My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #1)(44)

As the men took their places at the table, she got her first good look at Dr. J. T. Rushford. Tall, with dark hair and brown eyes, he was the handsomest of the three—or maybe he just had the best haircut. Travis had told her he’d be starting his mobile veterinary service after the holidays. Meanwhile, he was helping Travis and Conner with the trees.

Rush had brought another badly needed element to the venture—solid credit. He’d had no trouble getting a bank loan to set up his veterinary practice, with enough money left over to save the Christmas tree project. Maggie knew that Travis was worried about paying back his share after the season. But that was Travis. He worried about everything—just as she did.

Maggie was about to start passing the food around the table when Conner spoke up. “Whoa. It’s Thanksgiving—a special day. We should say grace.”

“I never knew you to be a praying man, Conner,” Travis said.

“Are you kidding?” Conner said. “Back in Oklahoma, my mom took us kids to church every Sunday, rain or shine. And in the arena, every time I settled onto one of those killer bulls, I did it with a little prayer.”

“Did that include the bull that stomped you?” Travis asked.

“Yes, but the Man Upstairs had other plans for me that day,” Conner said. “Still, you can bet your boots, I’m a praying man.”

“Then you’re welcome to say grace for us,” Travis said.

Conner’s prayer was brief but heartfelt. He expressed thanks for the food and for Maggie, who’d prepared it. He prayed for the success of their venture, and last of all, he prayed for snow.

After a hearty Amen chorus, the three hungry, tired men made short work of the meal. There wasn’t much small talk at the table, but Maggie understood that they were pressed for time and needed to get back to work. For now, the appreciation in Travis’s eyes was thanks enough.

She had gathered up the dinner plates and was standing at the counter to cut and serve the pies when the sound of a car pulling in the gate reached her ears, followed by a sharp rapping on the front door.

Travis had started to get up when she stopped him. “No need,” she said. “Stay put. I’ll get it.”

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she hurried to the door. As she opened it, her heart seemed to drop into the pit of her stomach.

Hank stood in the doorway. His face was flushed with anger. His fist clutched a half-crumpled page from the Cottonwood Springs newspaper. When he spoke, his voice was flat with sarcasm.

“As Caesar would have put it, ‘You, too, Maggie? ’ ”

*

Travis shot to his feet, almost upending his chair. Three long strides carried him from the kitchen to the front door. “Maggie isn’t part of this,” he said in a level voice. “If you’ve got something to say, you can say it to me.”

Frigid air rushed in through the door. When Hank stepped across the threshold, Maggie closed it behind him. “Have a seat, Hank,” she said. “Would you like some pie?”

She might as well have been a feather in the wind.

Father and son faced each other in cold defiance. It was Hank who spoke first.

“I waited for you when you got out of prison,” he said. “If you had come to me, I would have welcomed you with open arms. I would have taken you into my home, made you a partner in my business, helped pave the way to anything you’d set your mind to accomplish.

“When I realized you were still bitter about the past, and that you wanted nothing to do with me, I willed myself to accept that. I was proud to see you standing on your own two feet and working this run-down ranch like a man. But this—” He thrust the page with the newspaper ad into Travis’s face. “This is too much! This is a betrayal!”

Travis’s stony expression betrayed no emotion. “This isn’t a betrayal,” he said. “It’s business. The trees are growing on ranch property. We have every right to sell them. We know you’ve owned the Christmas tree market in this town. But there’s no law against a little healthy competition. If you don’t like it, that’s your problem.”

“But you could’ve told me. We could’ve worked together and both done better than you’ll do alone.”

“If you’re talking about any kind of partnership, forget it. Years ago, I came here looking for my father. I found a foul-mouthed drunk who cursed me and said he never wanted to see me again. I wrote you off that night, with no regrets. So far, that hasn’t changed.”

“What was I supposed to do, you young fool? I couldn’t keep a boy, the way I was living—especially when I’d signed away parental rights for your own good. Your folks could’ve had me arrested. The only right thing I could do was send you home and make sure you didn’t come back. But what about the letters I wrote you in prison—telling you there was a place for you here and inviting you to come?”

“Whatever was in those letters, I never opened them. I told the guard to send them back. He probably just threw them in the trash.”

Watching Hank, Maggie saw the fight go out of him. He slumped as if he’d been punched in the gut, but then he squared his shoulders again.

“Have it your way,” he said. “But this isn’t over. If you want a fight on your hands, by God, you’re going to get one.” Flinging the crumpled newspaper ad at Travis’s feet, he turned away, opened the door, and limped back to his truck.