Texan for the Holidays. Victoria Chancellor

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      Texan For the Holidays

      Victoria Chancellor

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      Saturday, December 1, 2007

      “California, here I come,” Scarlett shouted out the window of her aging Benz into the Texas prairie. No one was around to hear, but that was okay. Before long, lots of people would know Scarlett, hairstylist to the stars. She rolled up the window, feeling refreshed from the brisk, cool air.

      She was making good time, despite the wrong turn she’d taken back in Dallas. And she’d missed Interstate 35W because she’d been surrounded by huge gravel-hauler trucks. Instead of backtracking, Scarlet had continued on. Eventually, Texas Highway 114 would intersect westbound Interstate 40, somewhere in Oklahoma.

      Over an hour after missing the interstate, she passed a city sign that said Loving and noted the town had just a few small buildings. “I’m not loving Texas right now,” she said out loud, and laughed at her joke. She turned up the radio and sang along with U2.

      Her smile faded when she looked into the rearview mirror to check on an old truck she’d just passed. It was weaving under the weight of about a thousand chicken crates that looked as if they might fall over at any minute.

      But the old truck wasn’t the only vehicle with a problem. Black smoke billowed in fat inky spirals from her engine—that noisy diesel combustion thing. She knew just enough about cars to add oil, water and of course, fuel, intermittently. Black smoke could not be good. Not good at all…

      She checked the gauges and discovered her engine was red-hot. And her oil gauge needle was not where it was supposed to be. When had that happened?

      “Darn it,” she murmured as she slowed the Benz and looked for a place to pull off. Up ahead, she spotted a wide, rocky patch of dry brown grass and prickly pear cactus. She’d let the car cool off, add some water and oil from the stash she never left home without, and get to the next service station.

      She shut off the engine, then opened her door. The cold air coming out of the north nearly took her breath away. Just then the old truck chugged by. It slowed, and Scarlett felt a moment of panic. Was it safe to be alone out here? She hadn’t been afraid traveling by herself all the way from Atlanta, and it was broad daylight.

      “Need any help?” a raspy voice called to her. A man leaned out the window and Scarlett could see a leathery, stubbled cheek and some missing teeth.

      “No, I’m okay.” I hope. Maybe I should pray….

      “If you need a ride, I can take you to Brody’s Crossing.”

      “Thanks, but my car just needs a rest. I’m adding some oil and we’ll be on our way soon.”

      “Could be blown.”

      What could be blown? She didn’t even want to think about that statement! “Um…”

      “Well, ride’s up to you.”

      “I appreciate the offer, but I’m prepared for this type of situation.” Not that this exact scenario had ever happened before.

      “Good luck to you, little gal.”

      Scarlett stifled her surprise. Little gal? “Is there a service station in Brody’s Crossing?” So far, she’d only seen modern convenience stores-slash-filling stations.

      “McCaskie’s. It’s on the main street. Can’t miss it.”

      “Well, thanks again.”

      “Sure ’nuff,” he said, before spitting between his missing teeth. “’Course, Claude may not work on these fur-in cars.” Then he put his truck in gear and slowly inched away, crates swaying and chickens squawking.

      Fur-in? Oh, he meant foreign. How…quaint. She hoped McCaskie’s wasn’t as predisposed to American-made.

      Scarlett let out a sigh. She was all alone with a broken down fur-in car. Oh, well. Worse things could happen.

      At least she still had all her teeth.

      MCCASKIE’S SERVICE STATION was closed for the afternoon. And things had definitely gotten worse.

      Oh, she still had her teeth. And she hadn’t sprouted any facial hair. But her car sat dying beside the road a little more than halfway to Graham, which she’d learned during her ride to town—in a drafty pickup loaded with Christmas trees—was the county seat and the largest town in the area. She huddled out of the wind next to two old-fashioned pumps, wondering what to do now.

      Today was Saturday afternoon. Didn’t these people need to drive around, buy gas? The sign on the fingerprint-smudged glass door of McCaskie’s simply indicated the place was closed for the afternoon, and advised people to “have fun.” What the heck?

      Brody’s Crossing looked as if it had been designed as a movie set for Holiday Hometown, America, complete with tinsel garlands and peppermint canes swaying from streetlights in the brisk wind. A few temporary traffic barricades stood on the sidewalk.

      She hoisted her backpack-style purse onto her shoulder, zipped up her hooded sweatshirt and set off for the central business district, which she figured was maybe two blocks long. Three at the most. She’d seen small towns similar to this when her mother had dragged her around Georgia, antiquing.

      Scarlett hated antiquing almost as much as she hated being stranded in a town where service stations closed on Saturday afternoons and sidewalks were barricaded.

      In just a minute or two she arrived at Clarissa’s House of Style, an old-fashioned “beauty shop” in a brick-and-frame narrow, long building that might have been a house years ago. A big picture window lined with multicolored lights and silver tinsel gave the shop a cheery glow on the blustery day.

      Since she only felt at home when she was in a salon, Scarlett couldn’t wait to enter. The smells of shampoo, conditioner, styling products and even perms. The sight of dramatic hairstyle posters and fashion magazines to stimulate creativity. The subtle chatter of clients and stylists, the intense concentration of manicurists, and even the gentle splash of water in the big basins. She loved it all.

      As Scarlett stepped into the House of Style, everyone in the place stopped talking to stare. She focused on the person closest to the door, whose name tag read Clarissa.

      “What can I do for you, hon?” The older lady smiled as she lifted her penciled brows. Clarissa was slightly over-weight, well-endowed and middle-aged. Her hair was blond, teased and sprayed into submission. Her most defining characteristic, though, was the traditional pink smock worn by many small-town hairdressers.

      Scarlett felt as if she’d walked into every proprietor-owned salon she’d ever seen—and some where she’d worked—in Georgia. Then her smile faded. She didn’t want to revisit her early years. She wanted to go to California, where stylists wouldn’t be caught dead in pink smocks.

      “Hi, I’m Scarlett. My car broke down about ten miles away, and I got a ride into town. The service station is closed and I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

      “Why,