Ten Rules for Marrying a Cowboy Page 2

  He picked up a few other items, noticing that Jacey didn’t look as interested as he’d expected, even though the store had kicked into Christmas season, right down to the decorated tree with a toy-laden, kid-tempting Radio Flyer wagon beneath.

  Holt touched the top of her head. “Waiting on those peanuts?”

  Wide green eyes, like Pamela’s, gazed up at him, serious as an eight-second ride. It had been those green eyes that had captivated him from the start. Pamela’s first. And now Jacey’s.

  “Daddy, do you know what I really want for Christmas? More than anything in the world?”

  “The pink boots you looked at last time?”

  “Nope.”

  Too bad. He’d already bought them, though he wasn’t opposed to hearing her wish list.

  He picked up a plastic pony and galloped it up the side of her arm. “Don’t tell me you want another horse.”

  “No, Daddy.” She shrugged away from him to trail her fingers across a rack of belts. The buckles clacked against each other as the rack wobbled.

  With the quick reflexes needed to ride bulls and broncs, Holt steadied the display before it could fall. The way Jacey was avoiding eye contact, she must have something serious on her mind.

  Tired of the guessing game, he asked, “What then?”

  A hopeful face turned up to his. “A mommy.”

  “A what?” Holt blink, gulped. Surely, he’d misunderstood.

  “A mommy. You know, a grown up girl who can fix hair and smells good and smiles a lot.”

  That’s what Holt was afraid she’d meant. He pointed to a spot behind her on the pegboard wall. “Hand me one of those packs of batteries. Double A.”

  She complied. “Ellie Skye has a mommy but no daddy. Maybe you can marry her mom, and me and Ellie can be sisters.”

  He laughed. Now that was a ridiculous notion.

  “I think Ellie’s mom would have a say in that.” Dakota Lockhart was a fine woman, a hardworking cowgirl. But like him, she was focused on ranching and raising her child. And, if rumor held true, she had a less than positive attitude toward the male species.

  He tugged at one of Jacey’s ponytails. Her hair was falling down, as usual. “How about a pizza?”

  “For real? Can we eat it in the store and get cimimum bread sticks too?”

  “Cinnamon sticks sound good. What do you say? Pizza Palace for supper?”

  “Can I still have peanuts?”

  “Sure.” A healthy meal in his books. “We can snack on those later.”

  She gave two bunny hops. “Okay!”

  Holt breathed an inward sigh of relief. He’d distracted her from the ridiculously impossible request. Thank you, Lord, for pizza.

  Still, he was flabbergasted. Where had she gotten such an idea? He’d thought they were doing great, just the pair of them. Jacey was happy, healthy, loved, and well cared for. What else was there?

  Someday, maybe when Jacey got older, she’d need a woman’s advice, but they had plenty of time to figure that out.

  Because a mother for Jacey meant a wife for Holt. And that was not going to happen.

  2

  AnnaLeigh propped her tired feet on the coffee table inside her tiny, furnished apartment. Tipping her head back against the sofa, she closed her eyes and rested, contemplating what foods would be the least likely to make her sick.

  She ran both hands over her belly. Flat as a tabletop.

  How could there be a little person in there? But there was. She’d taken the tests three weeks in a row, and every time, the answer was the same. She was pregnant.

  It was that first test that had brought her here to Refuge. She’d discovered the ugly truth about Alan’ only shortly before and had still been trying to decide what to do. The pregnancy was the spark that had forced her decision. If Alan found out his behavior had caused a baby, he’d tell her to “take care of it,” maybe even drag her to the one of his “pals” who owed him a favor. Although he was Mr. Uptown and Prosperous, Alan seemed to know a lot of sleazy people.

  She couldn’t allow that to happen. Inside her was a tiny, helpless human being, totally dependent on her for protection. He—or she—would get that protection, no matter what AnnaLeigh had to do. Her baby would never know the unpleasant circumstances of his conception, just as he would always know that his mother loved him. Fiercely.

  “I’ll take you of, baby. Don’t be scared.” Mostly, she spoke to herself. She was the scared one, though every day that she lived in Refuge, she grew less afraid.

