Santa's Sweetheart (The Christmas Tree Ranch #4)(11)

Grace. She hadn’t invited him to call her by her given name, but at least he could think of her that way.

Lifting Maggie by the waist, he swung her to the ground. “Can I have a chocolate shake, Daddy?” she asked. “I like shakes better than pie.”

“You can have anything you want, as long as it doesn’t spoil your supper.” Sam watched her skip ahead of him, dancing down the sidewalk.

Overhead, seen through the bare trees that lined the street, leaden clouds were moving across the sky. The moist chill in the air warned of a coming storm. Sam made a mental note to check the weather report later. Storms always made his job harder.

“I’ve never been here before,” Grace said as they reached the restaurant and Sam held the door.

“The food is yummy!” Maggie said, “’specially the burgers, and the pizza, and the shakes.”

Grace gave her a smile. “I’ll take your word for that.”

Buckaroo’s wasn’t crowded at this hour. But as Sam ushered Maggie and Grace to an empty booth, he became aware of curious eyes watching them. When it came to gossip, Branding Iron was a typical small town. By tonight, the rumor that he was dating the pretty teacher would be all over town.

Not that it was true. He wasn’t dating anybody, and, as far as he knew, neither was Grace. But the notion of a teacher spending time with her student’s father was mildly scandalous. If word got back to her that people were talking, Grace was bound to be upset. Coming here had probably been a mistake. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

Sam gave their order to the waitress—two coffees, two slices of apple pie with ice cream, and a chocolate shake. Then they settled back to wait.

*

Buckaroo’s reminded Grace of a place she’d known growing up. The red Formica-topped tables, the worn black-and-white tile on the floor, the smells of grilled meat and sizzling oil from behind the counter, the paper napkins and plastic bottles of ketchup and mustard all reminded her of the place her uncle had owned, where she’d worked as a waitress as soon as she was legal, and sometimes before. Even the Christmas lights strung across the ceiling and the holiday music blaring “I’ll Have a Blue Christmas” from the wall-mounted speaker seemed familiar.

“That was Mom’s favorite Christmas song,” Maggie said. “She liked to sing along with Elvis Presley. Do you sing, Miss Chapman?”

“Only in class.” Grace added creamer to the coffee the waitress had set in front of her. She’d seen the pain that had flashed across Sam’s face, but when she looked up, it was gone. Grace knew about his wife. He wore no wedding ring—maybe he never had. But that didn’t mean he was free.

“You said you’d never been here before,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. “I take it you’re new in Branding Iron. Where did you come from?”

“I grew up in Oklahoma—in a town not much bigger than this one. After college, I got a job teaching in Oklahoma City.”

“Could I ask what brought you to Branding Iron?”

Was this a conversation or an interrogation? Grace wondered. But then again, maybe it was just his way of making small talk. “I needed a change of scene, and I read about the job opening. I applied, and here I am.”

That was only a half truth. She’d fled Oklahoma after the last-minute cancellation of her wedding plans. Even after she’d cleaned up the mess, returned the gifts, and paid the bills, she hadn’t been able to face her jilted groom or the guests who’d made an effort to be there for her. It was easier to pack up, run, and vow that she would never make the same mistake again.

“Do you have family back in Oklahoma?” The sheriff—who’d asked her to call him Sam—sipped his coffee, his gaze friendly and curious.

She shook her head. “Not anymore. My parents were divorced when I was young. My mother passed away a few years ago, and I haven’t spoken with my father since he moved out of the house to marry his girlfriend.”

She was revealing more than she’d meant to, but Sam Delaney was a good listener, gazing into her eyes and giving her time to talk. Maybe it was his lawman’s way of opening people up.

Maggie appeared to have tuned out the conversation. She was watching the cook behind the counter and tapping her fingers in time to “Jingle Bell Rock,” which was blasting out of the speakers.

“No brothers or sisters?” Sam asked.

“I do have an older brother,” Grace said, remembering how Cooper had flown in to walk her down the aisle at her botched wedding. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms. “He lives in Seattle. We keep in touch, but we don’t see much of each other. He—but never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

Grace tore her gaze away and forced herself to stop talking. If she kept looking into those gentle gray eyes of his, she’d be spilling all her past secrets—the wedding, her other broken relationships, and even the day when she’d come home spattered with easel paint and discovered that no man, not even her beloved father, could be trusted.

In the beat of awkward silence, she scrambled for a way to change the subject. But it was Maggie who broke the tension. “Yay! Here comes the waitress with our food. I’m starved. How about you?”

The pie was wonderful—the filling sweetly juicy, the crust so flaky that it crumbled at a touch. “It comes from Stella’s Bakery on Main Street,” Sam said. “The doughnuts and brownies there are so decadent they’re almost sinful.”