A Cowboy's Christmas Wedding

Why did he have a feeling he wouldn’t like what she had to say?

“We need to choose music for the wedding.”

“Can’t Alana and Trent choose their own music?”

She tossed him a single shake of her head. “I suppose they could, but I would bet that between the two of us we can do a pretty good job. You know Alana like the back of your hand and I know Trent. Ergo, we can do it ourselves.”

When he straightened away from the stereo, the music blissfully silenced, he caught sight of something else. Stacked on a table near one of the bookcases were pink boxes, the kind one found in bakeries and doughnut shops.

“That’s our other task.” She pointed, giving him an impish smile. “You’re going to help me choose a wedding cake.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

He shook his head in case she had really missed his meaning. “I haven’t eaten today. The last thing I need is sugar.” And loud music, but he kept the last to himself.

“I thought of that.” She got up from her seat. “Before Rana left for her friend’s house, I made dinner. Fried chicken. One of my other specialties. Go ahead and eat.”

“Rana went to a friend’s?”

She nodded.

He suddenly felt as though he lost ten pints of blood. “We’re alone?”

She made scary fingers. “Yes,” she said in what sounded like a Russian accent. “But I promise not to drink your blood.”

He blinked, blood having come out sounding like blah-ud. He almost smiled again.

“When will she be back?”

“She was hoping to spend the night. Said she’d call you later on.”

No. That wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t spending a night under the same roof as Saedra Robbins. Alone. Just the thought did something to his body that he’d rather not think about.

“Actually, I have to go out tonight.”

“No, you don’t.”

He about did a double take.

“I had Rana check your schedule. You don’t have anything planned.”

“Rana’s not my social director.”

“No, but she said you always check in with her. Always.”

Busted. “Something came up.”

“What?”

None of your business. That’s what he wanted to shout. “I need to do some paperwork in my office.” He quickly pointed toward the front door. “The one in the barn.”

Her face lit up. It was amazing what happened to her eyes when that happened. They practically sparkled. “Okay, good. I can finish downloading the music while you finish up your work.”

If he protested any more, he’d end up sounding like a jerk. “Fine.”

And that didn’t sound jerklike?

He silenced himself by leaving. He wasn’t really lying. Not really. He always had paperwork to do, but she insisted on sending him off with a plate full of chicken. Once his belly was full, it was hard to resist the urge to hide in his office for the rest of the night, but a beep on his phone, followed by a voice announcing, “I’m done,” preempted the notion. Someone had taught her to use the intercom system. Great.

He took his time walking down the steps that ran alongside the back wall of the feed room. The smell of sweetened oats filled his nose, and the quiet nickering of horses soothed his frayed nerves. The twelve-stall barn was only a couple of years old, built when they opened the ranch to visitors, and it housed the horses they used for their therapy program. Fluorescent lights hung from the middle of the barn aisle. Horse heads popped up one by one as he walked by. They’d installed an arena off the front, and to his left and out back behind the barn stretched acres and acres of pasture, but for now he headed right and toward the pathway that led to his house. Through the tall pines he could make out his study light, and above that, Rana’s bedroom light. She must have left it on. Darn kid. One of these days he was going to make her pay the power bill.

That sweater of Saedra’s really did hug her every curve. He had occasion to notice the moment he walked in the door, since the woman all but bounded out of the kitchen and into the foyer. What the sweater didn’t cover, skintight black leggings did, the ends tucked into lamb’s fleece and brown suede boots.

“I hope you like sweets.”

Only if she was on the menu.

He winced. She didn’t seem to notice—she was too busy motioning toward the kitchen and the pink boxes, which she’d moved onto the bar-height kitchen table. “I thought we could listen to the music I downloaded earlier while you do some tasting.”

“Terrific.”

He couldn’t have sounded more sarcastic if he tried. He knew that. Told himself to lighten up a bit. He’d morphed into some kind of computer program that went into nasty default mode whenever she stood near.

“Okay, here we go.” His tone of voice didn’t appear to get her down. If anything, she seemed to perk up even more, even waved her iPod at him. “Let me just plug this into the player I brought down earlier.” She spun toward a long counter that separated the kitchen from his family room. Two seconds later the soft voice of Clint Black filled the room. She turned back to him with a smile. “You like that?”

“I think it’s more important that Trent and Alana like it.”

“I know, but Trent loves this song, and I just wondered if Alana might like it, too.”

“If it’s country, she’ll like it.”

“Perfect.” She patted the back of a bar stool. “Now sit.”

He cocked his head. “Just cut me a slice and I’ll taste.”

“Nope.” She opened one of the pink boxes. “We’re going to have some fun while you do this.”

“Fun?”

When she faced him again, long blond hair shimmering, she seemed on the verge of a laugh. “Yes. You remember what fun is, don’t you?”

“Of course.” What kind of person did she think he was? “I just don’t see what it has to do with tasting cake.”

“It turns out there’s a plethora of bakers in the area. Most of them were kind enough to whip something up for me today given the short notice, so I need you to tell me which of the six cakes you like.”

“Six?”