My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #1)(3)
She moved past him, slid her shapely rump into the driver’s seat, and turned the key. The big Lincoln roared to life. Wheels spun on the ice as she geared down and backed away from the gate. It took some rocking back and forth, but she finally made it onto the road and shifted gears again. At least she knew how to drive a stick shift.
He gave her a parting wave. “Slow down,” he yelled. But she gunned the engine as if she hadn’t heard him. That, or she was just being contrary. She struck him as the type.
He watched the car until it disappeared from sight. It would serve the fool woman right if she slid off the road again. But it wasn’t his job to worry about her safety. He wasn’t a cop anymore.
By the time he’d checked the water storage tank and made sure no pipes were frozen, he was in serious pain. The hard fall hadn’t broken any bones, but he ached in every joint and muscle. He knew, without checking, that there was nothing in the medicine cabinet except toothpaste, dental floss, Band-Aids, and a flattened tube of antibiotic salve. If he wanted to make it through the rest of the week, he would need to pick up some ibuprofen and maybe some good old-fashioned liniment. That would mean driving to town—a trip he made no more often than necessary.
Chiseling the ice off the front and rear windshields of the truck took almost half an hour. The forecast for last night had been rain. If he’d known the rain was going to freeze, he would have covered the vehicle with a tarp or parked it in the barn. Live and learn. He’d arrived here late last winter and managed to survive. But the season had been mild, with only one big storm. Something told him this winter would be different.
The truck started on the first try. Travis was a decent mechanic. Last summer he’d managed to get the abandoned tractor running and used the old tiller, rake, and other rusty attachments to raise two crops of hay. The barn was piled high with rectangular bales that were just light enough for a man to lift. When Travis had started up the old hay baler, he’d forced himself to forget that this machine had cost his father one of his legs. That had been thirty years ago, when Travis was a small boy. His father still lived in Branding Iron. But Travis had bitter memories of the man. Now he wanted nothing to do with him.
As he backed out of the gate, which swung loose from the damaged post, he asked himself one more time whether he could really make a go of this ranch. There was so much to be done, and so little in the way of resources to do it with. Maybe he’d be better off selling the land, pulling up stakes, and starting over somewhere new.
Selling the hay to neighboring farms and ranches had given him enough money to live on—but he was barely getting by. He needed more income from the ranch. But buying even a few calves to raise and sell would require money he didn’t have, and no bank he’d ever talked to would grant a loan to an ex-convict.
He could look for a job. He hadn’t tried in Branding Iron. But facing another string of rejections was more than his pride could handle. A man with his record couldn’t be trusted to muck out a stable without stealing the horses.
Gloomy thoughts for a gloomy day. As he drove toward the highway, he made a mental shift to the memory of the woman who’d crashed into his gate that morning. She reminded him of somebody—some actress he’d seen on TV back in the day. He recalled little details, the way her dark red hair curled against her porcelain cheek; the way her emerald green scarf matched her eyes; and the cool, challenging look those eyes had given him. Classy and confident—those were the words that came to mind. Something told him the lady knew how to play hardball. But there was softness about her full lips and amply curved body. She hadn’t introduced herself. But that was just as well. He certainly didn’t plan on meeting her again—not even if she’d spun off down the road.
Coming up on his left was the home of his nearest neighbor. Jubal McFarland was in his front yard, clearing ice off the front walk. He waved as Travis drove past. Travis returned the greeting and drove on. Good people, the McFarlands. They’d invited him to dinner a couple of times, but knowing he couldn’t reciprocate, Travis had made his excuses.
He could almost envy what Jubal had—a prosperous ranch, a loving wife, and two children who’d make any man proud. But Travis knew better than to dwell on what he’d never have. Any hope of such a life had vanished with the thump of a judge’s gavel and the clang of a cell door.
Turning onto the highway, which had been salted to melt the ice, was a relief. As he passed Hank’s Hardware on his right, Travis noticed a crew of workers unloading cut Christmas trees from a big flatbed truck and stacking them in the store’s fenced side lot. Sweet racket, those trees. Hank had the only Christmas tree lot this side of Cottonwood Springs, and he charged top dollar for every one of them. Not that Travis cared. Damn sure, he wouldn’t be buying a tree this year, or any other year—especially from Hank.
He pulled into the Shop Mart parking lot and climbed out of the truck. His muscles had stiffened on the ride to town. Even walking hurt like blazes. He grabbed some liniment and some over-the-counter pain pills off the shelves and checked out through the express line. On the way back to the truck, he wrenched the lid off the ibuprofen and swallowed two capsules dry.
The cold wind was bitter through his coat. His rumbling belly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since last night. By now, Buckaroo’s Café would be open. A cup of good, hot coffee and a slice of their flaky apple pie would hit the spot. The money would be better saved for necessities, but there were times, like this morning, when he needed something extra.