A Cowboy's Christmas Carol
Autore
Brenda Harlen
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Chapter One
Desperately Seeking Daisy.
Desperately seeking a woman named Daisy who was born in 1945 to teenage parents and placed for adoption somewhere in Montana. Your birth family would like to meet you! Please contact the Abernathy family at the Ambling A Ranch, Bronco Heights, Montana. Time is of the essence!
Evan Cruise clicked his mouse to close the open window on his desktop that displayed the company’s Twitter feed. It was at least the tenth time in three days that he’d spotted the notice on different social media sites, and something about it made the back of his neck itch, though he wasn’t eager to dig deep and figure out what that something was.
Of course, he’d lived in Bronco his whole life, so he was familiar with the Abernathy name and knew the location of their ranch. What he didn’t know was why the Abernathys were suddenly searching for an apparently long-lost relative. In any event, he didn’t have time to waste worrying about some decades-old mystery that he’d decided, despite the itch at the back of his neck, had no connection to him. He had a business to run.
He moved his cursor over the desktop to click on the icon labeled This Week. The seven-day calendar popped up to reveal each of the scheduled tour slots highlighted in pink, indicating that it was fully booked. He clicked to advance to the next week and saw all the dates in pink again and had to smile, despite the fact that it was the middle of November, which meant that the holidays—and all the hoopla that went along with them—were just around the corner. Because pink translated to more money in the bank, and more money was the surest sign of success.
Of course, he only ran tours three days a week during what was considered the off-season for Bronco Ghost Tours. Still, the numbers had convinced him there was interest enough to justify adding a fourth weekly tour through to the new year. The extra tour, along with the supplemental income he made selling Bronco Ghost Tours merchandise in-store and online, guaranteed a very healthy bottom line for his business.
Lucky for Evan, everyone seemed to enjoy a good story, and quite a few of those liked scary stories. Since even more got excited about the holidays, he’d come up with the idea of a seasonal Yuletide Ghost Tour. Just because he didn’t share their enthusiasm didn’t mean he couldn’t capitalize on it.
Eager to sell this tour as something different, he’d committed to finding new legends and venues rather than just adding a seasonal spin to the locations visited on some of his other tours. It was a happy coincidence that he happened to overhear a group of old-timers chatting at the coffee shop near his office the previous week—more specifically the mention of “ghost horses” at “the old Whispering Willows Ranch” and the claim that they “always kick up a fuss this time of year.”
Though Evan habitually drank his coffee black, he’d taken his time adding cream and sugar to his to-go cup that morning and, at the same time, making careful mental notes as he listened to the men.
When he got back to the office, he jotted down the brief details for his assistant to dig deeper into the story and determine if the old Whispering Willows Ranch might be a suitable addition to his tour. Considering that the first Yuletide Ghost Tour was scheduled for the Friday after Thanksgiving—only nine days away—he needed to finalize not just the destinations and the route but the story line to entice his guests every step of the way.
As if on cue, a tentative knock sounded on the open door, and he glanced up to see his assistant hovering in the entranceway.
“What is it, Kelly?”
“It’s Callie, sir.”
“What’s Callie?”
“My name is Callie,” she clarified.
Another man might have been embarrassed by the slip, but Evan wasn’t one to dwell on emotion. Besides, it was hardly his fault that he couldn’t keep straight the names of the assistants who seemed to rotate through his office as if they were in a revolving door. No, the fault could be laid squarely at the feet of Brittany Brandt. Since she’d abandoned her position at Bronco Ghost Tours early in the spring, he’d been at the mercy of a local temp agency that sent a different candidate every couple of months—and sometimes even more frequently than that.
Apparently his former assistant was now an event planner for Bronco Heights Elite Parties and making quite a name for herself. In fact, she was reputed to be the talent behind the recent Denim and Diamonds fundraiser that had been hosted by Cornelius Taylor and his third wife, Jessica, to benefit programs for low-income families in Bronco Valley. Evan knew that he should be happy for Brittany, who’d moved on to a career that she obviously loved—and had fallen in love and married, too—but he was still a little annoyed that she’d left him with only two weeks’ notice and an explanation that still rankled: You’re impatient and demanding and it’s not a lot of fun to work here.
“What is it, Callie?” he asked the temp still hovering in his doorway, looking as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff without a safety harness.
