Cowboy Under the Mistletoe (16 page)

While he fished in his pocket for the truck key with Allison dancing around him and peppering him with silly ideas and quick, cold kisses, a cell phone rang from inside her tiny clutch bag.

“Hold that thought,” she said and then giggled as she whipped out the device and answered.

“Oh, hi.” Her smile faded. Her energetic bounce calmed.

“Who—?” he started to ask, but her eyes flicked a warning and she turned slightly to the side. That one little motion jabbed like rejection.

What was that all about?

Tense now, his bubble of joy burst, he busied himself with unlocking the truck. The dome light illuminated them, a weak spill of white that turned her lacy blouse ghostly pale.

“Looking at Christmas lights,” he heard her say. Then the air quivered with hesitation. She glanced at him again, and this time her brown eyes pled for understanding as she said, “Just a friend.”

Those three little words ripped his heart out and left him bloody and beaten and as cold as the winter night. She wanted to free him with her brothers, but she wasn’t ready to tell anyone they’d had dinner together.

Jake started the truck. He shouldn’t be upset. He had no right to be, but his heart hurt just the same.

* * *

Allison knew the phone call had hurt him. With her throat thick with regret, she put her phone away and climbed inside the truck.

“I should have told him.” She touched his arm. A muscle flexed, tensed, held rigid.

“You did the right thing, all things considered.”

Had she? Was hiding her love for Jake to avoid confrontation the “right thing”?

They’d had a perfect evening, full of special moments and romance and wonderful food. For this brief spell of time the future had been theirs.

Why did Dad have to call anyway? But worse, why hadn’t she had the courage to simply tell her father the truth? That she was on a date with Jake and loving every minute with him.

Because she was a bigger coward than she’d thought. Because she didn’t want to rock the boat. Because her family’s disapproval wore on her.

Every reason shamed her. Jake was a good man, worthy of the words
I love you.
Yet, what kind of love turned away in the face of adversity?

During the drive home, Jake said all the right things in response to her chatter, but he was different. Wounded. Because of her and her family. As usual.

No wonder he wanted to get away. All they’d ever done was hurt him.

Long after midnight they arrived at her duplex. Jayla’s side of the home was dark, and Allison was relieved, another reason to feel ashamed. Allison didn’t want to have that discussion. More than once, her younger sister had warned her to be careful.

Right. She’d been so careful she’d stabbed Jake in the back in a simple phone call.

“Want to come in?” she asked, huddled in her coat, wishing he’d hold her.

In the dark yard with little more than a pale wash from the corner streetlight, Jake’s face was in shadow. “It’s late.”

“Are you mad at me, Jake?” She stepped closer, toward the warmth of his breathing. “I’ll tell Dad we were together.”

“I’m not mad. You did the right thing.”

“No, I didn’t. I hurt you and that’s never right. I love you, Jake.”

He was silent for a bit, his hands deep in his pockets, the brim of his hat tilted out toward the darkness.

“I wanted to give you tonight,” he finally murmured.

Something in his tone set her nerves jumping. “Tonight was wonderful. I had the best time.”

“Good.” He brought his gaze down to hers and nodded once. “Good.”

“Jake, are we okay?”

He didn’t answer and her anxiety increased. He tugged his hands from his pockets and caressed her face. “You deserve the best, Allison. The very best.”

While she grappled to understand his meaning, he kissed her forehead, his lips lingering for a long moment. Then he stepped off her porch and disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

Goodbyes stunk. Jake vowed to remember that the next time around.

Hat in hand, he stood inside Manny’s big silver barn. While he’d told his friend of his plans, Paulina had fed him, and then Manny had insisted on riding with him to check on the animals. The rancher refused to stay down. He forked hay with the tractor, mixed the special brand of feed reserved for the bucking stock and continued ranching with few exceptions. A bum knee would never keep Manny Morales down for long.

“The only thing I can’t do yet is fix fence and load bulls. Soon, though. Soon.”

“Tim should be able to handle that until you’re ready.”

“
Sí.
He’s a good hand. Reminds me of you at that age.”

“Tell him to keep his nose clean and not to be stupid.”

Manny’s teeth flashed. “You tell him yourself. He comes every day even if I don’t need him.”

