Holidays on the Ranch (Burnt Boot, Texas #1)(23)

Martin pointed toward the bar. Two little boys ran out with paper sacks in their hands and there was a flash of a red suit before the door slammed shut. “Can we go inside now, Callie? I really need to talk to him.”

“Of course we can,” Finn answered. “Are you going to sit on Santa’s lap, Callie?”

“Only if he’s wearing cowboy boots and has blue eyes,” she flirted.

Santa Claus was set up at the end of the bar. Elves led folks of all ages through the candy cane–lined lane to sit on his knee and have their picture taken with him. Then, while other elves took them out another way to get a brown paper bag filled with fruit, nuts, and candy, a Gallagher with lots of computer savvy printed the picture and passed it off to an elf who took it to the guests.

Martin thought he was far too old to sit on Santa’s knee, but he stood beside him and whispered in his ear, had his picture taken, and carried it close to his heart for the next half hour as they waited for the next tree to light up.

Finn looked at the picture and asked, “What did you tell Santa you wanted this year?”

“Can’t tell. That’s between me and Santa.” Martin grinned.

Finn leaned down until his mouth was against Callie’s ear and asked, “Are you going to get your picture taken with him?”

“He’s not wearing cowboy boots, and his eyes are green,” Callie said.

“And what would you ask for if you could sit on his knee?” Finn asked.

“That would be between me and Santa,” she answered.

“Want to know what I asked for?” Betsy bumped Callie out of the way with a well-slung hip shot and looped her arms around Finn’s neck.

He didn’t have time to shake his head, nod, or even blink before she rolled up on her toes and kissed him right smack on the lips. When he pulled away and took a step backward, she laughed.

“Now I believe that Santa delivers,” she said with a grin. “I sat on his lap and asked him to bring me a hot cowboy with a cute little ass and promised if he would I’d mark him with a kiss. Oh, hello, Cathy.”

“That’s Callie,” she said coldly.

“Cathy. Callie. It doesn’t matter. You’re just the housekeeper.” Betsy grinned and walked away.

“Where’s a mouse when you need one?” Callie grumbled.

“Sorry about that,” Finn said.

“Did it taste like apple pie?” Callie asked.

The scowl on his face answered her before he said, “Yes, and I don’t like apple pie.”

The flash of the camera kept lighting up the bar until Betsy announced that the lighting of the tree would be taking place in five minutes. “Santa will do the honors this year, but he’ll be back in here for more pictures and to listen to more Christmas wishes right after the tree is lit. Let’s go watch the most beautiful tree in Burnt Boot light up, folks.”

Santa Claus adjusted his fake fat and stuffed belly before he waddled out the door with a whole crew behind him. Callie heard whispers of disappointment that the Brennans hadn’t planned anything in retaliation for the earlier fiasco. After that little scene with Betsy, she was ready to join the Brennans’ side. Then she remembered the way Honey had acted and decided she’d rather shoot the whole bunch of them—Gallaghers and Brennans both. What kind of people ruined Christmas, anyway?

Santa Claus crawled up on the flatbed trailer and raised his arms. The star on top of the tree weaved back and forth as the north wind picked up. The roar of a nearby train added its noise to the mixture.

“I didn’t realize there was a train track anywhere near here,” Callie said.

“First time I’ve heard one,” Finn said.

“Train track?” Polly said behind them. “That’s not a train. It’s an airplane. There must be something big in the works here, like elves parachuting out of the sky.”

Her comment went through the crowd faster than the speed of light, and everyone was looking up when Santa tapped on the microphone and said, “Ho, ho, ho! Time to light up the tree so here we go!”

He snapped the two cords together, and someone yelled from the back of the crowd, “Holy shit! That’s not a plane or a train. It’s a damn stampede.”

The crowd started to panic for the second time that night, running toward their vehicles for safety when two big black trucks roared down the street right toward the cattle. The herd turned in front of the trucks and came hell-bent right into the parking lot. The big tree went down in a blur. It didn’t even slow them down, and the flatbed was smack in the middle of their path.

Santa dropped to his knees and covered his head. For the most part the cattle split in two directions, but one rangy old bull tucked his front legs and landed on the flatbed with Santa, raised his tail, and dropped a load of fresh bullshit right there. Tired from the whole stampede, long silver icicles stuck to his winter coat and tail, he stopped beside Santa, hooked his horn in the white beard, and shook his big black head a couple of times. The beard fell over one eye like a punk rocker’s long hair and frightened the old boy so badly that he stomped his way off the truck, leaving two ruined speakers behind.

“They’ve got Gallagher brands, but I bet that was two Brennan trucks that turned them,” Gladys said. “Now the Gallaghers have to gather up their own cattle that ruined their part of Christmas. The Brennans didn’t do too bad for a spur-of-the-minute stunt.”