Big Sky Christmas

But Olive hadn’t called back. And a month later Winnie had tried again, with a similar result.

“You could have written. Or sent word via Corb or Laurel.”

“I could have,” Winnie agreed. “But you may have guessed by now that I have a stubborn streak.”

She met Olive’s glare without backing down. The honest truth was she still resented Olive for being so cold toward her. She knew—because Brock had told her—that Olive had tried to talk him out of marrying her. Olive had thought that her youngest, and favorite, son was making a mistake in marrying a simple farm girl from Highwood. Brock had laughed about it later, when they were alone.

But she hadn’t.

“I was trying to save you and Brock both a lot of heartache. You weren’t suited for each other.”

Winnie’s heart raced. This woman was unbelievable. Like a snake, she struck quickly with her venom. “You can’t know that. He loved me. And I loved him, too.”

A drop of soda spilled onto her foot. Realizing her hands were shaking, she put her glass on a nearby table. She wanted to leave. But Olive had her cornered.

And she wasn’t finished.

“You don’t have any idea what it takes to be a rancher’s wife. You couldn’t have—”

Suddenly Winnie spotted a familiar figure, a man in a dark gray suit. He was headed for the bar, but he didn’t seem to have noticed her. She put out her arm and managed to snag a bit of his sleeve.

Jackson turned.

“You wanted to dance? We’d better do it now, since I have to go home early.”

Jackson’s gaze went from her to Olive. The widowed mother of four children—three, now that Brock was gone—had two spots of red burning on her cheeks.

“We aren’t finished here, Winnie,” Olive said.

“If you want to meet my son, then I think we are.”

Winnie kept her hold on Jackson and pulled him toward the dance floor. Sensing his reluctance, she figured he didn’t like to dance.

“Sorry to drag you out here,” she said, once he’d swung her into his arms with surprising finesse. “Olive was in attack mode and I needed to escape.”

“No one does attack mode quite like Olive.”

Jackson was two-stepping like a pro—why didn’t he like dancing when he was so good at it?

She glanced up at his handsome face. His gaze was fixed across the dance floor, almost as if he didn’t want to look at her. “You two don’t get along, either, do you?”

According to Brock, when his father decided to take Jackson in under the foster-care program, Olive had been opposed to the idea.

Dad almost never went against her wishes, Brock had said. But that time he did.

“No, we don’t. It’s one of the reasons I decided to go work on Silver Creek Ranch,” Jackson allowed, swinging her out, then pulling her back in.

“Holy cow, you’re good at this.” He led with assurance and moved perfectly with the beat.

“So are you.”

“It’s easy when you have a good partner.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed. He glanced away again.

“So tell me about Silver Creek Ranch.” She needed to distract herself from how nice his hands felt on her waist and her shoulder. Silver Creek was owned by Maddie Turner, Olive’s sister. The two women had been estranged for decades, since the death of their father.

“It’s in tough shape. Maddie is a good person, but a terrible businesswoman. I had to sell some land to raise enough money to begin restocking the herd. Fences need mending, and the barn could use some work, too. But I’m taking it one step at a time.”

He didn’t mention anything about the promise Maddie had made to him. Winnie knew the details thanks to Laurel. Maddie was suffering from terminal lung cancer and she’d told Jackson that if he came to live with her on the ranch and invested all his savings, she’d leave him everything.

Given that Maddie had no children of her own, it wasn’t such an outlandish proposition. But according to Laurel, Olive was furious. She felt the land ought to be going to one of her children. Never mind the fact that she hadn’t allowed any of them to speak to their aunt when they’d been growing up.

“I’m sure you’re very busy. But do you have time to come in to the café for coffee one night next week?”

For the first time Jackson’s step faltered. He recovered in the next second, found the beat and pulled her with him back into the rhythm.

“I’m not big on coffee.”

Was that why in the past he’d come so seldom into the Cinnamon Stick?

“Or cinnamon buns, either, I assume.” The buns were the specialty of her café, baked fresh every morning by a former cowboy and recovering alcoholic who’d turned over a new leaf in his sixties, Vince Butterfield.

“Not much of a sweet tooth,” Jackson agreed.

“Well.” Was he just making excuses? “Maybe you could drop by just to talk, then?”

