My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch 1)

“He keeps to himself. I met him last winter when I drove by the place and noticed somebody was there. We talked for a few minutes. All he really wants is to be left in peace.”

“After meeting him, I’d certainly go along with that,” Maggie said. “The man’s about as friendly as a rattlesnake.”

“There might be a reason for that,” Ben said, “although I hope you’ll keep this to yourself. After I met him, I did some routine checking, to make sure he was who he said he was. He’s an ex-convict—did three years in Oklahoma for manslaughter.”

“Oh.” Maggie’s skin prickled. She waited, hoping to learn more.

“It’s an interesting story, what I know of it,” Ben said. “He was a highway patrolman, pulled over a driver on suspicion of kidnapping. I don’t know the details, but things got out of hand, and he ended up shooting an innocent, unarmed man. It was a case of mistaken identity, but he lost his career and did time for it.”

“I take it he’s still bitter.”

“Most people would be. But there’s more. It seems he’s Hank Miller’s son.”

“I’d forgotten Hank had a son,” Maggie said. “You and I were barely out of diapers when Hank lost his leg in that awful farm accident. I only remember because my parents talked about it later. Didn’t Hank’s wife leave him after that?”

“Right. And she took their little boy with her. When she remarried, Travis took his stepfather’s name. Evidently, he doesn’t think much of Hank. As far as I know, they haven’t spoken in decades.”

“That’s a shame. Hank’s a good man.” Maggie rose, glancing at her watch. “I won’t keep you. But thanks for filling me in. Believe me, if Travis Morgan wants to be left alone, I won’t have a problem with that.”

“You have a good day, Maggie.”

“You too. Say hello to Jess and the kids for me.”

Maggie walked back down the hall in the direction of the mayor’s office. A full day of meetings and appointments lay ahead of her. She needed to focus on doing her job. But thoughts of Travis Morgan and what she’d learned about him kept crowding into her mind. She remembered the chiseled planes of his face and the look in his startling, slate-colored eyes as she bent over him.

He was a bitter man, an angry man, too proud to accept payment for his damaged gate. And yet he’d been enough of a gentleman to open the car door and hold it against the wind. And now that she knew he’d been a lawman, his warning not to speed on the icy road took on a new meaning. He’d been honestly concerned about her safety.

Forget him, she told herself. As long as she knew he had the legal right to be on the ranch, and that he wasn’t a danger to her or anyone else, Travis Morgan was none of her concern.

Still, one memory haunted her. When she’d bent over him and he’d opened his eyes, in the instant before his gaze hardened, she’d glimpsed something wounded and vulnerable . . . something she couldn’t forget.

Lost in thought, she didn’t see the cocky figure coming toward her until she’d almost bumped into him. She gasped and took a step backward. Stanley Featherstone, the constable, who took care of minor violations in Branding Iron, was not a physically intimidating man. But something about him always made her uneasy. Maybe it was his way of edging into her personal space when they spoke. Like now.

“Hello, Maggie.” He was so close that she could feel his warm breath. She took another step backward and found herself trapped against a wall.

“What is it, Stanley?” she asked, trying to be polite. After all, she had to work with him—in fact, she was his supervisor. He was good at his job, dutiful, thorough, and always on time. She could find no fault with the man. He just plain annoyed the living daylights out of her.

“I saw you coming out of the sheriff’s office just now,” he said. “I was wondering what you talked about.”

“Nothing to concern you, Stanley. Everything’s fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m late for a meeting.” She tried to step aside, but he seemed rooted to the floor.

“I left my weekly report on your desk. I was wondering when you wanted to go over it with me.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. If I have any questions, I’ll call you in. Now I really do have to go.”

This time he let her. She hurried away, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Stanley had asked her out more th

an once, but she’d kept to the ironclad excuse that she didn’t date coworkers. At least he hadn’t asked her again—a small bright spot in a day that had started out with a dinged bumper, a broken gate, and an encounter with a disturbingly attractive man.

* * *

In the barn, Travis had cleaned out two roomy box stalls for Abner’s horses, lining the floors with straw, piling the feeders with hay, and filling two big plastic buckets with fresh water. Lord, he didn’t know anything about horses—or even dogs, for that matter. Growing up, his stepfather, a fastidious, germ-phobic dentist, had been allergic to animal hair, so Travis had never even had a pet. How was he supposed to take care of a whole damned menagerie?

At least he wouldn’t have to keep them forever. An online ad on some local site should be enough to find them new owners. But he was already sorry he’d walked into Buckaroo’s that morning and even sorrier that he’d fallen for old Abner’s hard luck story.

Wandering back outside, he gazed up the road, expecting to see Abner’s old truck approaching with the horses tied behind and the dog riding along. He didn’t have a doghouse or any dog food, but if Abner didn’t provide any, the dog could sleep in the barn and eat table scraps—or maybe catch gophers. There were plenty of those around.

While he waited, he decided to fix the damaged gatepost. On inspection, the metal didn’t appear to be bent, but it was leaning from its base. Travis fetched a shovel and began digging around it. The post was set solidly in concrete, but the big Lincoln’s impact had loosened it in the ground and pushed it to one side. It was fixable. But digging around the lump of cement to straighten it would cost him some effort.