food. He had nothing to say. Neither did the previously talkative Silas. Both men continued to seem astounded by Ben. They would glance in the child’s direction and then blink and gape. After a moment or two, they would catch themselves at it and resolutely return to devouring the enormous breakfasts they’d ordered.

Ben watched the two rugged ranchers warily at first. But then, after fifteen minutes or so, he seemed to realize that they presented no threat to him. He grew accustomed to their staring and he ignored them. He ate his cereal and fruit with gusto and drank watered-down apple juice from the sippy cup Belle carried along wherever they went.

There was so very much to discuss. But every time she glanced at Preston’s battered face and saw his blank-eyed expression, she realized she didn’t know where to start. And even if she had known what to say, the busy diner didn’t seem the right place to talk. So she said nothing—except to agree with Charlotte that the scenery in Montana was spectacular and she would love to visit the Christmas Craft Fair.

When the meal was finally over, Preston claimed the check, piled some bills on top of it and cleared his throat. “Belle, I’d like a few words. Alone.” Grudgingly, he added, “Please.”

She took a wet wipe from a pocket of Ben’s diaper bag and cleaned the little sweetheart’s face and hands. “Charlotte, could you take Ben back across the street with you?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” She faced Preston again. “How about a stroll?”

“Fine.”

Charlotte rose, put on her coat and scooped Ben out of the high chair. She put him in the stroller and bundled him up again.

He laughed, a delighted chortling sound that warmed Belle’s heart. “Shar-Shar. Kiss.”

“Oh, yes.” Charlotte leaned close to him and he made a loud smacking sound with his little mouth against her cheek. She beamed at him. “Thank you, young man—now let’s put on this nice, warm hat.” She put it on him and tied the yarn ribbons under his chin. “There. Are we ready?”

“Yes!” declared Ben.

“Bundle up,” she instructed Belle in that motherly way she sometimes did as she got behind the stroller and aimed it at the door. “It’s bitterly cold out there.”

“I will,” Belle promised.

Marcus opened the door when Charlotte reached it. She pushed the stroller through. Wordless, Preston and Silas watched them go.

And then, out of nowhere, Silas found his voice. “That boy’s a McCade if I ever saw one.” He said it loud enough that every listening ear in the diner was treated to the big news. And then he spoke to Preston. “And damned if he didn’t get those baby blue eyes of yours.”

“Keep it down, Dad,” Preston growled, already on his feet. He shrugged into his sheepskin coat and shoved his hat on his head. Then he grabbed Belle’s coat and held it open for her. “Belle.”

She got up and let him help her into it. “Thank you.”

Silas was sliding from the booth.

Preston stopped him. “You stay here, Dad. Have yourself to another cup of coffee. This won’t take long.”

“I’m up to my eyeballs in caffeine as it is,” Silas grumbled. But he did sit back down.

“After you,” said Preston.

She led the way to the door.

Outside, the gray sky was growing lighter. She pulled on her winter gloves and put on her wool hat against the blustery cold. With Marcus in their wake, they hunched down into their coat collars and forged off up the street, snowflakes whirling around them. Christmas decorations, battered by the harsh wind, clinked rhythmically against the Victorian-style streetlights that lined the street.

“I would like to...apologize,” he said stiffly as they passed a jewelry store and then a gift shop, neither of which were open at that hour. “I got completely out of hand this morning at the motel.”

She sent him a sideways glance. He had his head hunched very low and his hat tipped down against the wind, shadowing his eyes. His swollen mouth had a grim twist to it. In spite of the fact that he was going to take Ben from her, she felt a tug of sympathy. “I imagine it must be a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, it is—and I shouldn’t have been so hard on you last night. You’re only the messenger, right?” He laid on the irony.

That got her back up a little. “I am, as a matter of fact, Ben’s legal guardian. So my responsibilities in this matter far exceed those of one who merely bears news.”

“Fancy talk,” he muttered.

“It happens to be the truth.”

He made a low, scoffing sound. “Here’s a truth for you. He’s my son.”

“I know that, Preston.” She kept her voice carefully even.

“And he’s what—a year and a half old?”