“You’re good for him. Like you were for me.”

“You’re staying through Christmas, aren’t you? ’Cause if you don’t, you gonna break Paulina’s heart.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“What you got in Stephenville that’s better than here?”

Not a thing. “The neighbors like me better.”

“Paulina and me, we pray for you about this. We pray for the Buchanons, too. They are a fine family but they have a burr in their saddle. Only God can pluck it out.”

“Maybe this is my cross to bear, Manny. My penance for the stupid things I’ve done.”

“Maybe. But my heart says no. Why you think they call Jesus the Prince of Peace. Huh? He tells us not to have bad feelings toward others. You keep praying.”

Jake clapped his old friend on the back. “I’ll do that. Fact of the matter, I thought I’d take a walk down to my bulls. I pray better with the smell of manure in my nose.”

Manny let out a hearty laugh. “Well, go on. Go see your sons. This weather won’t last much longer.”

Jake raised a hand in agreement as he stepped out into the afternoon. The early December sky was as gray and shiny as a new nickel. He considered driving the Polaris but opted for a head-clearing walk. The air held a chill, but he didn’t mind. His coat was warm and forty acres wasn’t far for a man with a lot of praying to do. Boots scuffing the dead grass, he opened one gate after another until the house disappeared from sight. About a dozen brood cows saw him and ambled along behind, bawling when he had no feed bucket.

With the cows in hot pursuit, he stopped at his favorite little pond where Jake spotted deer and turkey tracks. The water reminded him of Allison and their day in the borrowed boat. A sweet day, a day that would linger in his memory like the taste of sugar.

“Give her every good thing, Lord,” he murmured.

As if in response, one of the cows stuck her wet snout against his back and snuffled. Jake jumped, then laughed at himself. The others ambled away, bored with a human who didn’t feed them.

He settled on a rock and prayed a little but no revelations flashed from the heavens. He started on, feeling defeated. He considered writing Allison a letter to tell her everything that was in his heart, but perhaps a phone call would be better. No, not a call. Hearing her voice would ruin him.

Head down, he prayed as he walked, searching for answers that didn’t come. Granny Pat said he was running away like his mother. But she was wrong. He was doing the Christian thing. Turning the other cheek. Walking away from the fight. Wasn’t that what Jesus had done?

Something Manny said nudged him. Jesus was all about peace and love and caring for each other. Did that mean he wasn’t being punished for the bad choices he’d made as a kid? He wasn’t sure and even if he was, it wouldn’t change anything. The Buchanons would still despise his name. Allison would still be caught in the middle. But pondering the idea encouraged him.

As he neared his bull pasture and the loading pens where Manny worked the cattle, he heard excited voices. Going on alert, he strained toward the sound. Had those kids come back here after being warned away more than once?

Hurrying now, he drew nearer, and his suspicions were confirmed. Only this time the situation was far worse. The two young boys, one dark and one fair, had maneuvered several bulls into the loading corrals, and one of the boys had climbed atop the iron gate preparing to step onto the back of the bull. Jake’s blood ran cold. For a second he froze, too afraid for the kid to think. But then his bull rider training kicked in and adrenaline jacked into his system so fast his vision blurred.

“Hey, you boys!” He started to run though his legs felt like Jell-O. As in a dream, he seemed to run without making progress. “Get out of there. Now!”

But the boys either didn’t hear or refused to listen. They were focused on the bulls and the exciting adventure.

Jake was less than twenty yards away when the blond boy—Charity’s boy, he now saw with terrible clarity—slipped his leg over the bull and disaster broke loose. The bull, feeling the presence of a human for the first time, went ballistic, thrashing and slinging his massive, horned head.

Fear slammed Jake, a metallic sting that tore through his blood vessels.

“Oh, God,” was the only prayer he had time for.

The boy lasted two seconds before the big Brahma, nearly grown and ready for the ring, kicked out from behind and made one mighty jerk. In other circumstances, Jake would have been proud of his young bucking bull.

All he could think of was getting to Ryan before the bull did.

His boots slowed him down. His breath came in short gasps.

One of the boys screamed, his jubilance turning to a cry of terror. Jake didn’t know which boy had cried out but Ryan lay facedown on the ground inside the small pen... And a massive, angry bull headed straight for him.

