Holding Out for Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #3)(40)

Was that what she really wanted?

Or was it something else?

The phone rang again, then again.

Before her voicemail could come on, Megan switched off the device and dropped it into the empty wastebasket next to the bed.

*

Conner peered down the road through the falling snow. Windshield wiper blades swished and thumped, barely clearing the view. He cursed, muttering obscenities between his teeth. He couldn’t remember feeling this rotten since the night that bull had dragged him around the arena, leaving his body a shattered wreck.

He’d planned the evening to be a perfect date with the perfect woman. He and Megan had gotten off to a good start, but it was time to up the game. Time to show her how much she meant to him. Maybe they could even get past that silly charade involving Megan’s secret identity.

Sitting in their secluded booth, watching her across the table with the candlelight glowing in her eyes, he could have almost believed that the magic would happen. Then Ronda May had shown up and “accidentally” bumped Megan’s glass, spilling wine into her lap. As if that weren’t enough, she’d dragged Megan into the ladies’ room, filled her head with half-truths and outright lies, and ordered her to get out of the way.

Conner had known better than to ask Megan about everything Ronda May had told her. The damage had been done, the evening ruined.

Tonight, even his relationship with Megan was hanging in the balance. And only now did he realize how desperately he wanted to keep her in his life.

Conner had a long history with women. He liked them—some of them he’d liked a lot. But he’d never felt himself to be in love. He certainly hadn’t been in love with Ronda May—although she was funny and affectionate, and they’d had some good times. But with Megan, he felt stirrings of something new—the urge to cherish and protect her, to put her happiness ahead of his own. Was that love?

He could only hope Megan would give him the chance to find out.

He’d put his phone in the Jeep’s cup holder. Ronda May had his number and was bound to call him, but he wasn’t ready to talk to her. He needed time to cool down first. But he wanted the phone handy on the off chance that Megan might call him.

He knew better than to expect that. Megan, he sensed, was a woman of her word. If she’d said she wasn’t going to call him, she wouldn’t call. Still, the hope was there that she’d change her mind: the phone would ring, and everything would be all right again.

He was turning off the highway onto the ranch lane when the phone rang. He glanced at the number—Ronda May’s. He let it go to voicemail—a tearful plea for him to pick up, or call her back. Maybe if he didn’t respond, she’d get the message. But there wasn’t much chance of that. Sooner or later, he would have to confront her, and try to keep her from pushing his guilt buttons. Otherwise, if there was a way to make him feel like a dirty, low-down skunk, Ronda May would find it.

Pulling through the ranch gate, he could see that Travis’s pickup was gone. Too bad. He could’ve used some backup and a good listening ear. But Travis’s absence was something he’d have to get used to; except for Bucket, he would soon be on his own.

After parking the Jeep, he let the dog out for a few minutes, then called him back inside. The snow appeared to be letting up, but the night was still cold.

The hour was too early to go to bed. Conner popped the tab on a Bud Light, settled in the armchair, and used the remote to flip through the limited channels on the old TV set. He found a couple of Christmas movies he’d seen, a kiddie special, and a college basketball game. Sinking back into the chair, with Bucket curled at his feet, he tried to focus on the game. But he hadn’t heard of either school that was playing, and the red team was winning by twenty points at the half. Conner’s thoughts kept drifting to where he’d wanted to be tonight—somewhere, maybe even here, with Megan in his arms, taking time to explore the different ways she liked to be kissed. She would smell like lavender and taste like red wine, and her lips would feel like warm satin against his . . .

Conner didn’t realize he’d drifted off until Bucket alerted him with a low woof. He glanced at the clock. It was after 11:00, and he could hear a vehicle pulling up to the house.

His first thought was that it might be Travis. But Travis would have parked his pickup under the shed. And Bucket would be in greeting, wagging mode. Instead, the dog was staying close to Conner, a wary growl rumbling in his throat.

“Easy, boy.” Conner rose and switched off the TV. By the time he heard the rap on the front door, he’d already guessed the identity of his late-night visitor. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

“Hello, Ronda May,” he said.

In the harsh glow of the porch light, he could see that she’d been crying. Her eyes were red, her cheeks lined with trails of black mascara. “I’m freezing,” she said. “Can I come in? We need to talk.”

“You can come in. But leave your coat on because you won’t be staying long.”

She stepped across the threshold. Bucket, still wary, sniffed at her boot. “Get that dog away from me!” she snapped. “You know I don’t like him!”

“I remember now.” Conner snapped his fingers, sending Bucket into the kitchen. The dog liked most people, but he and Ronda May had never gotten on.

Ronda May had taken a seat in the armchair. She dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered.