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

A familiar figure caught her eye and waved. Tall, handsome Ben Marsden was the county sheriff. His wife, Jessica, ran the local bed and breakfast with her mother, Francine, as a partner. Francine, she knew, was the girlfriend of Hank, who ran the hardware store and played Santa in the annual Christmas parade—and Hank was the father of Travis, who was one of Rush’s partners.

Ev

eryone in Branding Iron seemed to be connected. The place was a true community, a warm refuge for those who called it home. But Tracy had never felt like anything but an outsider—which was nobody’s fault but her own.

The sheriff made his way through the crowd to her cart. His face broke into a smile as he caught sight of Clara. “Well, look at you,” he said. “If I’d known that a real princess was coming to town, I’d have dressed up. Do I bow or shake hands?”

Clara giggled and held out a hand, which was almost lost in Ben’s big fist. “My name is Clara,” she said.

“Princess Clara to you,” Tracy added.

“Howdy, Princess Clara, my name’s Ben.” He released her hand with a reassuring smile. “I have my own little princess at home. Her name’s Violet. She’s two, and I’ve come to buy her some pajamas. What color do you think she’d like?”

“Pink,” Clara said. “Pink is for girls. But maybe you should get her some violet pajamas ’cause that’s her name.”

“Good advice.” He turned to Tracy with a questioning look. “Is she yours?”

“Hardly.” Tracy shook her head. “Clara is Dr. Rushford’s daughter. She’s visiting her dad for the holidays, and she packed her own suitcase.”

Ben grinned. “I can see what she brought.”

“Rush is working today, so I got volunteered by Maggie to take Clara shopping and buy her some cowgirl clothes.”

He looked down at Clara. “So, you’re going to be a cowgirl princess.”

“Uh-huh. Then I can play outside in the snow.”

“Well, have fun.” He turned to go, then glanced back at Tracy with a knowing look. “Rush, huh?”

Tracy didn’t answer but she couldn’t hide the flush of color that rose in her face. Denial, she knew, would only make matters worse. Had she already started a wave of gossip, showing up in town with Rush’s little girl?

Ben chuckled as he walked away. Blast it, why did everybody have to be a matchmaker?

Struggling to ignore the persistent squeal, plop of the cart wheel, she pushed ahead to the racks of children’s clothing.

“Let’s shop till we drop.” Clara repeated the phrase that she’d probably learned from her mother.

Tracy lifted the little girl out of the cart. “All right, Princess Clara. Lead the way.”

* * *

Choosing a warm, hooded parka, snow boots, a matching knit cap and mittens, two pairs of jeans and two pairs of stretch pants, four warm shirts, a fleece vest, and a week’s worth of socks and underwear took Clara and Tracy more than two hours. Shopping with Clara was fun, but the little girl had definite tastes and a strong will. Everything had to be the right color and the right style. And everything needed to be tried on and critically viewed in front of a mirror.

By the time they headed for the long checkout lines, with Clara in her princess costume once more, Tracy was teetering on the brink of exhaustion. As they passed the bakery department, the mouth-watering aromas of cinnamon and fresh-baked dough drifted from behind the counter.

“I’m hungry,” Clara said. “Please, can I have a cookie?”

“That sounds like a great idea, especially since you said please.” Tracy pushed the cart up to the counter.

“What can I do for you?” The young blond woman behind the counter gave them a sunny smile. Katy Parker, who had Down syndrome, was the daughter of Connie and Silas Parker, who owned Branding Iron’s only garage. A favorite in the town, she’d been working in the bakery for the past year.

Her eyes sparkled as she caught sight of Clara in her princess costume. “My goodness, it’s a real, live princess!” she said. “What do princesses like to eat?”

“Just one cookie,” Tracy said. “She can choose. No need for a bag.”

Clara surveyed the array of Christmas cookies, taking her time while Tracy fished for change in her purse. At last the little girl pointed to a row of iced gingerbread men. “I’d like one of those, please.”

Katy used a square of tissue to pick up the cookie and pass it across the counter to Clara. “I made this myself. Special for little princesses.” She waved away Tracy’s attempt to pay. “No, don’t worry about it. Have a merry Christmas.”