A Cowboy Christmas. Ann Major

bull’s sides heaved with exertion but after Logan slapped its hind quarters, the animal scrambled to its feet, slipping once but remaining upright. He trotted off, bellowing in disgust.

      “You coming out of there?”

      “I can’t feel my legs,” Fletcher complained.

      Logan grinned.

      “Give me your hand.”

      “Sorry, buddy. No can do.” Logan wasn’t about to risk falling into the bog. “Here.” He threw one end of the harness and Fletcher snatched it mid-air, then Logan tied the other end to the trailer hitch.

      “Take it easy. These are my favorite boots.”

      Not for long, buddy. Logan hopped into the front seat and revved the engine. “Hang on!” As soon as Fletcher tightened his grip, Logan pressed the gas—hard—and the truck exploded forward. Fletcher flew through the air, sans boots, and landed on his belly at the edge of the bog. When he tried to stand, Logan hit the gas again and dragged Fletcher through the hay.

      “God damn it, Logan!” Fletcher released the ends of the harness and attempted to stand. His feet slid out from under him and he went down a second time.

      “You look like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz,” Logan called out the truck window.

      “Think that’s funny, eh?”

      Logan hopped out of the truck and went to help his friend stand. Fletcher grasped Logan’s wrist and yanked. Logan stumbled forward, bumping Fletcher, and the two men toppled over like felled trees into the muck.

      From there things went downhill faster than a California mudslide.

      “You shithead.” Fletcher flung a clump of mud at Logan’s chest.

      “You would have done the same thing if it had been me standing in that bog.” Logan landed a mud ball against the side of Fletcher’s head.

      A mud-slinging battle ensued until every inch of their clothing was covered in smelly muck. “Enough!” Logan hollered, collapsing on the embankment, sides heaving with laughter.

      Fletcher fell down next to him, chuckling. “Man, I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a hell of a long time.”

      His friend’s words sobered Logan. He struggled to catch his breath. Now that the fun was over, his body felt chilled.

      A long silence stretched between the men, then Fletcher spoke.

      “You think I should have given Sandi a second chance—for Danny’s sake?”

      The two men were thirty years old, their birthdays two weeks apart in July. They’d been friends since kindergarten and had stuck by each other through thick and thin. Through divorce and death.

      “Did Sandi want a second chance?” Logan asked.

      “No.”

      “Did you want a second chance with her?” Logan asked.

      “No.” Fletcher released a loud gust of air from his lungs. “If Bethany had cheated on you, would you have divorced her?”

      “I don’t know.” Logan wished Bethany had cheated. Pretty damned difficult to work out marriage troubles with a dead spouse. “Stop beating yourself up over the divorce. Danny needs time to adjust is all.”

      “You’re probably right.” Fletcher punched Logan in the arm. “I met a woman named Daisy on MySpace.” Fletcher had set up a MySpace page months ago and had tried to persuade Logan to join in the fun. He’d refused.

      “Daisy? What the hell kind of name is that?”

      “Everyone uses fake names on MySpace,” Fletcher said.

      “What’s your handle?”

      “Leonard. Lenny for short.” He grinned.

      “Yeah, well, good luck with your little flower.”

      They crawled to their feet. “Thanks for helping with the bull,” Fletcher said.

      “Anytime.”

      Hobbling sock-footed toward his truck, Fletcher said over his shoulder. “I’m throwing steaks on the grill tonight. You’re welcome for supper.”

      “Think I’ll pass.”

      “If you change your mind, we’re eating at six.” Fletcher honked and drove off.

      Logan watched the blue horizon swallow his friend’s truck. West Texas was flat and barren and not a tree in sight. Most people considered this part of the Longhorn State the ugliest but the vast emptiness matched the way he felt on the inside.

      Keeping to himself might be easier on the heart and mind, but it sure was damned lonely on the soul.

      LOGAN’S FOOT ITCHED like the dickens, which meant only one thing—bad luck headed his way.

      After helping Fletcher rescue the bull from the mud bog a week ago Monday, there hadn’t been much excitement in Logan’s day-to-day routine. The red Ford Focus hatchback winding its way along the ribbon of ranch road was about to change all that.

      He slunk into the shadows inside the barn doors. He’d rather go another round with a mud-bogged bull than face the woman heading in his direction.

      Three months had passed since he’d gone on a bender and had himself a hog-killin’ time at Billie’s Roadhouse ten miles south of Junket. When the local hairdresser had strolled into the honky-tonk, Logan’s boot heel had been planted on the brass rail long enough to take root.

      If Cassidy Ortiz hadn’t left him a note the following morning, he would have speculated the rest of his years about who had worn the sultry scent that had clung to his pillow. Until now he’d been successful in avoiding the lady—not an easy task in a town the size of Junket, Texas. Population two-hundred-sixty-nine.

      The hatchback stopped next to his truck parked in front of the house.

      Turn around and leave. He slunk deeper into the shadows.

      The car door opened.

      No. No.

      A cowboy boot appeared, then a jean-clad leg. No need for a jacket since the morning chill had worn off. A sweater would do—like the tight one that hugged her breasts when she reached across the front seat for…A dish?

      Object in her hands forgotten, he zeroed in on her curves. How did any man, even a drunk one, forget a body like Cassidy’s? A tightening below his belt buckle suggested that certain parts of his anatomy had no trouble recalling her.

      A wind gust blew her long midnight-colored hair against her face, blocking his view of her high cheekbones and dark, slanted eyes. She bumped the car door shut with her hip and strolled along the sidewalk. The swish-sway of her fanny reminded him that the stylist had nothing in common with Bethany, who’d been a small-boned, frail blonde.

      Cassidy knocked on the front door.

      Nobody’s home.

      Another round of knocking. Then she crossed to the front window by the porch swing and peered inside.

      Persistent woman.

      Right then Twister loped around the corner of the house. Logan didn’t know who was more surprised—the deaf German shepherd when he spotted the visitor or Cassidy when the dog snarled. Twister was all bark and no bite, so Logan didn’t intervene.

      She tossed a piece of whatever was on the plate to the dog. Twister caught the treat midair, then wagged his tail as if it were a checkered flag at a stock car race. Cassidy inched toward the porch steps, pausing every few feet to fling another morsel at Twister.

      If you don’t go out there and speak with her, she’ll stop by again.

      He’d lock the entrance gate off the main road.

      She’ll