Christmas in Cold Creek

They might bicker about it, but Trace knew no other person would have his back like his twin—though Caidy and their older brother, Ridge, would be close behind.

“Cut it out, you two.” Ridge, the de facto patriarch of the family, gave them both a stern look that reminded Trace remarkably of their father. “You’re going to ruin this delicious dessert Destry made.”

“It’s only boysenberry cobbler,” his daughter piped in. “It wasn’t hard at all.”

“Well, it tastes like it was hard,” Taft said with a grin. “That’s the important thing.”

Dinner at the family ranch, the River Bow, was a heralded tradition. No matter how busy they might be during the week with their respective lives and careers, the Bowman siblings tried to at least gather on Sundays when they could.

If not for Caidy, these Sunday dinners would probably have died long ago, another victim of their parents’ brutal murders. For a few years after that fateful time a decade ago, the tradition had faded as Trace and his siblings struggled in their own ways to cope with their overwhelming grief.

Right around the time Ridge’s wife left him and Caidy graduated from high school and started taking over caring for the ranch house and for Destry, his sister had revived the traditional Sunday dinners. Over the years it had become a way for them all to stay connected despite the hectic pace of their lives. He cherished these dinners, squabbles and all.

“I worked all night, too, but I’m not such a wimp that I can’t take care of my fair share,” he said with a sanctimonious look at his brother. “You sit here and rest, Taft. I wouldn’t want you to overdo. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

Of course his brother couldn’t let that insult stand, just as Trace expected. As a result, Taft became the designated dishwasher and Trace dried and put away the dishes while Destry and Ridge cleared the table.

Taft was just running water in the sink when Destry came in on her father’s heels, her eyes as huge and plaintive as one of Caidy’s rescued mutts begging for a treat. “Please, Dad. If we wait much longer, it will be too late.”

“Too late for what?” Taft asked innocently.

“Christmas!” Destry exclaimed. “It’s already the last Sunday in November. If we don’t cut down our tree soon, the mountains will be too snowy. Please, Dad? Please, please, please?”

Ridge heaved a sigh. He didn’t need to express his reluctance for Trace to understand it. None of his siblings had been very crazy about Christmas for nearly a decade, since their parents were killed just before Christmas Eve ten years ago.

“We’ll get one,” his brother assured Destry.

“What’s the point of even putting up a tree if we wait much longer? Christmas will be over.”

“It’s not even December yet!”

“It’s almost December. It will be here before we know it.”

“She sounds like Mom,” Taft said. “Remember how she used to start hounding Dad to cut the tree a few weeks before Thanksgiving?”

“And she always had it picked out by the middle of the summer,” Caidy answered with a sad little smile.

“Please, Daddy. Can we go?”

Trace had to smile at his niece’s persistence. Destry was a sharp little thing. She was generally a happy kid, which he found quite amazing considering her mother was a major bitch who had left Ridge and Destry when the little girl was still just a toddler.

“I guess you’re right.” Ridge eyed his brothers. “Either of you boys up for a ride to help me bring back the tree? We can get one for your places, too.”

Taft shrugged. “I’ve got a date. Sorry.”

“You have a date on a Sunday afternoon?” Caidy asked with raised eyebrows.

His brother seemed to find every available female between the ages of twenty-two and forty. “Not really a date. I’m going over to a friend’s house to watch a movie and order pizza.”

“You just had dinner,” Caidy pointed out.

Taft grinned. “That’s the thing about food … and other things. No matter how good the feast, you’re always ready for more in a few hours.”

“How old are you? Sixteen?” Ridge asked with a roll of his eyes.

“Old enough to thoroughly enjoy my pizza and everything that goes along with it,” Taft said with another grin. “But you boys have fun cutting down your Christmas trees.”

“You in?” Ridge asked Trace.

Since he didn’t have a pizza buddy right now—or any other kind of euphemistically termed acquaintance—Trace figured he might as well. “Sure. I’m up for a ride. Let’s go find a tree.”

He could use a ride into the mountains. It might help clear the cobwebs out of his head from a week of double shifts.

The decision had been a good one, he decided a half hour later as he rode his favorite buckskin mare, Genie, up the trail leading to the evergreen forest above the ranch. He had needed to get out into the mountains on horseback again. The demands of his job as head honcho in an overworked and underfunded police department often left him with too little leisure time. He ought to make more time for himself, though. Right now, with feathery snowflakes drifting down and the air smelling crisp and clean, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

He loved River Bow Ranch. This was home, despite the bad memories and their grim past. Counting Destry now, five generations of Bowmans had made their home here, starting just after World War I with his great-grandfather. It was a lovely spot, named not only for the family name but also for the oxbow in Cold Creek that was a beautiful nesting spot in the summer for geese and swans.

Below the ranch, he could see the lights of Pine Gulch gleaming in the dusk. His town. Yeah, it might sound like something out of an old Western, but he loved this little slice of western heaven. He’d had offers from bigger departments around Idaho and even a couple out of state. A few of them were tempting, he couldn’t deny that. But every time he thought about leaving Pine Gulch, he thought about all the things he would have to give up. His family, his heritage, the comfort of small traditions like breakfast at The Gulch after an overnight shift. The sacrifices seemed too great.

“Thanks for coming with us,” Destry said, reining her tough little paint pony next to his mare.

“My pleasure. Thanks for asking me, kid.” His niece was turning into a good rider. Ridge had set her on the back of a horse from just about the moment she could walk and it showed. She had a confident seat, an easy grace, that had already won her some junior rodeo competitions.

“Are you finally going to put up a tree this year, Uncle Trace?”

“I don’t know. Seems like a lot of trouble when it’s only me.”

He hated admitting that but it was true. He was tired of being alone. A year ago, he thought he was ready to settle down. He’d even started dating Easton Springhill. From here, he could see across the canyon and up to where she ran her family’s place, Winder Ranch.

Easton wasn’t for him. Some part of him had known it even as he’d tried to convince himself otherwise. Just how wrong she’d been for him had become abundantly clear when Cisco Del Norte came back to town and he saw for himself just how much Easton loved the man.

The two of them were deliriously happy now. They had adopted a little girl, who was just about the cutest thing he’d ever seen, all big eyes and curly black hair and dimples, and Easton was expecting a baby in the spring. While Trace still wasn’t crazy about Cisco, he had to admit the guy made Easton happy.

He had tried to convince himself he was in love with Easton but he recognized now that effort had been mostly based on hope. Oh, he probably could have fallen in love with her if he’d given a little more effort to it. Easton was great—warm and compassionate and certainly beautiful enough. They could have made a good life together here, but theirs would never have been the fierce passion she shared with Cisco.

A passion he couldn’t help envying.

Maybe he would always be the bachelor uncle. It wasn’t necessarily a bad role in life, he thought as Destry urged her pony faster on the trail.

“Almost there!” she exclaimed, her face beaming.

A few moments later they reached the thickly forested border of the ranch. Destry was quick to lead the way to the tree she had picked out months ago and marked with an orange plastic ribbon, just as their mother used to do.

Ridge cut the tree quickly with his chain saw while Destry looked on with glee. Caidy and a couple of her dogs had come up, as well—Trace had left Grunt, the ugly little French bulldog he’d inherited from Wally Taylor, back at the ranch house since the dog couldn’t have kept up with the horses on his stubby little legs.

His sister didn’t help cut down the tree, only stood on the outskirts of the forest, gazing down at town.

“How about you?” his brother asked. “You want us to cut one for you while we’re up here?”