A Cowboy Christmas. Ann Major

phone with insurance representatives, each call ending with “I wish there was more we could do, but unfortunately…”

      The timer dinged and Cassidy rinsed the dye from Mabel’s hair. Next, she trimmed the ends, then retrieved a pink plastic tub of rollers from the storage cabinet. She’d put in the final roller when a truck pulled alongside the Lincoln.

      “Why, it’s Logan Taylor,” Mabel said.

      The cowboy sported the same somber expression he’d worn earlier in the day when Cassidy had stopped by his ranch.

      “How long have you been cutting his hair?” The gleam in Mabel’s eyes warned Cassidy not to say too much, lest she give the woman the idea that she and Logan had a thing going—which they didn’t.

      “Logan isn’t one of my clients.” Mabel opened her mouth, but Cassidy cut her off. “Time for the dryer.”

      “Hello, Logan.” Mabel wiggled her fingers in the air.

      Feeling Mabel’s eyes on her, Cassidy offered a weak smile.

      Logan cut through the yard, stopping outside the shed doors. “Mrs. Wilson,” he greeted the older woman. Then his gaze shifted to Cassidy. “Do you have a minute?”

      “Sure.” She tucked Mabel’s head under the dryer, flipped the switch to high and lowered the hood. Hoping the noise would drown out whatever Logan had to say, she stepped outside the shed.

      His shadow fell over her like a dark, menacing storm cloud. He didn’t speak, which gave her a chance to study him—shaggy, dark hair, cheeks covered in beard stubble and dark smudges beneath his brown eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed his unkempt appearance earlier?

      Because you had other things on your mind.

      “About that night…” He removed his Stetson and twirled it around his middle finger. “I had too much to drink—”

      “That’s why I drove you home.” That was the truth—sort of.

      The cowboy hat spun faster. “So…did I or did you…”

      “Neither actually.” He hadn’t asked her to stay nor had he asked her to leave. She hadn’t offered to stay nor had she offered to leave. “It just happened.”

      Her heart ached at the abject misery in the man’s eyes. The fact that he failed to remember their lovemaking should have hurt or angered her, but she felt only sympathy for him.

      “I thought you should know about the baby.” She sucked in a quiet breath. “In case you wanted to be involved in the pregnancy.” She’d hoped, prayed, fantasized that Logan would step up to the plate and be a father to their child, regardless of his feelings toward her.

      His gaze wandered around the yard. “Are you…”

      The words were barely a whisper and Cassidy had trouble hearing above the hum of the hair dryer. “What did you say?”

      Right then Mabel shut off the dryer at the same time Logan raised his voice. “Are you sure the baby’s mine?”

      Mabel gasped.

      Cassidy stared in shock.

      Logan groaned.

      Oops. The cat was out of the bag.

      Chapter Two

      The blood drained from Cassidy’s face, leaving her skin as white as the siding on the trailer. She swayed to the left, then to the right. Fearing she’d topple, Logan grabbed her arm and hauled her to the trailer steps a few feet away. “Put your head between your knees.” He pressed his hand against the back of her neck, ignoring the silky texture of her hair.

      “Oh, dear. You’re feeling poorly.” Mrs. Wilson rushed to Cassidy’s side, her plastic cape flapping in the air.

      “I’m fine,” Cassidy mumbled between her legs.

      Logan’s nose curled at the smell of ammonia rising from the older woman’s head. No wonder Cassidy felt sick—breathing toxic fumes all day.

      “Listen, dear. I’ll leave and—”

      “Give me a minute, Mabel.”

      “If you’re sure…” Mrs. Wilson retreated to the shed and ducked her head beneath the dryer.

      “I’ll get you some water.” Logan stepped past Cassidy and entered the trailer’s kitchen, then searched the cupboards for a drinking glass.

      “Cassidy? Are you makin’ all that racket?”

      Crap. “It’s Logan Taylor, Mrs. Ortiz.” He poked his head around the doorway. “Cassidy needs a drink of water.”

      “Oh.” The older woman glanced across the room. “I don’t know where Cassidy is.”

      “She’s outside.” He resumed his search.

      A few seconds later…“Cassidy? You makin’ all that racket in there?”

      “Logan Taylor, ma’am.” He wondered if Cassidy’s mother knew about the baby. Logan found a glass, ran the cold tap, then headed outside. “Here.” He handed Cassidy the drink, before retreating to the bottom of the steps.

      “I don’t bite.” She flashed a crooked smile.

      If not for the pasty color of her complexion, he’d have two-stepped toward his truck and gotten the heck out of Dodge. “Do you need me to take you to a doctor?”

      The smile vanished. “I don’t need you to do anything, Logan.”

      Fearing his presence upset her, he said, “Maybe we should talk later.”

      Cassidy glanced at Mrs. Wilson. “That might be best.”

      How long did old biddy hair take to style?

      “Give me a couple of hours,” Cassidy said, reading his mind.

      He doubted Mrs. Wilson had enough hair on her head to require two hours of teasing. The former schoolteacher flipped off the dryer and began removing her curlers. “I’ll take you out to dinner later,” he said.

      Color flooded Cassidy’s cheeks. “You’re asking me out on a date?”

      A date? He’d already gotten her pregnant, wasn’t it a little late for a date? “Uh…” He shook his head. “I was thinking along the lines of a business meeting.” He didn’t dare become too friendly with Cassidy—she was just too attractive for his peace of mind.

      “Oh.” The light faded from her eyes and he felt as if he’d kicked a puppy across the barnyard. “Thanks, but I can’t leave Mom here by herself.”

      Recalling the odd way Cassidy’s mother had behaved a few minutes ago, he asked, “Is your mother ill?”

      “For goodness sake, Logan.” Mrs. Wilson formed a capital letter A with her fingers. “Sonja’s…”

      He stared at the older woman, not having a clue as to what she meant.

      “Mom’s got Alzheimer’s,” Cassidy explained.

      Alzheimer’s? He hadn’t heard. Because he’d kept to himself for so long the only person he had any meaningful conversations with was Fletcher. “I’ll bring supper here.” Logan came up with a mental list of local restaurants and bars. “Tacos sound okay?” Cassidy pressed her fingertips to her mouth and shook her head.

      Bethany had suffered morning sickness at all times of the day—that was the only part of pregnancy Logan understood. His wife had always lost the baby before the queasiness abated. He noticed a grill near the tree. “How about steaks on the cooker?”

      Cassidy sat up straighter. “Steak sounds good.”

      With a nod he left. And didn’t look back.

      As soon as he cleared