It's a Christmas Thing (The Christmas Tree Ranch 2)

“I’m guessing there won’t be much to tell.”

“You never know.” Conner gave him a roguish wink. “Good luck with the cat—and the lady.”

Rush strode to the door. Bucket was waiting on the porch, the stick at his feet. He picked it up in his jaws, his tail thumping expectantly. “No games this morning, you old rascal.” Rush opened the door to let the dog into the house. “Go on in. Pester somebody else for a change.”

Inside the Hummer, Rush checked the GPS. He recognized the address. The judge lived in the older, nicer part of Branding Iron, an enclave of tall sycamores and paved sidewalks, on the far side of town. Her place wouldn’t be hard to find.

The morning was clear, the sunlight bright enough to make him squint. The fall leaves had begun to fade. A stray breeze sent them fluttering from the trees in showers of muted red, brown, and gold.

Except for rare glimpses in town, he hadn’t seen Tracy Emerson since that day in court. He’d been a different person then, still in shock from the abrupt loss of his marriage, his practice, his home, and the little girl he’d believed to be his daughter. Seeing Tracy for the first time had given him a flash of hope—the chance of better times ahead. But that was all it had been—a flash.

Coming into town, he stopped for the first of Branding Iron’s two traffic lights. The intersection, where the highways crossed, brought back the memory of last year’s late-night storm, when he’d braked too hard on the icy road and slid into Travis’s pickup truck. He’d been lost that night—lost in every possible way. But Travis had brought him home to the ranch and offered him a new life. It had become a good life, with friends, a roof over his head, and the chance to grow a new business. Even being single was something he’d come to accept.

Rush had lived a womanless existence since coming to Branding Iron. Not so his partners. Travis and his spunky red-haired Maggie were all but engaged. Conner had women all over town, and he liked to keep them guessi

ng.

Rush had shrugged off his own situation. He hadn’t been ready to risk the pain of a new relationship. But one phone call had been enough to change his mind. Now he found himself looking forward to being with a beautiful woman.

But what was he thinking? This wasn’t a date, or even a social visit. He was on his way to check on a business client’s cat. That was all. But if he was entertaining a few fantasies, at least it would help take his mind off missing Halloween with the child he still loved.

The judge’s house was smaller than those around it, a Craftsman-style bungalow with a stone front, leaded windows, and English ivy cascading over the broad front porch. A gray Mercedes sedan, old but in good condition, was parked in the driveway. This was just the kind of place where he’d imagined a woman like Tracy might live.

A woman like Tracy. Aside from the fact that she was attractive and well-educated, the truth was that he hardly knew her at all.

He found his medical bag, added a few sample cans of cat food to its contents, climbed out of the Hummer, and crossed the sheltered porch to the door. Reminding himself not to expect anything beyond a professional call, he pressed the doorbell.

There was a beat of silence. Then, muffled by the door, he heard a scrambling sound and a thud, like something heavy falling to the floor.

Rush was about to break his way into the house when the door opened.

The woman on the threshold was smaller than she’d appeared in the courtroom. She was dressed in ragged jeans and a baggy, faded sweatshirt. Her blond hair, escaping from its loose ponytail, hung in damp strings around a face that was bare of makeup. A small gash above her left eyebrow was oozing blood. There was no cat in sight. But a grizzled tan dog, some kind of pit bull mix, was eyeing Rush as if it wanted to rip his throat out.

Maybe he had the wrong house. Or the wrong woman.

* * *

The man staring down at Tracy was drop-dead gorgeous—tall, with dark brown hair and dark eyes set in a George Clooney face. The logo on the Hummer parked out front, along with the medical bag in his hand, reminded her that he must be from the mobile vet service she’d called. But why did he look so familiar? Surely, if she’d met him before, she’d remember him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m . . . fine.” She steadied herself with a hand on the door frame. “Why should you ask?”

“Because you’re bleeding.” His gaze went to the tender spot where her head had struck the drainpipe under the sink. She touched it gingerly. Her fingers came away smeared with blood.

“I’m here about a sick cat,” he said. “But you look like you could use some attention first—you are Judge Emerson, right?”

“Right. Tracy.” How had he known she was a judge? There were some missing pieces to this puzzle. “Come on in,” she said, opening the door wider.

“Will that be all right with him?” He glanced down at the dog, who’d placed his body between his mistress and the stranger in the doorway.

“Don’t worry about Murphy. He looks tough, but he’s really an old softy.” She scratched the dog’s ears. “It’s all right, old boy. Go and lie down.” Murphy thumped his tail and drooled on her bare foot before curling up in his bed by the fireplace.

Tracy stepped aside to let Dr. Gorgeous into the house. For a long time after Steve’s death, she’d had no desire to look at a man in an admiring way. Even now, after eighteen months, the slightest glance jabbed her with guilt.

Especially today.

“Let’s have a look at your head,” the vet said. “Do you mind moving into the light?” Tracy recalled his name now, from the business card she’d picked up at the library. It was Dr. J. T. Rushford. But she still couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before. Heaven save her, how could any woman forget that face?