The next moments occurred in slow motion. Jake struggled to move faster. His heart hammered against his ribcage.

He yelled, trying to startle the bull away from the boy, but he was too late.

As he reached the gate, the bull hooked Ryan’s inert body and tossed him high into the air.

Jake knew that feeling of going airborne. He also knew the crash was not worth the ride. His stomach sickened.

The other boy, clinging to the top of the corral, screamed again. Ryan’s body hit the hard December ground with a terrifying thud and he lay still.

“Ryan. Move!” Jake yelled. “Crawl toward your friend.”

But Ryan didn’t move.

The bull, enraged now and probably as frightened as the boys, charged the injured Ryan again.

Fueled on reaction and adrenaline, Jake bolted over the gate and ran toward the bull. Yelling, he flailed his arms. The animal ignored the man in favor of the child. He pushed his fierce head against Ryan’s body.

As he’d seen bullfighters do dozens of times in the arena, Jake grabbed the mighty horns to divert the bull’s attention away from the fallen child. The angry animal whipped around and came for him. Jake dodged, but the bull caught his side. He went down hard, tasted blood and dirt, but popped up again. His side burned like a welding torch. But as long as the bull focused on him, Ryan had a chance to get away.

He ran toward the bull again.

“Get up, Ryan,” he yelled. He didn’t have time to consider the alternative. Maybe Ryan couldn’t get up.

He yanked his hat from his head and slapped at the massive head. The bull turned on him.

The smell of dust and manure choked him. His ears rang and his head swam. He shook off the sensation, fighting for clarity. Fighting for Ryan’s life. And his own.

“Mister. Mister! The gate.”

Thank God.

Escape.

The dark-haired kid had the presence of mind to provide an escape route.

Though breathless and hurting, Jake loped toward the open gate with the bull too close behind him. One misstep, he’d go down and the bull would be upon him. The moment Big Country passed through the opening Jake leaped up on the iron railing beside the kid and slammed the gate onto its latch. His bull was loose in the wrong pasture but that could be rectified now that the boys were safe.

The thought no more than hit his brain than Jake leaped down and raced toward Ryan. The boy remained on the ground, inert.

Jake fell to his knees beside the child. “Ryan. Ryan. It’s Jake Hamilton. Can you hear me?”

The boy didn’t respond. A new terror, far more frightening than the Brahma, ricocheted through Jake. What if Charity’s boy died?

He put shaky fingers against Ryan’s throat and nearly collapsed with relief to feel a pulse. The boy was alive. For now.

The adrenaline rush pounded through him with such power, he trembled like a wet Chihuahua. He shook his head to clear away the fear and dust and dizziness.

He ripped his cell phone from his pocket and punched 9-1-1. In this remote town, the call went straight to Gabriel’s Crossing’s fire and rescue. He identified himself and explained the situation.

What he learned shook him even worse.

“All the emergency vehicles are out on a call. It’ll be a couple of hours.”

“Two hours!” Two hours when a boy’s life hung in the balance. “He can’t wait that long.”

“Sorry, Jake, there’s a big car wreck out on Highway 7. We can’t get there any faster. If you can move the patient, you’d best bring him to town yourself.”

He was forty acres from his truck and three miles from town. His side screamed and he was dizzy.

But Ryan was bleeding from his nose and mouth.

After a quick call to Manny, he gently braced the child’s neck as much as possible, scooped him up and began to run. Once again, Buchanon blood was on his hands.

* * *

Jake paced the emergency waiting area of Gabriel’s Crossing’s hospital. The car accident victims had come in about the same time he’d arrived with Ryan. One harried doctor and a handful of scrub-clad nurses rushed in and out of rooms while techs pushed carts bearing machinery and IV tubes in a mad dash against too many simultaneous disasters. Their little hospital was unprepared for this much action.

The single elevator pinged so many times, Jake stopped looking that direction. A small tabletop television next to a Mr. Coffee machine rolled
Fox News,
but the only news he wanted was that Charity’s son would be all right. So far, all he’d done was pace and worry. The Buchanons, alerted by the hospital less than five minutes ago, had yet to arrive. He was thankful he’d not been the one to call them.