He swung her out, gave her a twirl and then swirled her back a little, just as the song ended. A few people dancing near them clapped.

“Nicely done, Jackson.” Corb had Laurel in his arms and they were both grinning.

Yes, nicely done, Winnie had to agree.

Jackson walked her off the dance floor, then dropped his arm. “Thanks for the dance, Winnie. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

And that was it? “What about next week?”

He looked off in the distance for a few seconds before meeting her gaze. “I know what you’re trying to do here. You want to tell me you don’t blame me for what happened to Brock.”

“That’s right.”

“It’s nice and charitable of you, Winnie. But can you really look at me and not think, there’s the guy who was driving when my fiancé died?”

His blunt words stole her breath. Before she could recover, he was leaning in to say some more.

“Last thing I want is to cause you more pain. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

And then he was gone, walking toward the exit. She wanted to run after him, but Corb and Laurel were watching, as were several other couples. Better not create a scene.

So she forced a smile and tried to look as though she and Jackson had parted on friendly terms.

But man, was Laurel right. That guy had a serious chip on his shoulder. And the last thing she was going to do was let him leave it there.

* * *

JACKSON WANTED TO LEAVE, but he knew it was too early and his absence would be noted. He stood in the stairwell of the back exit, his body pressed against the wall of cool concrete.

What was wrong with him? Why did he feel this way?

Holding Winnie in his arms, dancing with her, had been the worst form of torture.

He’d tried thinking about cattle prices, the weather, anything except the beautiful, dark-haired woman who was following his moves so perfectly it was almost like having sex.

He groaned.

Sex and Winnie Hays should never be in the same sentence. Brock had been like a brother and a best friend all rolled into one. And here Jackson was lusting after the woman he had loved.

“Hey, cooling down?” Corb had found him. “I’m not surprised. You and Winnie sure worked up a sweat in there.”

Another layer of guilt settled in the pit of Jackson’s stomach. Soon he’d have no space in there for anything else.

“She looks good, doesn’t she?” Corb handed him a beer.

“I guess.”

“I think Mom resents it. She’d have Winnie dressed in black, withered to the bone and miserable for the rest of her life.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a mother to Brock’s son if she did that.”

“Winnie never could do anything to please Mom.” Corb shrugged. “But she’s done her share of suffering.” Corb looked at him pointedly. He didn’t have to say anything more for Jackson to know what he was thinking. Ever since the accident the Lambert kids had been trying to tell him he had no reason to feel responsible for what had happened.

He appreciated their intentions.

But none of them had been in the driver’s seat, so they couldn’t really understand.

“You liking the work at Silver Creek?”

“It’s a challenge,” Jackson allowed, glad that Corb had changed the subject. “But we’ve sold a parcel of land to Sam O’Neil. Come spring I intend to buy a hundred head of cattle and build from there.”

“This Sam fellow. Did you meet him? B.J. says he put in an offer for Savannah’s land, too.”

Jackson shook his head. “Not face-to-face. He’d already signed the papers when I took Maddie to the title office.”

Corb finished his drink, then pushed the door open. “We better get back. There’ll be a lineup of ladies waiting to dance with you now that they’ve seen what you can do. Where’d you learn to two-step like that, anyway?”

Jackson smiled. “My mom taught me. Haven’t danced in years. Funny how it all came back.”

“Your mom taught you?”

Jackson didn’t speak of her, usually. All the Lamberts knew was she’d gone to jail when he was thirteen. And died a few years later while still incarcerated.

“She wasn’t all bad.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t. She had you, didn’t she?”

It was a nice thing to say, but then Corb was a damn fine man that way. A lot like his father had been.

“Keep talking so sweet to me and Laurel will be getting jealous.”

Corb laughed, then shoved him in the direction of the dance floor, none too gently. “Laurel knows who gets my motor running. Now get. The ladies await.”

Chapter Three

“Who’s Mommy’s little boy?”

Bobby giggled as Winnie tickled the bottoms of his feet, then pointed his chubby finger at his own chest.

“That’s right.” She touched her nose to his. “You are my little boy.” Were all babies this cute? Winnie didn’t believe it. Bobby was special. She put on his socks and his adorable sneakers, and as soon as she was done, he started toddling out of her reach.

