A Texas Cowboy's Christmas

A Christmas tree stood in the corner of the comfortably outfitted living area, boxes of lights and decorations beside it.

The state-of-the-art kitchen, situated at the back of the main living area, was banked by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that flooded the small, cozy space with light. Plentiful cabinets, painted a dark slate, and an island that also served as a dining area were a nice counterpoint to the white quartz countertops, bleached wood floors and stainless steel appliances.

Standing there, noting how beautiful her home was, he couldn’t imagine why she would ever want to leave it.

Her son, however, had other things on his mind.

Barely standing still long enough for his mother to wrestle him out of his damp rain jacket, he set his Rudolph and sleigh on the coffee table, next to a soft blue blanket, then headed importantly for the kitchen, where a delicious fresh dough and orange smell emanated. “Come on, Mr. Chance. We cook!”

Braden grabbed a tyke-size navy chef’s apron off the hook, and then handed Chance one, as well—frilly and floral. “Put on!” he demanded.

Molly’s amused expression dared Chance to do so.

Clearly, he noted, she did not think he would. Which just showed how much she knew. “Sure thing, buddy,” Chance agreed drily, pulling the garment over his head. The cloth barely covered his broad chest, and the waist hit him at mid-sternum. Tying it seemed impossible, given the fact he couldn’t find the strings.

Grinning, Molly stepped behind him. “Allow me.”

Her hands brushed his spine as she secured it in place. His body reacted as if they’d kissed. Fortunately, she was too on task to notice. She opened a drawer and pulled out a plain white chef’s apron, that was, as it happened, much more his size.

She tilted her head, her gaze moving over him humorously. “Want to trade?”

Aware this was the first time he’d seen her eyes sparkle so mischievously, he motioned for her to turn so he could tie her apron strings, too. She needed to goof around like this more often. Not be so serious all the time. “Nah, I’m good.”

The three of them took turns washing their hands; then Braden climbed onto the step stool next to the island. “Ready, Mommy?” the tyke asked eagerly.

“Let’s see.” Molly pulled a linen towel away from the top of a large bowl. Inside was a billowy cloud of dough. “I think so.”

She positioned the bowl in front of her son. “Ready to punch it down?”

With a gleeful shout, Braden went to town, pummeling the buttery dough until all the air was released. “What are we making?” Chance asked. It sure smelled good, even at this early stage.

Molly moved close enough he could catch a whiff of her perfume. It was every bit as feminine and enticing and delectable as she was.

“Christmas stollen.” She tilted her head curiously. “Ever had it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat.” She turned the dough onto a floured wooden board and divided it into three sections—which she quickly rolled out into long loaves. Wordlessly, she retrieved a bowl of dried cherries, cranberries and almonds, soaking in what appeared to be orange juice, and drained the excess. “Time to sprinkle on the extras.”

Braden—no novice at baking—positioned his fruit and nuts very seriously, dropping them one by one onto the dough. “You, too, Cowboy Chance.”

“Yes, sir,” Chance said, soberly following Braden’s lead. Molly joined in.

When they’d finished, Braden clapped his hands. “I done now, Mommy?”

“Yes. You did a very good job.” She wiped his hands with a clean cloth. “You can go play while I get this ready for the second rise.”

He hurried off to retrieve his Rudolph and sleigh. Then he brought out his toy dump truck to give them a ride.

With Braden playing happily, Chance settled on a stool at the island. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“My mother taught me.” Molly showed him how to knead the dough until it was soft and elastic, and then shape it into loaves. Carefully, he followed her lead. “Her grandparents emigrated here from Germany. Baking was an important part of their holiday tradition, and she passed it on to me, as her mother had to her.”

Remembering his earlier faux pas, he trod carefully. “Where is your mom now?”

Sorrow pinched Molly’s face. “She died of meningitis when I was fourteen. My dad never really got over the loss, and he died in a car accident just before I graduated from high school.”

He wished he had been around to comfort her, but that had been years before he’d moved to Laramie. “That must have been rough.”

“It was.” Molly carefully transferred the loaves onto baking sheets and covered them with linen cloths, the actions of her hands delicate and sure. “But I had a lot of help from the people in the community. The local bank gave me a second mortgage on this house, so I’d have somewhere to live, and enough funds to get by on while I studied construction and interior design at the local community college and did what was necessary to obtain my general contractor’s license.”

His gaze drifted over her. She wore a long-sleeved emerald dress that made the most of her stunning curves, black tights and flats. Her auburn hair was curlier than usual—he supposed it was the rain. “What made you want to pursue that?”

Molly lounged against the counter, her hands braced on either side of her. “Tradition, I guess. My mom taught classes in nutrition and cooking at Laramie High, and she did interior design work on the side, and my dad was a general contractor who did mostly handyman work.”

She paused to rub a spot of flour from her hip. “Following in their footsteps made me feel closer to them. Plus, both my parents had substantial client lists that I initially utilized to get work. So I was able to get on my feet financially a lot faster than I would have otherwise.”

Braden walked into the kitchen. He stepped between them merrily. “Puddles, Mommy?”

Grinning, Molly looked out the window. The rain that had been landing in torrents was now coming down gently. “You want to go outside?”

Braden nodded.

“Then let’s get you suited up.” Molly walked into the mudroom off the garage, then returned with a pair of yellow rain boots, matching slicker and wide-brimmed hat. Braden brimmed with anticipation. “You come, too, Cowboy Chance?”

“We’ll both watch you from the front porch,” Molly promised. “Unless...” She paused to look at Chance. “You have somewhere else you need to be?”

Chapter Three (#u982082ef-b2f2-5b56-a1e1-45ec4787a150)

This was Chance’s opportunity to make a graceful exit.

To his surprise, he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. In fact, he was sort of lamenting the fact that the time would eventually come. “Actually,” Chance admitted good-naturedly, “I was hoping I’d be able to see what the Christmas stollen looks like when it’s finished.”

“Yummy!” Braden declared, rubbing his tummy.

Chance chuckled. The little buckaroo’s enthusiasm was infectious. “You think so?”

Braden nodded magnanimously. “We share. Mommy. Me. You.”

Chance turned to Molly. “Is that okay?” he asked casually, wanting to give her the option of throwing him out—if that was what she wanted.

“You probably should see what you’ve been missing,” she said drily.

He had an inkling. And he wasn’t just thinking about baked goods.

“Outside?” Braden asked again, impatiently.

“Let’s go.” She grabbed a rain jacket for herself, then opened the door. A blast of unexpectedly warm air hit them. No doubt brought in by the front. “I was going to offer you a cup of coffee,” Molly said, looping the jacket over a wicker chair, “but maybe it should be iced tea.”