Christmas Eve Delivery. Connie Cox

pine trees had towered over her as she’d travelled down the unpaved road leading to the rodeo arena. In the dusk, those tall skinny evergreens appeared imposing, like sentinels warning her that she wasn’t in the big city anymore.

      For the baby’s sake, she wouldn’t let this alien landscape intimidate her.

      “Everything will be just fine.” She said it out loud to force conviction.

      A gaunt, stooped cowboy with a weathered straw hat shadowing his leathered face stopped on the way to his truck.

      She knew he drove a truck even though she didn’t know which one. She knew it had to be a truck because she had the only car in the parking lot.

      He put two fingers to the brim of his hat and nodded before asking, “You okay, ma’am?”

      “I’m fine. Thank you.”

      The old man gave her a strong look, half-wary that she might be crazy talking to herself and the other half suspicious of the overdressed stranger in their midst.

      She tried to reassure him with the brightest smile she could muster after eight hours of driving with all her worldly goods crammed into her little compact car.

      “I’m fine, really.”

      He glanced at her stomach as if he knew. How could he? She was only four and a half months and had barely begun to show.

      She was being fanciful. A fleeting look of no consequence was all it had been.

      Working hard to shrug off her supposition, she blamed it on her sensitivity to the situation. On hormones. On paranoia from lack of sleep.

      He couldn’t know her secret.

      Because if he did, the man she had driven all these hundreds of miles to find would know, too. And then where would she be?

      She couldn’t even think about a near future that bleak.

      He had to say yes. There was no other option.

      She’d called in the only favor she had and it had been a weak one. A doctor she’d once dated. A relationship that hadn’t worked out. What were the odds of that wildcard making the difference?

      The odds were already stacked against her and her chances plummeted if the cowboy she was looking for realized she was pregnant.

      In her open-toed sandals, she picked her way across the ruts cut into the dried mud and scarce grass sprigs that made up the entrance in front of the arena. Dusky shadows made the short distance seem treacherous.

      Ringed by a tall wooden fence, the arena was hidden from her. Looking up, she could see only the glare of the tall lights and the wash of bodies in the stands. Cowboy hats on everyone’s heads made each person’s features indistinguishable from each other.

      How would she ever find him?

      With only nineteen dollars and twenty-nine cents in her wallet, she had to find him. She could sleep in her car again, but she needed a few gallons in her gas tank to keep her car rolling and a decent meal to keep the baby healthy.

      Her stomach chose that moment to growl. Except for her daily dose of midmorning nausea, her pregnancy kept her continually hungry.

      She circled the arena, looking for an opening into this world of rodeo that personified testosterone, muscle and mastery of will.

      Carefully, she skirted the hitching posts where horses were tethered with only thin strips of rope or single leather reins. Didn’t these monsters know they could pull away with only a shake of their heads?

      How far could they kick? A protective hand over her stomach, she gave them wide berth.

      Pulling out her thin wallet, she prepared to pay admission, whatever it cost. She had no other choice.

      “Excuse me?” She stopped a young girl in perfect make-up, painted-on jeans, embossed boots, long blonde curls and rhinestones in the band of her white cowgirl hat.

      “Yes, ma’am?”

      Another “ma’am.” This time it made her feel more old than honored.

      Giving the girl the last smile she had in her, Deseré asked, “Where’s the entrance and how much is the entry fee?”

      The girl gave a kind, sympathetic glance at her inappropriate tailored slacks, silk blouse and strappy sandals before she waved toward the end of the wooden fence. “All the events are free to watch. Just go right on in. But watch your step, okay?”

      Deseré looked down to where the girl pointed. She’d missed a huge pile of horse droppings by scant millimeters.

      “Thanks.”

      As she minced her way toward the stands, she had to get a bit too close for comfort to the massive horses that were either tied to the backs of the stands or were being ridden in various directions from the barns to the arena.

      No one else seemed concerned as the tons of muscle on delicate hoofs pranced by so close.

      So this was Friday night in Piney Woods, Texas.

      “We’re definitely not in New Orleans anymore,” she whispered to the baby nestled in her womb.

      As she approached the full stands, several rows of observers started scooting over, packing themselves in tighter as they made room for her.

      One of the cowboys on the end stood. He gave her an appreciative, if curious once-over as he touched the brim of his hat. “Please, ma’am, have my seat. I’ll stand.”

      “Thank you.” Instead of sliding onto the hard wooden bench, Deseré took a deep breath. No turning back from here. “I’m looking for Dr. Hart.”

      “Jordan will be first one out of the gate as soon as we get started again.” He drew his brows together in concern. “You’re not needing him, are you? Do I need to go and fetch him for you?”

      It was more the other way around. She was hoping—counting on—Dr. Hart needing her. If he didn’t, she didn’t know what she would do.

      Almost on instinct, her hand moved to cover her abdomen. At the last moment she diverted it to the strap of the purse slung across her body.

      “No emergency.”

      “After his ride, I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him.” He waved her toward his vacated seat on the bench. “Best seat in the house.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Rusty.” He touched his hat again. “Folks call me Rusty.”

      He left the introduction hanging with his expectant look. What would it hurt to introduce herself?

      “Deseré.”

      “Nice to meet you, Miss Deseré.”

      Miss Deseré. She knew, even if she’d been wearing a wedding ring that was bigger than Dallas, Rusty would have called her “Miss” as a sign of respect. Among the gentlemen she knew in New Orleans, it was a sign of respect there, too.

      The familiar custom eased the tension across her shoulders by the slightest of muscle twitches.

      Before she could return the nicety a loudspeaker boomed, “Up next is Jordan Hart, points leader for this event.”

      Distantly, she heard a deep voice call out, “Cowboy up.”

      She looked in that direction, to see a calf burst from a narrow chute into the arena. Hot on its heels was a cowboy on a very large red horse.

      With only the slightest flick of his wrist, Dr. Jordan Hart unfurled his rope. The stiff loop shot out and fell neatly over the neck of the running calf.

      His horse stopped short, jerking the calf to a standstill.

      Quicker than she could comprehend, Jordan slid out of his saddle and began taking big strides toward the snared calf as his horse backed away without direction