A Texas Cowboy's Christmas. Cathy Gillen Thacker

advantages I never had.” Braden, unlike her, would want for nothing.

      Except maybe a daddy in his life.

      Not that she could fix that.

      Chance’s lip curled in contempt. “Ah, yes, back to social climbing.”

      He wasn’t the only one who misinterpreted the reason behind her quest to get an in with every mover and shaker in the area. And beyond...

      But for some reason, Chance Lockhart’s contempt rankled.

      Which was another reason to set him—and everyone else in Laramie County who misread her—straight. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand. You having grown up with a silver spur in your mouth and all.”

      He grinned.

      “But not all of us have had those advantages.”

      His hazel eyes sparkled, the way they always did when he got under her skin. “Like?”

      “Private school, for one.”

      Chance remained implacable. “They have private schools in Laramie County.”

      “Not like the ones in Dallas.”

      He squinted in disapproval. “Which is where you want him to go.”

      Stubbornly, Molly held her ground. “If Braden attends the right preschool, he can get into the right elementary, then middle, then prep. From there, go on to an elite college.”

      Chance poked the brim of his hat up with one finger. “I’m guessing you aren’t talking about anything in the University of Texas system.”

      Molly studied the frayed collar on Chance’s flannel shirt, the snug worn jeans and run-of-the-mill leather belt. It was clear he didn’t care about appearances. Coming from his background, he did not have to. “If Braden goes to an Ivy League school, the world is his oyster.”

      Chance rested his brawny forearm on the roof of her SUV. “I can see you’ve got it all mapped out.”

      Molly tried not to notice how well he filled out his ranching clothes. “Yes, unlike you, Braden is going to take advantage of all the opportunities I plan to see come his way.”

      “How does Braden feel about all this?” Chance asked, not bothering to hide his frustration with her.

      Had Molly not known better, she would have thought that the irascible cowboy did not want her to leave Laramie County. But that was ridiculous. The two of them couldn’t get gas at the same filling station at the same time without getting into a heated argument. More likely, Chance would be delighted to see her depart. “My son is three.”

      “Meaning you haven’t told him.”

      “He has no concept of time.”

      “So, in other words, no.”

      “I will, once Christmas is over,” Molly maintained. She moved as if to get in her vehicle, but Chance remained where he was, his big, imposing body blocking the way.

      “Has it occurred to you that you’re getting ahead of yourself with all your plans to better educate and monetarily and socially provide for your son?”

      Chance wasn’t the first to tell her so.

      She hadn’t listened to anyone else.

      And she wasn’t about to listen to him, either.

      Ducking beneath his outstretched arm, she slid behind the steering wheel. Bending her head, she put the key in the ignition. “What I think is that one day, my son will be very grateful to me for doing all that I can to ensure his dreams come true,” she retorted defensively.

      Chance leaned down so they were face-to-face. “Except, of course, ones that have to do with livestock.”

      What is it about this man? Molly fumed inwardly. He not only provoked her constantly—he had the potential to derail her at every turn, just by existing!

      Pretending his attempts to delay her so they could continue their argument were not bothering her in the least, Molly flashed a confident smile. “You’re right,” she admitted with a sugary-sweet attitude even he would have to find laudable. “I have gotten way, way off track.”

      He chuckled. “Back to train analogies?”

      She gave him a quelling look.

      He lifted an exaggeratedly apologetic hand. “I know. Even some of us big, dumb cowpokes who passed on Ivy League educations know a few big words.”

      She’d heard Chance had been just as much of a problem to his wealthy parents growing up as he was to her now. “How about ‘aggravate’?” She looked him square in the eye. “Do you know what that means?”

      He grinned. “I think that’s what I do to you, on a daily, hourly, basis?”

      So true. Molly drew a calming breath. She started the ignition, then motioned for him to step away. When he did, she put her window down. “I’m going to be at the Circle H this afternoon, meeting with your mother about the proposed kitchen renovation.”

      “Well, what do you know,” he rumbled with a maddeningly affable shrug. “I will be, too.”

      She ignored the fact that their two contracting companies were competing for the renovation job. “Braden will be with me. It’s your chance to make things right with my son. Please, Chance.” She paused to let her words sink in. “Don’t let us down.”

      * * *

      IF MOLLY HADN’T framed it quite like that, maybe he could have bailed. But she had, so at five past three Chance found himself driving up the lane to the Circle H ranch house.

      Molly’s SUV was already on-site. She and her son, Braden, were by the pasture, where a one-week-old Black Angus was pastured with his momma. Little arms on the middle rung of the fence, Braden was staring, mesmerized, at the sight of the nursing bull.

      “Can I pet him?” Braden asked as Chance strolled up to join them.

      Her pretty face pinched with tension, Molly shook her head.

      Chance hunkered down beside Braden. The little tyke had the same curly red hair, cute-as-a-button features and amber eyes as his mother. “Petting the bull would scare it, buddy, and we don’t want that, do we?”

      Balking, Braden bartered, “I know gentle. Mommy showed me.” Realizing Chance didn’t quite understand what he was saying, Braden continued with a demonstration of easy petting. “Kitty cat—gentle. Puppy—gentle. Babies—gentle.”

      “Ah. You’re very gentle with all of those things,” Chance concluded.

      Braden nodded importantly. “Mommy showed me.”

      “Well, listen, buckaroo,” Chance continued, still hunkered down so he and Braden were eye to eye. “It’s always good to be gentle,” he said kindly. “And it’s great to be able to see a real baby bull.”

      Braden beamed. “I like bulls!”

      “The thing is, Santa doesn’t really have any bulls to bring to little boys,” Chance told him, quashing the kid’s dreams against his better judgment.

      “Uh-huh! At the North Pole,” Braden said. “Santa has everything!”

      “No.” Chance shook his head sadly but firmly. He looked the little boy in the eye. “There aren’t any bulls at the North Pole.”

      Mutinously, Braden folded his little arms across his chest. “Santa bring me one,” he reiterated stubbornly.

      Out of the corner of Chance’s eye, he saw Molly’s stricken expression. Yeah. She pretty much wanted to let him have it. Given the unforeseen way things were developing, he could hardly blame her.

      “For Christmas,” Braden added for good measure, in case either Molly or Chance didn’t