She sighed. He was such a going concern now that he’d started walking. She chased after him, scooped him into her arms and he giggled again.

She’d lined up a babysitter for weekdays from ten to two, a friend of Eugenia’s whose children were grown and out of the house, but not yet married with families of their own.

They were headed to Linda Hunter’s now.

She tucked Bobby into his new winter snowsuit, then grabbed the diaper bag she’d prepared earlier that morning. She left her apartment, which was above the café, through the back door and down the fire escape. More snow had fallen on Sunday and again last night, and Bobby wiggled in her arms. He wanted to play with all that cool white stuff.

“Later, honey.” Now that he was mobile, she needed to buy him boots, which would mean a trip to Lewistown. If not for the wedding this past weekend, she would have taken him shopping on Saturday.

A black Ford pickup truck turned onto Main Street. She recognized the vehicle even before she spotted Jackson behind the wheel. He had on aviator sunglasses and a dark brown cowboy hat. He slowed as he passed by, but didn’t stop.

She’d thought a lot about Jackson since Saturday night. His kind attempt to distract her during the ceremony. How much fun he’d been to dance with. But most of all, she’d thought about his parting words to her. Can you really look at me and not think, there’s the guy who was driving when my fiancé died?

He hadn’t given her time to answer. But if he had, she would have said, Of course I can. She’d never thought of him as the man who was responsible for Brock’s death. But that was obviously how he thought of himself. How could she change his mind about that when he seemed determined to avoid her?

A lot of locals made a point of stopping by her café when they came to town, but Jackson rarely had and she knew he wouldn’t today, either. She didn’t buy the excuse he’d given her at the wedding. Maybe he didn’t have a sweet tooth. But she had yet to meet a cowboy who didn’t love his coffee.

She turned and watched as his truck made a right on Grave Street. He must be headed to either the Lonesome Spur Bar, Ed’s Feed Supply or the cemetery. Odds favored the feed supply store. Maybe, just maybe, he’d surprise her and drop in for a coffee when his business was done.

Bobby placed his hands on her face, forcing her to look at him. “Mama go.”

She grinned. He’d just strung together his first two-word sentence. “You’re a smart boy. Yes, Mama should get going. Linda will be wondering where we are.”

She chatted to him about his new babysitter as she walked. She always talked to Bobby as if he could understand everything she said, and who knew, maybe he did.

Linda lived in a ranch-style bungalow on Aspen Street, and she must have been watching for them out the window because she had the front door open as soon as they arrived. Besides her warm, smiling face, they were greeted with the aroma of fresh-baked bread. Linda’s brown hair, only slightly streaked with gray, was pulled back with a clip and she was dressed in jeans and a pale pink sweater.

She didn’t make the mistake of reaching for Bobby too soon. Instead she said hello and smiled, then pointed to an area where she’d set out some simple building blocks, cars and board books.

Bobby strained to reach them, almost tumbling out of his mother’s arms. With a laugh, Winnie set him on the floor.

“I’ve childproofed this room,” Linda told her. “And I have my neighbor’s old high chair so I can feed him his lunch. Will he want a nap after that, do you think?”

“He usually does. But I’m hoping to pick him up early since this is his first time at your place.” Winnie handed over a sheet with Bobby’s schedule that she’d printed last night. Then the diaper bag. “All his food is in here, as well as diapers and a change of clothes if he needs them.”

“We’ll be fine,” Linda said, reassuringly.

Winnie smiled her gratitude, unable to speak because she was suddenly teary. It was hard leaving her baby with a sitter. But she knew Laurel—who’d taken over at the Cinnamon Stick after Brock’s death—was ready to hand the reins back to her. Laurel had enough to do taking care of her nine-month-old daughter, Stephanie, helping Corb around the ranch and writing her blog.

Winnie didn’t make a big deal out of saying goodbye to Bobby, and Linda eased her transition out the door by distracting him with a super-cool dump truck.

Fifteen minutes later, Winnie was at work in the café’s kitchen, chopping vegetables for her chicken-curry soup recipe. At the sound of the door chime she looked up, wondering if she’d see Jackson. But it was Straws Monahan, the owner of the impressive equestrian center where the wedding had taken place last Saturday. The center, about ten miles from town in the opposite direction from the Lamberts’ ranch, was one of the county’s main employers. Which made Straws, recently widowed and in his sixties, one of the area’s most important men.

