My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch 1)

“Not much,” Travis said, refilling his mug. “There’s a redneck bar called Rowdy’s Roost on the far end of town—good place to go if you’re looking for a fight. There’s a one-feature movie theater that shows family stuff, a hamburger joint, and a bed and breakfast. Oh—and the whole town seems to make a big fuss over Christmas. If you need more excitement than that, Cottonwood Springs, half an hour up the highway, has a mall and a megaplex.”

“Whoopee.” Conner poured ketchup on his eggs. “How about the women? Any lookers?”

“A few. But most of them are married, and you don’t want to tangle with their husbands.” This wasn’t going quite the way Travis had hoped. He’d wanted a partner to help him make the ranch pay. But so far, Conner only seemed interested in having a good time.

“How about you?” Conner asked. “You’ve been here almost a year. Have you found yourself a woman yet?”

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sp; The memory flooded Travis’s senses—Maggie’s sweet, trembling lips pressed against his, the nearness of her lush body tempting him to go further . . .

He forced it away. “I thought I had once,” he said, “but it turned out she was just using me.”

Conner grinned and shook his head. “There are worse things than being used by a pretty lady, my friend. What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“That bad, huh?”

Travis scrambled to change the subject. “Looks like we’re about finished here. Do you want to see the ranch, or do you need to catch up on your sleep?”

“That strong coffee of yours perked me right up. I’ll be good for hours. So how big is this ranch?”

“Not that big. Only about four hundred acres. I raised a couple crops of hay last year, but most of the land is unused. I figure we could do with some stock—cattle or sheep. Hell, maybe even alpacas. They seem to be the new thing.”

“What we choose would depend on pasture—the soil, the graze, the terrain, the access to water, even fences. Since we can’t put grazing stock out till spring, we’ve got plenty of time to think about it.”

“Especially since we can’t afford to buy stock,” Travis added. “Even with the ranch as security, the bank won’t lend money to an ex-convict.”

“Or a broken-down rodeo cowboy with a bankruptcy in his recent past,” Conner said. “We need to figure out a way to make money. You say you inherited the ranch free and clear. Is there any part of it you could sell?”

“Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that. But who’d want to buy land out here? Far as I know, beyond what’s been cultivated, there’s nothing but rocks, weeds, and vermin.”

“Far as you know? You mean you haven’t seen it all?”

“Not all the way to the west boundary. It’s been as much as I could do to plow and harvest the hayfields. And there aren’t any roads, or even trails, going out that way. If I tear up my truck out there or get stuck in a wash, I’m in trouble.”

“So do we even know where the boundaries are, and who owns the land next to them?” Conner’s interest was piqued, just as Travis had hoped. “Hell, what if we strike oil or find a gold mine out there?”

“Don’t bet on it, friend.” Travis shook his head. “I found an old aerial map with survey lines drawn in when I moved into the house. It’s tacked to the wall, just this side of the front door. You can take a look while I clear away our breakfast.”

Travis hurried to put the leftovers in the fridge and load the antiquated dishwasher. Then he joined Conner, who was studying the old map.

“When was this made?” Conner asked.

“There’s no date on it, but I’m guessing it’s at least ten years old. A couple from somewhere back east leased the place for a few years back then. Hippie types, the family lawyer called them. From what he told me, they had an option to buy it on contract, but they had some legal trouble and couldn’t make the payments. They gave up and left.”

“I can see the house and barn and the road,” Conner said, peering at the map. “And I can see where the property line runs right up against that line of hills to the west. I’m guessing it might be government land beyond that. And then, on the north, it butts against your neighbor’s property.”

“Jubal McFarland. Nice family. He raises organic, grass-fed beef, and he builds good fences.”

“Was it Mark Twain who said that good fences make good neighbors?”

“No, it was Robert Frost. But he was right.”

“Well, keep in mind that good fences cost money, and you’ve got a lot of property,” Conner said. “So what do you say we do some exploring? It’s a nice day, even with that chilly breeze. And my four-wheeler can go anywhere.”

Outside, they wheeled the ATV out of the trailer, donned helmets, and climbed into the seats. Conner was about to start the engine when Bucket came tearing around the house, leaped into the ATV, and settled onto one of the rear seats.