He tried to be patient, but honestly, he felt as if he’d wasted so much time training new employees over the past six months that he might have been further ahead if he’d done the work himself. But this one had been a quick learner, and at least when she wore skirts to the office, they covered more than just the curve of her bottom, and with shoes that were more serviceable than sexy. Her immediate predecessor had been more interested in earning the title “missus” than “administrative assistant” and had flirted outrageously with any man who walked into the office—including her boss! Sure, she was attractive, and Evan might have been flattered if he wasn’t terrified of a sexual harassment suit, which he told her from a safe distance on the other side of his desk.
“I finished the research you wanted on the former Whispering Willows Ranch,” Callie said.
He held out his hand because, more important than either her skirts or her shoes, she was smart and a hard worker, if a little on the timid side.
She stepped into the room to offer him the sheaf of papers.
There were a lot of pages, attesting to the thoroughness of her research, which he appreciated. However, he had a meeting in less than an hour, so he asked, “Can you summarize for me?”
She nodded and immediately began. “In 1912 the Milton family bought the property on which they operated a cattle ranch for almost fifty years. Just before Thanksgiving 1960—”
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “Are you sure about the date?”
Because the way the old guys in the coffee shop had been talking, it was as if the property had been haunted for more than a hundred years. Not that the timing mattered, really. All that mattered was that there was some corroboration of the haunted part.
“Yes, sir,” she said, her head bobbing for emphasis.
“Okay, then.” He gestured for her to carry on.
“Just before Thanksgiving in 1960,” she continued, picking up where she’d left off, “Henry and Thelma returned home from a trip into town to find the barn engulfed in flames. The firefighters would later describe the horrifying screams of the dying animals that they couldn’t save, but no one knew that Alice had also been trapped in the barn...perhaps having raced in after the fire started to save the horses...until her charred remains were found in the wreckage the following day.
“Her father—inconsolable over the loss of the daughter—took his own life a week later.”
Evan had been flipping through the pages as she recited the facts, but he looked up now, his brows drawing together as he spotted a glint of silver on her shoulder. “Is that tinsel?” he demanded.
“What?” She followed the direction of his gaze. “Oh, um, yes.” But she removed the offending metallic strip from her shirt and scrunched it in her hand. “Other local businesses have started to decorate for the holidays, so I thought Bronco Ghost Tours should get into the spirit, too.”
“I don’t pay you to decorate,” he said.
“Of course not, sir,” she agreed. “I only put a few things up while I was on my lunch break.”
“Okay then,” he harrumphed, understanding that he couldn’t dictate how she spent her free time.
But he would absolutely put his foot down if he heard Christmas carols coming out of the speaker by her workstation.
“Now tell me what you found out about the ghost horses,” he said, returning to the matter at hand. “Has anyone claimed to see shimmery apparitions or hear unusual noises?”
She nodded. “The most recent former owner apparently decided to sell the ranch because he was creeped out by the sound of horses whinnying in the dark—and he didn’t have any horses.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Evan said, rubbing his hands together. But then he wondered aloud, “Who buys a ranch without having any horses?”
“Some Hollywood stunt double who wanted a quiet retreat to get away from it all,” Callie told him. “Until he realized it wasn’t so quiet after all.
“Neighbors and passersby have also claimed to hear the horses, usually at night, and some have even reported smelling wood smoke, as if something was burning.”
“What about the current owner?” he prompted. “Has he heard anything?”
“The current owner is Daphne Taylor. She acquired the property almost six years ago.”
“Cornelius Taylor’s daughter?”
Kelly—Callie—nodded.
“Hmm...” He considered this complication. Not that he had any issue with the wealthiest family in town, but he suspected they might not be thrilled to have rumors of ghosts associated with their property. “I forgot that she started an animal sanctuary.”
“Yes, sir,” she confirmed. “Whispering Willows is called Happy Hearts now.”
“Do you have contact information for Daphne Taylor?”
“It’s on the front page.”
He handed the papers back to her. “Give her a call and set up a meeting. Tell her I want to discuss a business proposition as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” she said again, turning to make her way back to the door.
It wouldn’t hurt to say “thank you” every once in a while.
They were the words Brittany had said to him as she was packing up her belongings on her last day of work, and they echoed in his head now.
And to let your employees know you’re grateful for their efforts—if you are.