Dawn Dolan, a young blonde who still lived at home while she took correspondence courses to upgrade her high school marks, asked him in a cheerful voice how he was and what could she get him.

Winnie smiled, pleased with Dawn’s friendly approach. She’d hired Dawn, Eugenia and their baker, Vince, years ago when she’d first opened her café, and they’d all proved to be hardworking and loyal employees.

Winnie knew she’d never have been able to keep her business afloat the past eighteen months if it wasn’t for all of them and Laurel.

Dawn and Eugenia had both agreed to work longer shifts during that time. Laurel had left her dream job as an editorial assistant in New York City to relocate in Coffee Creek. And Vince had kept making the cinnamon buns, muffins and fresh breads that kept her customers coming back for more.

Most people were shocked when they discovered that the Cinnamon Stick’s delicious baked goods were made by a member of the Cowboy Hall of Fame, but that was one of the things Winnie loved about Coffee Creek. People here just pitched in and did what needed to be done.

She transferred the carrots she’d been dicing into the industrial-size soup pot on the stove. Just as she was reaching for the celery, she heard someone new entering. Hoping again it might be Jackson, she glanced up with a smile.

And had to work to keep it there when she saw Olive Lambert. Bobby’s grandmother was dressed in “work” clothes today—pressed jeans, clean boots and a tailored sheepskin jacket. She nodded at Straws. “Good day.”

“Sure is. All recovered from the big weekend?”

Olive sighed with satisfaction. “My daughter made a beautiful bride. She and Farley left yesterday for Maui.”

“Our sheriff was quite the bride, too,” commented Straws, who’d also been at the wedding. “She and B.J. are going to Australia for their honeymoon, aren’t they?”

Olive’s smile dimmed a little. “They are. Taking an entire month off.”

“Well, November is the time to do it.”

“I suppose.”

“Here’s your order, Mr. Monahan.” Dawn passed him a to-go cup and a bag with his pastry, then turned to Olive. “What can I get you, Mrs. Lambert?”

“Nothing. I’m here to speak with Winnie.”

Hands already washed and dried in anticipation of this, Winnie stepped out from the counter. “Hello, Olive. Why don’t we sit down?”

She led Olive to an empty booth at the back. Relax. Stay calm, she advised herself. It would be easier, she hoped, to deal with Olive here than it had been at the wedding.

Her café was a warm, welcoming place, painted and decorated in the colors of the foods Winnie loved most: caramel, chocolate, vanilla and, of course, cinnamon. The booths were nestled up to wooden-framed windows that overlooked the picturesque Coffee Creek for which the town had been named.

In the spring and summer, the water had a translucent topaz color, which some more prosaic types likened to the color of weak coffee.

In the winter, though, ice and snow crept up from the banks of the creek, and the cold streaming water looked more gray than brown.

“I was hoping to meet my grandson today,” Olive said, without preamble. “Finally.”

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear. Afternoon is the best time for visits. Around two-thirty, after I finish work.”

“So where is he now?” Olive glanced around as if expecting to see him.

“At Linda Hunter’s. She’s his new babysitter.”

Olive frowned. “The whole town is going to have met that child before me.”

“What are you doing later today?”

“I’ll be at home, going over the accounts, probably.”

“I could bring him out to Coffee Creek Ranch for a visit.”

Olive’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe you could stay for dinner?”

Winnie forced a smile. “Sure. When would you like us? We can come anytime after four.”

“How about five, then? We’ll eat early so you can get Bobby home at a decent time.” Olive started to rise, then hesitated. “Maybe you could take a look at Brock’s cabin while you’re at the ranch. I was thinking it might make a good home for you and Bobby.”

Winnie had heard rumors that Olive wanted her and Bobby to live on Coffee Creek Ranch. Years ago Bob Lambert had built three cabins alongside a small lake on the ranch for Brock, B.J. and Corb.

Since Brock’s death, his cabin had been vacant—but moving in there had very little appeal to Winnie. “That’s a very kind offer. But my apartment is fine for now. Nice and close to work and Bobby’s babysitter.”

