It's a Christmas Thing (The Christmas Tree Ranch #2)(54)

Tracy stroked the old pit bull’s massive head. Rush could feel her anguish. The dog was more than a beloved pet. He was her last living tie to the husband she still mourned.

Her throat moved as she swallowed and took a breath. “He’s suffering. It would be selfish to put him through this any longer.”

“You’re sure.” It wasn’t a question.

She nodded, fresh tears flowing down her cheeks.

Rush prepared the IV for the injection. “Don’t worry. It’ll be painless. He’ll just go to sleep.”

Tracy held the dog, stroking and kissing his head as Rush shaved a small patch of skin to insert the needle. “Good boy,” she whispered, watching his eyes close. “Go to Steve. Run to him. He’s waiting for you.”

By the time she’d finished speaking, Murphy was gone.

Rush gave her a little time before he spoke. “You can’t bury him, especially in this weather. The vet clinic in Cottonwood Springs can cremate the body. I can bring you back the ashes if you want.”

Silent, lips pressed together, she nodded.

Rush wrapped the dog’s body in a lightweight plastic tarp, carried it outside, and laid it in the rear of the Hummer. When he came back to the house, Tracy was sitting on the floor where he’d left her, next to the empty dog bed.

“Come here, Tracy.” He reached down, caught her hands in his, and pulled her to her feet. She swayed slightly, then leaned forward and let him pull her into his embrace.

“Hold me,” she whispered.

Rush knew better than to speak. His arms tightened around her trembling body. He cradled her against him, holding her as if he never wanted to let her go again.





Chapter 12


He held her close as she cried softly against his chest. Her body quivered with muffled sobs. Her tears soaked into his flannel shirt. Some might say it was a lot of grief for an old dog that had lived out its time. But Rush knew better. Tracy wasn’t just weeping for a cherished pet. She was crying for a memory, her last living connection to the man she’d lost.

He could only hope that, once she let herself heal, she’d be able to move on—to him.

He did his best to calm her, massaging her back through the flannel pajamas, brushing his lips along her hairline, and whispering little phrases of comfort.

“It’s all right, Tracy . . . Cry it out . . . you’ll be fine.”

He could feel her struggling to bring herself under control. Little by little, the crying ebbed until she rested quietly against him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “I will be.”

“You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

“A little.” Her teeth chattered as she spoke. With the heat turned down for the night, and no fire in the fireplace, the room was chilly.

He glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s barely one o’clock in the morning. You belong in bed. Come on. I’ll tuck you in.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep.”

“At least you’ll be warm. I’ll stay if you want me to.”

He guided her down the dark hall to her bedroom. She’d left a bedside lamp on, the light turned low. Rush smoothed the rumpled covers, turned them down, and tugged them over her as she slipped into bed.

“Don’t go,” she said, looking up at him.

Rush knew better than to take her words as an invitation to make love. She was grieving, and she didn’t want to be alone. That was all.

He sat on the far edge of the bed, pulled off his boots, and stretched out on top of the covers. When she didn’t speak, he turned onto his side and wrapped an arm around her. “All right?” he asked.

He felt her nod. “All right,” she whispered. “Thanks for understanding.”

He laid his cheek against her hair, feeling its silken warmth as she relaxed against him. Love swelled his heart. He would do anything for this woman, to protect her, provide for her, and make her happy. She might take time to come around, but he would wait—for as long as it took, he would wait. Tracy was worth it.

After a while she slept, warm and secure in his arms. Rush lay awake, holding her, listening to her breathe and filling his senses with the sweet, sleepy aroma of her skin. Turning his head, he could see the luminous dial of the clock on her nightstand. He wouldn’t allow himself to stay past dawn, to risk creating a wave of gossip.

When the digits flipped over to 4:30, he stirred, eased himself away from her, and sat up. She opened her eyes, gazing up at him, still muzzy from sleep.

“I need to go,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll see to Murphy and call you later.” He bent and kissed her, feeling the warm response of her lips. Resisting the urge to stay and taste them again, he picked up his boots and carried them into the living room. After pulling them on, he found his medical bag, where he’d left it next to the fireplace. He glanced around for his coat before he remembered that, in his haste to get here, he’d left it at the ranch.

Locking the front door behind him, he stepped out into a world of white. Fresh snow, six inches deep and still falling, blanketed the roads and walks, the lawns, the houses and trees, and the cars.

Snow. This time it was deep enough and cold enough to last for weeks. Branding Iron was going to have a white Christmas.