  Alan had probably forgotten her by now and moved on to some other gullible female who would fall for his boyish charm without wondering how he made his money. She’d been blindly stupid for five whole months.

  Now, all she missed about Sandridge, Colorado, was her friends. She’d told a couple of them by phone that she was leaving, but, after Alan had called and texted too many times, she’d changed her number. No use calling friends and putting them in a bad spot with Alan.

  She pulled out her phone and logged into Facebook, careful to be sure her location was blocked and her settings remained private and secure. She scanned Jazmine’s page for news, smiling to see a selfie of her friend at the beauty salon with multiple foil-wrapped swatches of hair sticking out all over her head.

  Clicking private message, she typed a few lines.

  Love the hair! Keep posting to Facebook. It makes me feel less lonely. If he asks, don’t tell Alan you’ve heard from me.

  After sending the message, she opened her own profile page. The message icon indicated a post. She clicked it. And her breath froze in her chest.

  “Hey, doll face. Missing you. Must be something wrong with your phone. I can’t get through. If you’re upset about something, tell me, and I’ll make it up to you. Come home.”

  Alan’s message sounded harmless, even sweet, but she knew him better now. Beneath the syrupy words, he was seething. She closed the screen, realized her hands were shaking, and put the phone on the coffee table. She shouldn’t let Alan upset her this way. He didn’t know where she was.

  But she knew exactly what he meant about making it up to her. He’d make her pay for leaving him, make her sorry.

  She was already sorry enough.

  Jacey perched on the couch next to Holt, the easy-reader Bible stories between them. Her hair was wet, and she smelled like bubblegum shampoo as she snuggled into his side for their nightly devotional.

  Holt slid one arm around her, tucking her slight, flannel-clad body close, and letting the book rest on his thigh. Love shifted through him, fierce and protective. Never in his wildest imagination had he expected to love anyone the way he loved his child. He’d do about anything for her.

  “I can read this page,” she said, and did, stumbling over only a few words.

  Holt’s chest filled with pride. She was sharp, and school was easier for her than it had been for him. But then, he and his brothers had been more interested in riding and roping than reading and writing.

  Jacey tilted her head back in a giant yawn.

  “Somebody’s sleepy. Want me to read the rest?”

  She nodded and laid her head against his chest. He stroked her damp hair as he finished reading the story of the “Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes.”

  As he closed the book, Jacey sat up. “I like that story.”

  “Me too. Do you know why it’s important?”

  “Because Jesus made sandwiches for a lot of people so they wouldn‘t starve?”

  Holt smiled. “But how did He do that? He wasn’t close to a store, and all he had was five loaves of bread and two fish. And there were thousands of hungry people.”

  She scrunched up her freckled nose. “Cause he’s magic?”

  “Better than magic. God can do anything. So, Jesus prayed, blessed the food, and it multiplied.”

  “Wow.” She pondered for a minute before lifting her eyes toward his. “Can Jesus really do anything?”

  “Sure, He can. He’s the creator o
f the universe.”

  “He loves us, right? And wants good things for us?”

  A happy feeling warmed the middle of Holt’s chest. His lessons were finding their target. Jacey was like a sponge. She remembered everything he told her, and she loved learning about Jesus.

  “Absolutely.” He tapped her nose. “He loves you inside out, upside down, good, bad, and even when you don’t brush your teeth.”

  A smile to rival the sun blossomed on her pert face. “I love Jesus. He’s nice.”

  Nice seemed to be her favorite word these days. “Me, too. Now, go brush your teeth, and let’s get you tucked into bed.”

  “So the Tooth Fairy can come?”

  He’d almost forgotten. “Right. Now, scoot.”

  She hopped off the couch and made a beeline for the bathroom.

  Thank goodness for the lost tooth. Normally, she dragged her feet and found a dozen excuses not to go to bed on time. Holt wished someone would make him go to bed early, even for one night. Today had been a long one, and he still had bookkeeping to do after Jacey was settled.

  He tossed the story Bible onto a shelf next to the unused fireplace. There never seemed to be enough time to build a fire.