“Corb, Laurel and Stephanie are very comfortable in their cabin. And I’m sure you’d love living so close to them.”

That part was true. But it was living near Olive that had her worried.

“Trust me, your son will be a lot happier growing up on a ranch than he would be in town. Don’t you think it’s what Brock would have wanted?”

Winnie didn’t know what to say to that. Olive had a point. Brock probably would want her and Bobby to move to his cabin.

“In fact—” Olive’s eyes sparkled as an idea struck her “—why don’t I ask Bonny to freshen up the place today and then Corb can drive his truck into town and help you pack? I bet we could get most of your belongings moved tonight.”

Tonight.

Tonight?

“But—” Winnie floundered.

“I’ll stop in at Molly’s Market and pick up some groceries to stock your cupboards and the fridge. And I’m sure—”

“Wait,” Winnie finally said. “This is such a kind offer. But may I think about it a few days?”

“What’s to think about? I’m not just offering you a place to live, Winnie. I plan to sign over the papers. The cottage will belong to you, free and clear.”

It was incredibly generous. And yet, to Winnie, it still felt like a trap.

Olive placed her hand over Winnie’s. “You’re a mother now. And mothers put their children’s needs before their own. I’m sure it’s convenient for you to be close to your work. But think about Bobby. Your apartment is just too small. I’ve had three sons, so I know what boys need, and that’s space. Room to play and run and explore.”

Winnie stared mutely at Brock’s mother. In the back of her mind she registered the fact that the ladies in the booth beside them had left and some new customers had come in. But she didn’t look up to see who they were, or if Dawn needed help.

Right now all she could focus on was Olive.

The older woman had hit a nerve when she’d said a mother had to put her child’s interests first.

Was she being selfish by not taking Olive up on her offer?

“Maybe when Bobby’s older we could move into Brock’s cabin,” she finally said. “But he’s still small. My apartment is fine for now.”

Olive must have been so sure she was winning her case. Now her brow furrowed with consternation. “Are you serious? But isn’t it a one bedroom?”

Winnie didn’t want to answer. Because she knew Olive was right, that she needed a bigger space. There had to be another solution. If only—

And then, suddenly and unbelievably, Jackson was standing by their table. Winnie gazed up from his boots, to his worn jeans, his open jacket, his guarded face. He touched the tip of his hat. “Olive.” He nodded to the older woman, then to her. “Winnie.”

“Hello, Jackson.” Olive’s greeting was clipped. She clearly wasn’t pleased at the interruption.

But Winnie sure was. “Hi there, Jackson. Why don’t you sit down while I bring you both some coffee and cinnamon buns?”

“I didn’t come for food,” Jackson said quickly. “Just wondered when you wanted me to start work on that second bedroom for the apartment.”

She stared at him blankly. But only for a second. And then she smiled. “The sooner, the better.”

“This week is looking good. If I got some measurements now, I could have the supplies by Friday.”

“Sounds perfect.” Winnie turned back to Olive. “Bobby and I are going to be okay for the time being. But I do appreciate your offer. And I will definitely keep it in mind.”

Olive gathered her purse, then stood. Her gaze flickered sharply from Jackson to Winnie, then back again. She wasn’t a woman who liked losing. And Winnie could tell she wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet.

“We’ll talk about this some more over dinner tonight.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

* * *

“WHAT A HERO. Thank you.” Winnie gave Jackson a grateful smile after Olive left the café. “Let me at least get you a coffee for the road.”

“It was nothing. Don’t bother.” She looked so pretty today in a soft blue sweater and jeans. He liked the way she wore her clothes. They hugged her curves without being so tight they looked like they’d shrunk in the wash. Suddenly remembering he shouldn’t even be noticing, he raised his gaze and followed her back to the kitchen.

“How did you guess that Olive had me cornered?”

“Been there myself, far too many times.”

“That was a brilliant cover story. Wish I could think so fast on my feet.” Ignoring his refusal, she poured coffee in a to-go cup, snapped on a cover then tried to hand it to him.

“I don’t—”

“—like coffee,” she finished. “Right. You’re forgetting I know you. I’ve seen you come in from the barn and head straight to the coffeemaker in the Lamberts’ kitchen. Black, right?”