Cowboy Under the Mistletoe

He’d rather tangle with the meanest bull in the pasture than try to drive a wheelchair.

Jake yanked the folded bunch of canvas and metal from the bed of the pickup and shook it.

“How is this thing supposed to work anyway?” he said to exactly nobody.

Metal rattled against metal but the chair didn’t open. He wished he’d paid more attention when the nurse—a puny little ninety-pound woman no bigger than Allison—folded the chair and tossed it into the back of his truck with ease. Getting the thing open and functioning couldn’t be that difficult.

A hot summer sun roasted the back of his neck while Granny Pat waited patiently inside the cab with the AC running. She wasn’t happy because he’d driven the truck right up next to the porch. She had fussed and complained that he’d leave ruts with those massive tires and ruin her yard. As if that wasn’t enough, she’d been telling all this to Grandpa, a man who’d been dead for twenty years.

Jake’s day had been lousy, and his head hurt. Last night, he’d barely slept after the meeting with Allison. He kept seeing her smile, her bounce, her determined kindness.

He didn’t want to remember how much he’d missed her.

Then today, he’d made the trip to the convalescent center, a place that would depress Mary Poppins. If that and Granny’s running conversations with Grandpa weren’t enough to make his head pound, he’d stopped at Gabriel’s Crossing Pharmacy to fill an endless number of prescriptions, and who should he see crossing the street? Brady Buchanon. Big, hot-tempered Brady.

Seeing a Buchanon brother was inevitable, but he planned to put off the moment as long as possible. So like a shamefaced secret agent, he’d pulled his hat low and hustled inside the drugstore before Brady caught a glimpse of him.

He hated feeling like an outcast, like the nasty fly in the pleasant soup of Gabriel’s Crossing, but he was here, at least through the holidays, and the Buchanons would have to deal with it. So would everyone else who remembered the golden opportunity Jake had stolen from Quinn Buchanon and this small town with big dreams.

Then why did he feel like a criminal in his own hometown?

Granny Pat popped open the truck door and leaned out, her white hair as poufy as cotton candy. “Grandpa wants to know if you need help?”

Jake rolled his eyes heavenward. The sun nearly blinded him. “Be right there, Granny. Don’t fall out.”

At under five feet and shrinking, Granny Pat didn’t have the strength to pull the heavy truck door closed and it edged further and further open. She was slowly being stretched from the cab.

Jake dropped the wheelchair and sprinted to her side, catching her a second before she tumbled out onto the grass. “Easy there. That door is heavy.”

“I know it!” Fragile or not, she was still spit-and-vinegar Pat and clearly aggravated at her weakness. “I’m useless. Makes me so mad.”

“Let’s get you in the house. You’ll feel better there.”

“Get my wheelchair.”

“The chair can wait.” Forever as far as he was concerned.

With an ease that made him sad, Jake lifted his grandmother from the seat and carried her inside the house.

“Where to, madame?” he teased, though his heart ached. Granny Pat had been his mama, his daddy and his home all rolled into one strong, vital woman. She’d endured his wild teenage years and the scandal he’d caused that rocked Gabriel’s Crossing. For her body to fail all because of one broken bone was unfair.

But when had life ever been fair?

“Put me in the recliner.” She pointed toward one of two recliners in the living room—the blue one with a yellow-and-orange afghan tossed across the back.

He did as she asked.

Granny Pat tilted her head against the plush corduroy and gazed around the room with pleasure. “It’s good to finally be home. I’ll get my strength back here.”

Her pleasure erased the sorrow of seeing Brady Buchanon and the nagging worry over finances. Granny Pat needed this, needed him, and he’d find a way to deal with the Buchanons and his empty pockets.

“You want some water or anything before I unload the truck?”

“Nothing but fresh air. Open some windows, Jacob. This house stinks. I don’t know how you slept here in this must and dust.”

As he threw open windows, Jake noticed the dirt and dead insects piled on the windowsills. “Maybe I can find a housekeeper?” His wallet would scream, but he’d figure out a way.

“I don’t want some stranger in my house poking around.”

“Nobody’s a stranger in Gabriel’s Crossing, Granny.”

“Grandpa says something will turn up. Don’t worry.”

A bit of breeze drifted through the window, stirring dust in the sunlight.

“Granny Pat, you know Grandpa—”

“Yes, Jacob, I know.” Her tone was patient as if he was the one with the mental lapses. “Now go on and bring in my belongings. I want my Sudoku book.”

Jake jogged out to the truck, eyeing the pain-in-the-neck wheelchair he’d left against the back bumper. Granny Pat needed wheels to be mobile, and as much as he wanted to haul the chair to the nearest landfill, he was a man and he was determined to make the thing work.

He was wrestling the wheels apart when a Camaro rumbled to the stop sign on the corner. Precisely what he did not need. Allison Buchanon. He refused to look in her direction, hoping she’d roll on down the street. She didn’t.

Allison, tenacious as a terrier, rolled down her window. “Having trouble?”

He looked up and his stomach tumbled down into his boots. The soft brown eyes he’d never forgotten snagged his. A sizzle of connection raised the hairs on his arms. “No.”

Go away.

As if he wasn’t the least interested in the wheelchair, he leaned the contraption against the truck and reached inside the bed for one of Granny Pat’s suitcases.

The Camaro engine still rumbled next to the curb. Why didn’t she mosey on down the road?

“You can’t fool me,” she hollered. “I remember.”

And that was nearly his undoing. He could never fool Allison. No matter what he said or how hard he tried to pretend not to care that he was the town pariah, Allison saw through him. She’d even called him her hero.

“Go home, Allison.” He didn’t want her to remember any more than he wanted her feeling sorry for him.

She gunned the engine but instead of leaving, she pulled into the driveway and hopped out.

Hands deep in her back jeans pockets, she wore a sweater the color of a pumpkin that set off her dark hair. He didn’t want to notice the changes in her, from the sweet-faced teenager to a beautiful woman, but he’d have to be dead not to.

Her fluffy, flyaway hair bounced as she approached the truck, took hold of the wheelchair and attempted to open it. When the chair didn’t budge, she scowled. “What’s wrong with this?”

Determined not to be friendly, Jake hefted a suitcase in each hand and started toward the house. He was here in Gabriel’s Crossing because of Granny Pat. No other reason. Allison Buchanon didn’t affect him in the least.

And bulls could fly.