  Jacey skipped back into the living room, the stuffed unicorn she’d named Rosey clutched against her chest.

  “Come on, Daddy, we’re all ready.”

  He followed her down the short hall to her room. It was a mess, as usual. Might need to shovel it out on Saturday. Like him, Jacey would rather be outside in the barn than stuck in the house. Things around here got a little messy.

  “Can I say my prayers now?” She dropped to her knees beside the bed.

  Touched and encouraged that his child was growing in her faith—and tired enough to be glad there was to be no argument over staying up later—Holt knelt, too.

  She clasped her hands under her chin and squeezed her eyes shut. “Dear Jesus,” she prayed. “Daddy says you can do anything, so this Christmas, instead of toys, I’d like a Mommy. She doesn’t have to be pretty or rich, but I hope she smells nice and smiles a lot. And can fix girl hair. Oh, and a mommy that loves me. And Daddy, too. And won’t go to heaven too soon.”

  A lump the size of Dallas filled Holt’s throat. It wasn’t the emotional pain of knowing his baby had lost her mama that choked him. Nor was it the stab of truth that Jacey’s mother had never loved him and had shared that information with their child. It was what Jacey asked.

  In full faith, with his unintentional blessing, his little cowgirl had asked for the impossible.

  Even if all things are possible with God, all things are not possible with Holt McNeil.

  Pamela had run him through the wringer, taken half of his earnings, and refused to let him see his daughter, calling him unfit, uncouth, and a lot of other accusations that were probably true at the time. No, no, and no. Marriage was not a rodeo he wanted to enter again.

  So now he faced a serious dilemma. He’d either have to find a wife—unthinkable—or break his daughter’s heart and destroy her faith. At Christmas. Even more unthinkable.

  Mind in a jumble, he missed most of the rest of Jacey’s prayer.

  He tuned back in to hear her say, “And God bless Miss AnnaLeigh. I think she was kind of sick today. Don’t forget to tell the Tooth Fairy about my tooth. Okay? Thank you. Amen.”

  With a pleased expression, she hopped onto the bed and reached both arms toward him. He bent for a hug and then gently rested her against the pillow.

  Her narrow shoulders rose in a contented sigh. “Good night, Daddy.”

  “Good night, Tumbleweed. Love you.”

  He kissed her forehead, flipped off the purple unicorn light switch, and headed down the short hall to the living room.

  Jacey’s prayer haunted him. She wanted a mother. It hurt a little to realize, for the first time, that no matter how good a dad he became, he could never be a mother.

  What a dilemma.

  Unable to concentrate on paperwork, he collapsed in his favorite battered, smelly recliner. Smelly, as in horses, leather, and sweat. Good, honest, hard-working smells. A wife would toss it out. He couldn’t have that.

  A wife would also demand he take his saddle to the barn. That saddle had been in his living room since the day he’d moved in. He used that saddle as a footstool and to teach Jacey the finer points of riding and roping. He loved that saddle. It was a reminder of his very last National Finals and the fat prize package he’d won. No way was he throwing out that saddle.

  He liked things the way they were. A woman would want to rearrange his whole life. Maybe insist on redecorating the ranch. Paint everything pink. She’d spend his money faster than he could make it. Pamela had already done enough of that to last him a lifetime.

  But if he didn’t at least try to find her a mother, Jacey would be disappointed. Not only in him, but, more importantly, in God.

  Nurturing her faith was the single most important duty he had as a daddy.

  But a wife? A woman in his house, messing with his comfortable routine? Threatening his heart and wallet?

  Oh, man, this was killer.

  Holt dropped his head in his hands, groaned, and did the only thing a sensible cowboy could do. He prayed.

  A week later, AnnaLeigh once more stood inside Rachel’s Cards and Gifts at one end of a long table helping her students spell words for this week’s project—their own personal card or letter to Santa Claus.

  She was still nauseated more often than not and had made an appointment with a local physician recommended by Rachel, who was certain she had a lingering virus.

  She’d not heard another word from her ex-boyfriend.

  She couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or an ominous sign. Alan could be unpredictable.