Apparently he needed to remind himself that sometimes, a paycheck wasn’t appreciation enough.
With the echo of Brittany’s words in his head, he said, “Kel—Callie?”
His new assistant pivoted on her heel to face him, her expression set as if she was braced for a reprimand.
“Thanks,” he said. “You did a good job on the research.”
Her eyes went wide, as if she wasn’t quite sure she could believe what she was hearing, then her lips slowly curved into an appreciative smile. “Thank you, sir.”
He nodded. “And don’t forget to unpack the delivery from BrandYou before you leave today. We can’t sell Yuletide Ghost Tour merchandise if it isn’t on the shelves.”
Daphne Taylor lived and breathed Happy Hearts Animal Sanctuary. It wasn’t just her job or even her home, it was her passion. And while she felt good about the work she did and the life she was living on the purportedly haunted property, that didn’t prevent her from dreaming sometimes about being stretched out on a white sand beach under a tropical sky with a fruity drink in her hand and a handsome man rubbing sunscreen over her body.
She frowned as she shoved the pitchfork into the soiled straw and transferred it to the waiting wheelbarrow, acknowledging that it wasn’t really possible to enjoy a drink at the same time as a sensual massage. Since her shoulders and back felt tight and stiff, she set the imaginary drink aside and focused on the fictional man with magic hands.
An impatient grunt interrupted her mental fantasy.
“Don’t worry, Tiny Tim.” She took one gloved hand off the fork to rub his bristly head affectionately. “You and Barkley are still my favorite guys.”
After a few more rubs, the potbellied pig lumbered past her to his pen, with the heated pad on the floor, a rooting box to keep him busy, and lots of hay and water.
She thought wistfully of her own living room, where she was usually curled up with a mug of hot tea and a couple of cookies and her devoted yellow Lab by her chair at this time of day. But she usually had a lot more help on the farm than she’d had today, without which she was a few hours behind schedule.
It was her own fault for not remembering that it was Career Day at the high school and that her co-op students wouldn’t be showing up for their afternoon chores. She glanced at the clock on the wall again, unable to shake the feeling that she wasn’t just running behind schedule but actually late for something.
She had a calendar app on her phone—and she used it, but she sometimes forgot to schedule reminders along with appointments. A careless oversight that had resulted in the end of her previous relationship when Boyd Watkins had shown up to take her out for their six-month anniversary and discovered that she’d completely forgotten their date and the significance of it.
In the two years that had passed since then, she’d purposely limited romance to her fantasies because the men in her dreams never protested being forgotten when the animals needed her attention. And the animals always needed her attention, which was why a vacation to Hawaii—or anywhere else—wasn’t on her agenda in either the near or distant future.
And that was totally okay because Happy Hearts was as much a joy as a responsibility. But every once in a while—and maybe a little more often since her oldest brother had announced his engagement—she found herself wishing she had someone special in her life with whom to share the joys and responsibilities. Someone she could love and who would love her back, like Jordan loved Camilla.
“If wishes were horses,” she mused wryly, and forced herself to refocus on her task.
As the hands on the clock inched closer to three o’clock, she finished clearing out the soiled straw and dumped it behind the barn. She looked around for Barkley, who didn’t usually venture too far away, then remembered that Elaine, one of the volunteers, had borrowed Daphne’s canine companion to help socialize some of the other dogs in the adoption center this afternoon.
She returned to spread fresh straw in the stalls, still racking her brain in an effort to remember what task or appointment she was certainly forgetting.
“Knock, knock,” a male voice called out from the front of the barn. “Is anyone home?”
She turned automatically, pitchfork still in hand.
“In here,” she responded, waiting for the visitor to make his way to her.
When he finally stepped out of the shadows and into the light created by the late-afternoon sun slanting through the windows, he appeared almost luminescent, like an angel—or a ghost.
Daphne shook off the thought as every hormone in her body came to full alert to remind her that she wasn’t just alive but a woman—and one who hadn’t experienced such an immediate and visceral attraction to a man in a very long time. If ever.
Because...wow. He was definitely the best-looking guy to set foot on the farm in all the time that she’d lived there. Brown hair, neatly trimmed but long enough that she could see the natural wave in it; darker brown eyes with tiny crinkles at the corners; a square jaw with the two days’ growth that so many guys seemed to be sporting these days but that looked really good on this one.
