A Randall Thanksgiving. Judy Christenberry

bad mistake. He’d been tempted by her several times since he’d met her, but he’d merely imagined how it could be between them. Now he knew.

      She had the most kissable lips he’d ever tasted. She fit against him perfectly.

      Could she be right? Could her father be looking for a husband to keep her at home?

      Harry didn’t want that role. Forcing a woman to do something she didn’t want to do was a losing proposition. He’d seen it in his parents. His mother had had hopes of going to Hollywood and being a star. His father had gotten her pregnant and married her, to keep her with him. They’d had a miserable marriage, and he and his sister had suffered.

      He thought he’d learned that lesson, but when he finished college he’d almost made the same mistake as his father. The woman he’d been seriously dating had wanted to go to Denver, a big city, and he’d chosen Rawhide. He’d assumed she’d change her mind and come with him. Fortunately for both of them, she’d gone to Denver.

      Forced relationships meant someone was sacrificing something that mattered a lot. He suspected whatever Melissa was doing in France—and he didn’t know what that was—it mattered to her a great deal. If she chose to live abroad, then there was no hope for a relationship. He could accept that.

      As long as he kept his distance.

      “Harry? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

      One of the other deputies had entered.

      “No, Wayne, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

      “Where’s the sheriff?”

      “He went out to the Miller place, south of town. They think they’ve been having some cattle rustling out there, and he wanted to look around.”

      “We haven’t had any cattle rustling in a while. Hope we don’t have it start up again. Is that what you’re worrying about?”

      “Uh, yeah. The holidays are a bad time to be hit by rustlers,” Harry said, hoping he sounded believable. Compared to the attraction he felt for Melissa Randall, rustling was a small blip on the radar.

      The door opened again and Mike Davis, sheriff of their county and husband to Dr. Caroline Randall Davis, came in.

      Harry wondered how difficult it had been for Mike, being attracted to a Randall woman. He’d never really asked him about that.

      Before he could do so, Wayne asked about the cattle rustlers. “Did you find anything, Sheriff?”

      “Yeah. They were hit pretty hard. It looks like the rustlers pulled up an 18-wheeler, let down a ramp and herded what cattle they could find into the truck, then drove off.”

      “That’s going to make them hard to catch,” Harry said.

      “Yeah. We need to look at all the ranches along the county road. I’d bet they’ll hit again with the same MO.”

      Harry jumped up and walked to the big map on the wall beside the door to the workout facility. “Besides the Miller ranch, there’s the Howser place, the Douglas place, the Windom ranch and the Haney ranch.”

      “Write those down, Wayne,” Mike ordered. “Let’s assume the rustlers stick to the south. We need to notify those ranchers to move their cattle away from any pasture alongside the road.”

      Mike looked at the schedule of deputies on duty. “Wayne, I’m going to leave you in charge. Harry, I’ll take the first two and you take the second two. Let’s warn them to move their herds before nightfall.”

      “Yes, sir.” Harry wanted to ask to swap the Haney place for either of the others, but he wouldn’t do that. The Haney place was Griff Randall’s ranch. He and his son, John, ran the ranch Griff had inherited from his father, Bill Haney. Bill had been married when he and the only Randall daughter, Jake’s and the others’ aunt, had gotten together.

      She’d gone to Chicago, pregnant and alone. She’d had Griff and taught him some bitter lessons. When she died, Griff had come back to Rawhide only to bury his mother, prepared to hate the father he’d never known. But he’d found there were two sides to every story, and his mother had lied to him.

      Bill Haney had been so grateful to have made peace with his only son, he’d left everything to him. Griff, in turn, had never changed the name of his father’s ranch, though he had kept the name Randall himself.

      And, of course, that ranch was where Melissa was.

      “There isn’t a problem, is there, Harry?” Mike asked, breaking into his thoughts.

      Harry realized he was still standing there, not having moved after being given his orders.

      “No, there’s no problem, Mike. I’m on my way.”

      At least no problem he was willing to talk about.

      “I WANT YOU TO HAVE the surgery at once.” Melissa started talking as soon as she opened the kitchen door and saw Camille sitting at the table. “It’s silly—”

      Her mother held up a hand to halt her tirade. “It’s my decision, Melissa.”

      Taking a deep breath, she sat opposite her mother at the table and tried calm reasoning. “I know it is, Mom. But your health is too important to play games with.”

      “I’d just prefer to wait till after the holidays.” She gave Melissa a weak smile. “I’ve waited six years to have you at the Thanksgiving table with the family.”

      Melissa reached across and squeezed her hand. “You can still have that, Mom. But the faster you get this problem dealt with, the faster you’ll recover. You know,” she said seriously, “I want you around to be a grandmother to my children.”

      “That’ll be hard to do if you’re living in France.”

      “It can’t happen at all if you’re dead,” Melissa snapped. At her mother’s stricken look, she was immediately sorry for her tone. Before she could apologize, he father’s booming voice nearly shook the kitchen.

      “What are you talking about?” Griff stood stock-still at the kitchen door.

      As much as Melissa ached to tell him, she couldn’t. Only her mother could do that. She looked at Camille. “You’ve got to tell him, Mom.”

      Camille just turned away, a stubborn look on her face.

      “Tell me what? What does she need to tell me, Melissa?” Griff advanced to the table, concern and apprehension etched into his expression.

      “Mom,” Melissa pleaded.

      Finally, Camille looked at her husband. “I need some surgery and I want to wait until after the holidays. That’s all.”

      “What kind of surgery?”

      Melissa said nothing, but kept her gaze pinned on her mother’s face.

      “A—a hysterectomy.” Camille turned away again, as if she was ashamed.

      Griff sank down in the chair beside his wife. “Why?”

      Melissa looked at her dad and nodded encouragingly.

      Camille remained turned away. In a whisper, she said, “I have a tumor on my ovary.”

      “And a hysterectomy will take care of it?”

      She nodded.

      “Then why are you going to wait?”

      “Thanksgiving is coming and Melissa is here and—”

      “Nonsense,” Griff said, cutting her off. “You’re not telling me something.” He put his arms around Camille. “Honey, what is it?”

      She turned then and buried her face in his shoulder. Griff held her close, giving her time to pull herself together. Then he nudged her. “Come on, honey, tell me everything.”

      Camille