“Not really. I know Hank started drinking after he lost his leg. It got so bad that his wife left him, took their little boy away, and remarried. Hank didn’t have any contact with his son for years. That’s all I know.”
“But surely that wouldn’t have caused so much bitterness between them,” Maggie said. “Something else must’ve happened—something bad enough to tear them apart.”
Francine wiped a dab of cheese off her chin. “Maybe so, honey. But Hank’s never said a word about it, not even to me.”
“Travis would be glad to have somebody else take the animals and the sleigh. He didn’t want them in the first place, but Abner was afraid the horses and dog would be put down when he left them.”
“It sounds like Travis has a good heart.” Francine gave her a teasing wink. “And it sounds like you’ve gotten to know him pretty well.”
“Not that well. Believe me, he’s not all that easy to know.” Maggie felt the hated blush creep into her cheeks again. It was humiliating. Thirty-two-year-old mayors didn’t blush.
Francine, who never missed a thing, finished her sandwich and leaned back in the booth. “This is how I see it, honey. We’ve both got guys we like, and we both want the same things for them. We want the two of them to settle the past and be family again.”
“And to team up for the parade,” Maggie added. “As long as they’re not speaking to each other, that isn’t going to happen.”
“Right,” Francine said. “I don’t know how we’re going to manage it. I just know that we’ll have a better chance if we work together. What do you say we think about it for a day or two and then check in, say, before the weekend?”
“If this is going to happen, it’s got to happen fast,” Maggie said. “Otherwise, I’ll be wearing that Santa suit myself.”
“And with that hair of yours, red isn’t your color. You’re more of an autumn,” Francine joked. “So do we have a deal?”
“We do.” Maggie put a bill on the table and rose. “I have to go now, but I’m in, and I’ll get back to you. Thanks for your help, Francine.”
“My pleasure, honey. And good luck.”
The two women fist-bumped. Then Maggie hurried out to her car. Having Francine as her coconspirator could make a difference. But they were dealing with two stubborn men. There were plenty of pitfalls. And there was always the chance that their meddling would only make matters worse.
But if they succeeded, it could mean a win for two good men, for the town of Branding Iron, and for the spirit of Christmas.
* * *
Travis had used eleven cans of tomato juice to bathe the dog and saved the last one for himself. The clothes he’d been wearing were buried, and the skunk had departed when he’d left a radio playing punk rock on the porch. That godawful smell would probably linger for weeks, but at least it was no longer knock-you-flat overpowering.
Meanwhile, he couldn’t forget to take care of the horses. He’d given them fresh hay and water and shoveled steaming heaps of manure out of their bedding straw. At least it would help fertilize the spring hay crop. But the huge Percherons had nothing to do but stand in their stalls. While the weather was mild, they needed to be outside for fresh air and exercise.
The ranch had no corral. But the hay pasture, which covered several acres, was fenced all around with rusty barbed wire. He’d seen horses in neighboring fields, so he guessed the Percherons would be safe there. But the distance from the barn to the pasture gate was about fifty yards. Could he lead them that far without spooking them? And could he catch them again when it was time to put them back into the barn? As long as they were calm and docile, that shouldn’t be a problem. But if anything went wrong, he was no match for an out-of-control one-ton horse. All he could do was get the hell out of the way.
Truth be told, they made him damned nervous.
The next morning, he decided to give it a try. He remembered how Abner had clipped the lead ropes to their nylon halters, which they were still wearing. The big animals had plodded along without resistance. The first time would be the hardest, he reminded himself. With luck, nothing would go wrong. After that, it would be easier.
As he walked out to open the pasture gate, Bucket stuck to Travis’s heels. The dog seemed to follow him everywhere he went, always keeping a little behind, almost as if he were herding his new master. Bucket still smelled faintly of skunk, but after multiple baths, his black and white coat was like fluffy silk. He was a handsome animal, and he seemed to know it. He carried his plumed tail like a banner, letting the long hairs flutter in the breeze.
Returning to the barn, Travis steeled his resolve and opened the first box stall. The horse—Patch, the one with the white spot—snorted softly but stood still as Travis clipped the lead rope to the metal ring on the halter. Bucket sat at the entrance to the stall, ears perked, tongue lolling.
Travis moved toward the open gate of the stall, tugging gently on the lead. With a low nicker, Patch responded, following him out of the barn and across the yard. Bucket trailed behind, staying just clear of the massive hooves.
By the time he’d put the second horse in the pasture and closed the gate, Travis was feeling more confident. The big Percherons were docile and well trained. He was the one who needed training—how to handle them, how to give them commands, how to groom and care for them, how to put them in harness . . .
But what was he thinking? Lord, he’d never wanted a horse, let alone two. He didn’t even like horses. There had to be somebody—maybe in Cottonwood Springs or one of the other towns, who would have a use for them. He could run an ad—but what if the person who replied was just after horseflesh to sell to a slaughterhouse for dog food?
Damn! He was getting soft in the head! He was as sentimental as Abner!
Pausing, he turned and watched the two horses amble into the open field, stopping to nibble at the alfalfa that had sprouted after the fall harvest. The sky was clear, the wind brisk. They should be fine until tonight, he told himself.
Bucket nudged his hand and wagged his tail, wanting attention. Travis reached down and scratched his satiny head. Maybe the dog was lonesome for Abner. Dogs did get lonesome for their owners—at least the ones in books and movies did.
“What am I supposed to do with you, you old rascal?” He glanced down at Bucket, who wagged his tail. “So far, you’ve done nothing but get skunk-sprayed, gobble up food, and follow me around like a shadow. Abner said you were a good watchdog, but there’s nothing around here worth stealing. How are you supposed to earn your keep?”