Straight, dark brows rose as his gaze zeroed in on the implement in her hands and he slowly lifted his own in a gesture of surrender. “I come in peace,” he promised.
Flustered to realize she was holding the pitchfork as if it was a weapon, she lowered her arms and pushed the prongs into the straw at her feet. “How can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Daphne Taylor.”
“And now you’ve found her,” she said, and sent a silent thank-you to the universe that her prayers had finally been answered—and in such spectacular fashion. Even deducting points for what was obviously a leather jacket worn open over a navy sweater with dark jeans, the guy was almost heart-stoppingly good-looking.
But apparently he wasn’t as entranced as she was, because his brow furrowed and his tone held a note of disbelief when he said, “You’re Daphne Taylor?”
Of course, he was impeccably dressed while she was wearing a pair of oversize coveralls and clunky rubber boots, not to mention there were several strands of hair falling out of her ponytail to frame a sweaty face devoid of makeup.
“Welcome to Happy Hearts,” she said with a forced smile.
“I’m sorry.” His apology was quick, if a little gruff. “I just didn’t expect to find the owner of the sanctuary mucking out stalls.”
“Around here, everyone pitches in to do whatever work needs to be done.”
“Makes sense,” he said, and added a curt nod before finally introducing himself. “I’m Evan Cruise. We have a three o’clock meeting.”
“Yes, we do.” She suddenly remembered and winced as she glanced at the clock. “Sorry. I’m a little short-staffed today and fell behind on my chores.”
She pulled off her gloves and tucked them into the back pocket of her coveralls to accept his proffered hand. Heat jolted through her system in response to the contact, tempting her to snuggle up and melt against him. But she managed to hold her ground as she lifted her gaze to his, wondering if he’d felt something, too.
She couldn’t tell from his neutral expression, but she thought his eyes had gotten a little bit darker, and he definitely held on to her hand for another few beats of her racing heart.
“Your assistant said something about a business proposition when I spoke to her yesterday, but she caught me in the middle of feeding the animals and I didn’t have a chance to ask for any more details.”
“I own and operate Bronco Ghost Tours,” he said.
Which she knew, of course, because one of her friends used to work for him. And while she recalled Brittany grumbling that her boss was a tyrant, she’d been unprepared to discover that the tyrant was unbelievably hot.
And now that Daphne had put the pieces together, she was certain she knew why he was there, though she wasn’t eager to admit as much.
“What do you think I can do for you, Mr. Cruise?” she asked instead.
“Evan,” he said, then added a smile that started her heart racing again.
Yes, he was good-looking, and just being near him was making her feel things she’d almost forgotten she was capable of feeling. But she had no intention of letting her farm be a sideshow to his circus.
She was about to repeat her question when the sound of a bell preceded the appearance of a fleecy not-so-white sheep hobbling toward them.
“You never can resist an open door, can you, Winnie?” Daphne asked, her tone laced with affection and exasperation.
Baaaa.
“Even though you know very well that you’re not supposed to be in here,” she continued.
The sheep ignored her admonishment and moved past the humans toward Tiny Tim’s pen at the back of the barn, her casted back leg dragging slightly behind her.
Daphne wasn’t sure how or when it had happened, but the pig and the sheep had become good friends. And while she didn’t object to the visit, she did move past Evan to close the door so that no other animals would wander inside.
“What happened to her leg?” he asked.
“She got it caught in an electrified fence at the wool farm where she used to live. The farmer tried to treat the injury with home remedies at first, obviously unsuccessfully, and when she finally called the vet and learned that Winnie would need surgery—and the cost of that surgery—she decided it would be cheaper to euthanize her.”
It required a concerted effort for Daphne to recite the details in a neutral tone, because her blood still boiled to think that Winnie’s life could easily have been snuffed out because some farmer—whose negligence was responsible for the injury—didn’t appreciate the value of it.
“Thankfully, the vet suggested that she bring Winnie to Happy Hearts instead,” she continued.
“It must be expensive,” he mused, “caring for sick and injured animals.”
His tone was sympathetic and sincere, and Daphne found her guard dropping, just a little.
“The bills add up,” she acknowledged. “But I know you didn’t come here for the educational tour, so why don’t you tell me how you think I can help Bronco Ghost Tours?”
“Actually—” he flashed another smile, and her guard dropped a little further “—I think we can help each other.”
