Cathy Thacker - The Rancher's Christmas Baby

Okay, she was mad. But she had a right to be. Figuring she might as well get it all out, he prodded her deliberately, “Now what’s wrong?”

Amy looked at him as if to say, You even have to ask? Then she pointed at the carcass of the rotisserie chicken on the cutting board, the empty containers of cream and chicken broth, and the sack of frozen vegetables, before turning to the place where he’d unrolled the refrigerated pie dough.

He shrugged off the messy countertop, not sure why that should be so grating. “I clean up after I eat,” he explained mildly, knowing it was the only time-efficient way to proceed. “That way I only have to do it once.”

“Clearly,” she said, as if to a four-year-old.

Wishing she didn’t look so hot and bothered and totally hypercritical, he grabbed the kitchen wastebasket and began piling things into the plastic sack inside of it. He hadn’t expected Amy to be the kind of wife who would be on his case about mundane things. Or really, anything. Not that she didn’t have a right to be ticked off over the ruined meal. He was disappointed about that, too…and hungry, to boot.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her run both her hands through her short blond hair, rumpling the wind-tossed strands even more. Her cute-as-a-pixie features were tinged an emotional pink. He had the oddest desire to take her in his arms and hold her till the tension in her slender body dissipated. Not that he imagined she would warm to such an action, either.

Teddy exhaled his frustration. “I don’t know what happened to the chicken pot pie.” He checked the oven’s temperature dial. It was right where it should be. “I’ve made it dozens of times. I’ve never burned it. Never.” Stymied, he looked inside the oven.

Worse than the charred black remains sitting on the stovetop was the mess it had left inside the stove. The pie had obviously boiled over and burned a horrendous black mess on the bottom of her oven.

“You should have asked me first,” Amy said dully, running her hands through her hair yet again. Abruptly, her anger faded and she looked like she was going to start crying.

Feeling worse than ever for the screwup, Teddy finished dumping things into the trash and looked around for a dishrag. “I was trying to make up for last night. I know that was an inauspicious start to our marriage, at best.”

“It’s nothing compared to this.” Two tears slid down Amy’s cheeks. Her body limp with the weariness that came from a long day at work, she sagged against the opposite wall.

The need to protect her pouring through him, Teddy held up a reassuring hand. “I’ll clean this up. Though I still don’t know why our dinner burned.”

Amy rubbed the moisture from her face and seemed to pull herself together, every bit as suddenly as she had started to fall apart. She took a deep breath that lifted the soft swell of her full breasts. “My oven doesn’t calibrate properly, Teddy.” She looked him in the eye. “It heats one hundred and fifty degrees above whatever the dial indicates.”

“So three hundred fifty degrees was…?”

“Five hundred degrees.”

Teddy swore. “No wonder it burned.” He was lucky he hadn’t set the whole place on fire while blithely installing a satellite dish she didn’t seem to want any more than his company.

Spine stiff, Amy walked back outside and retrieved her groceries. Knowing a change of scene would help, Teddy suggested, “We could forget cooking and go out to dinner.”

Again, Amy shook her head, discounting both his invitation and his help. “I don’t have time. I have to bake twelve dozen cookies tonight.”

Taking charge, Teddy replied, “Then you’re going to have to do it at my place.”

AMY WOULD HAVE LIKED TO turn down Teddy’s offer. She couldn’t. She had to honor her commitment to the organizers of the cookie swap. So for the second night in a row, she packed a bag, got in her pickup truck and drove to the Silverado while Teddy stayed behind to finish the satellite dish and clean up.

Once at his place, she couldn’t help but compare his abode to hers. At just under fifteen hundred square feet, his one-story, sand-colored brick ranch house was roughly three times the square footage of her trailer.

Dark-brown shutters adorned the windows and a covered porch lent shelter to the solid oak front door. The exterior landscaping was sparse, leaving the impression that the person who lived here hadn’t gone to much trouble to add plants or trees, although the lawn was thick and well maintained.

Inside the abode was a different story.

Over the ten years Teddy had resided in the 1980s home, he had slowly but surely redone it, ripping out carpet and putting wide-plank oak flooring throughout. The main area of the house was completely open, revealing a state-of-the-art kitchen with a six-burner stove and double ovens, microwave and sub-zero refrigerator. Cushiony leather stools lined the long granite counter. A long wooden table with Windsor chairs sat next to the bay window overlooking the back patio.

Toward the front of the house, a great room with cathedral ceiling sported a huge beige stone fireplace and mantel. A comfortable sectional sofa that seated seven fronted a big wooden coffee table. An entertainment center featuring a digital stereo and large-screen plasma TV was flanked by book-filled shelves on either side.

To the rear of the house, there was a master bedroom, complete with king-size bed. He had knocked out one of the bedrooms in order to expand the master bath into a beautiful, luxurious retreat, complete with marble counters and double sinks, glass-walled shower and whirlpool soaking tub.

An office and another half bath completed the abode.

The house was decorated primarily in the same beige and brown of the outside of the ranch house. It was definitely a bachelor’s lair. In many ways as unsuited for a family as her own tiny one-person trailer, a fact that weighed heavily on her as she rummaged through his kitchen, looking for everything she needed.

Yet they had to live somewhere, until they figured out how—and where—they were going to expand their living quarters into something suitable for the both of them and any children they had.

That being the case, if she were smart, Amy thought as she slid the butter into the microwave to soften, she would simply move her things over here and be done with it. Make life simpler for both of them.

So why couldn’t she do that?

What really had her keeping one foot out the door?

“SMELLS GREAT IN HERE,” Teddy said, two hours later. He walked in, take-out pizza and a big bottle of Amy’s favorite diet cola in hand.

Pleased his earlier irritation with her had faded as surely as hers with him, she smiled. “It’s the gingerbread cookies.”

He set their dinner down and closed the distance between them, the familiar kindness in his green eyes. Relief filtered through her, as intense and all-consuming as her earlier anger.

“About earlier—” he said in a deeply apologetic voice that sent shivers over her skin.

Amy swallowed. It was ridiculous, how happy and relieved she was to see him, to realize their “marriage” wasn’t over before it had even begun.

Aware her pulse was jumping, she looked into his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Teddy. I don’t know what got into me. All I know is I overreacted.”

“Not really.” He took both her hands in his and squeezed them, in the familiar way of an old friend. “I made one heck of a mess in your kitchen. And I installed a satellite dish without your permission—which I’ll take out tomorrow if you want.”

Amy’d had enough time to think while she worked in his kitchen. If this was going to work, she realized that she had to be willing to give some ground, too. She couldn’t expect Teddy to make all the sacrifices and adjustments while she kept her life exactly the same.