  “Is bike spelled b-i-k?”

  AnnaLeigh walked down the row to the boy. “Almost, Tuck. Just put an e on the end. Long vowel words need that e, remember?”

  She wasn’t sure where the phonics rule came from. She hadn’t exactly been a star student, though she’d loved to read, especially romantic fantasies with happy endings.

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Tucker grinned up at her. He was a rambunctious first grader, but goodhearted. AnnaLeigh patted his shoulder and moved on down the row, interested in what the children were writing.

  Having the kids in the shop lifted her spirits. It was hard to be gloomy in a roomful of bright, happy children.

  Among today’s projects, she mostly saw lists of toys, but occasionally a child took the time to focus on someone besides herself. Like Ellie Skye, the sturdy little redhead sitting between her pals, Ava and Jacey. The triplets, she’d dubbed them. Though they didn’t look a thing alike, they were always together.

  “I want Santa to bring my mom some money,” Ellie was saying, her marker making dollar signs all around the edge of her card with her left hand. “What do you want, Ava?”

  Ava, the fragile blond wisp, heaved a sigh. Her card was blank except for a half dozen red hearts across the bottom. “I wanted a pony like you and Jacey have, but Daddy said I couldn’t ask for one. I might get hurt. Santa doesn’t want children to get hurt.”

  Jacey, the rumpled cowgirl, didn’t enter the conversation. With her tongue between her teeth, she was intent on her card. Curious, AnnaLeigh stood behind her to read.

  “Miss AnnaLeigh.” Jacey glanced up. “How do you spell Jesus? I don’t want to mess up His name.”

  AnnaLeigh spelled the name for her, wondering what Jesus had to do with a letter to Santa.

  Propping one hand on the tabletop, she leaned in and read:

  Dear Santa,

  I love you. You’re nice. How’s Rudolf? This year, don’t bring me toys. Or clothes neither. Not even pink boots. I reely want a momy. Okay? ‘Cause mine went to heven. P.S. A mom who smells good and can fix gril hair and who loves me and Dady. And smiles a lot. Okay? I asked Jesus to help you find her. He will. He can do anything. Dady told me so. Love, Jacey.

  Te
nderness clutched AnnaLeigh’s heart. The child’s mother had died, which explained Jacey’s disheveled appearance. The cowboy was probably doing the best he could to raise a daughter on his own.

  She knew what it meant to grow up without a mother. But Jacey had certainly put her dad in a tough spot.

  Poor guy. What would he do when he read this Christmas wish?

  Holt thought he’d put Jacey’s wish for a mother out of his head and hoped she’d forgotten it. She hadn’t. She wouldn’t let him forget it either.

  Case in point was the card in his back pocket. A letter to Santa that he was supposed to mail. The thing was burning a hole in his jeans.

  “Hey, Holt,” Zeke called. “You gonna help me unload this feed or stare at that fence post?”

  Holt and his hired hand had been to town for the month’s grain supply and were storing the sacks in the feed room adjacent to the hay barn. Zeke tossed fifty pound bags from the back of a flatbed truck while Holt stacked them in the shed. Supposedly.

  Holt shook himself out the daze. He was loafing. Falling down on the job. Uncharacteristic. All because of his daughter’s prayer. “Distracted, I guess. Something Jacey wants for Christmas. It’s got my head in a bad place.”

  “Aw, kids ask for crazy stuff. They know they won’t get it. Once I asked for a real rocket ship to take me to the moon. I got a toy one instead and had to use my imagination. I got over it.”

  The lean, lanky cowboy tossed the heavy feed sack as if it didn’t weigh a thing. The load landed in Holt’s arms with a thud and the dusty smell of grain.

  “This is not quite the same.” Holt stacked the grain and then pulled the folded card from his pocket. “Read this.”

  Zeke dusted his hands on his jeans, hopped down from the truck bed, and took the card. After a quick read, he raised amused eyes. “Oh, buddy, you’re in trouble.”

  “Tell me about it. She thinks Jesus can get her a mother. How can I tell her that He can’t?” More importantly, that He wouldn’t because Holt wouldn’t allow it.