A Husband for Christmas: Snow Kisses / Lionhearted. Diana Palmer

room is across the hall,” Melly informed her.

      Abby sighed. “Oh, well, we can always reminisce about the pillow fights we used to have,” she amended, and Melly grinned.

      It was just after dark, and Melly was helping Calla set the table in the dining room when the front door slammed open and hard, angry footsteps sounded on the bare wood floor of the hall.

      Abby, standing at the fireplace where Calla had built a small fire, turned just as Cade froze in the doorway.

      It didn’t seem like a year since she’d seen him. The hard, deeply tanned face under that wide-brimmed hat was as familiar as her own. But he’d aged, even she could see that. His firm, chiseled mouth was compressed, his brow marked with deep lines as if he’d made a habit of scowling. His cheeks were leaner, his square jaw firmer and his dark, fiery eyes were as uncompromising as she remembered them.

      He was dusted with snow, his shepherd’s coat flecked with it, his worn boots wet with it as were the batwing chaps strapped around his broad, heavy-muscled thighs. He was holding a cigarette in one lean, dark hand, and the look he was giving Abby would have backed down a puma.

      “What the hell happened to you?” he asked curtly, indicating the shapeless brown suede dress she was wearing.

      “Look who’s talking,” she returned. “Weren’t you wearing that same pair of chaps when I left for New York?”

      “Cattlemen are going bust all over, honey,” he returned, and a hint of amusement kindled in his eyes.

      “Sure,” she scoffed. “But most of them don’t run eight thousand head of cattle on three ranches in two states, now do they? And have oil leases and mining contracts....”

      “I didn’t say I was going bust,” he corrected. He leaned insolently against the doorjamb and tilted his head back. “Steal that dress off a fat lady?”

      She felt uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other. “It’s the latest style,” she lied, hoping he wouldn’t know the difference.

      “I don’t see how you women keep up with the latest styles,” he said. “It all looks like odds and ends to me.”

      “Is it snowing already?” she asked, changing the subject.

      He took his hat off and shook it. “Looks like. I hope Calla’s loading a table for the men, too. The nighthawks are going to have their hands full with those two-year-old heifers.”

      Abby couldn’t help smiling. Those were the first-time mothers, and they took a lot of looking after. One old cowhand—Hob, the one who’d resigned—always said he’d rather mend fence than babysit new mamas.

      “Who got stuck this year?” she asked.

      “Hank and Jeb,” he replied.

      “No wonder Hank was so ruffled,” she murmured.

      A corner of Cade’s disciplined mouth turned up as he studied her. “You don’t know the half of it. He begged me to let him nurse the older cows.”

      “I can guess how far he got,” she said.

      He didn’t laugh. “How long are you here for?”

      “I haven’t decided yet,” she said, feeling nervous. “It depends.”

      “I thought spring was your busiest time, miss model,” he said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “When Melly told me you were coming, it surprised me.”

      “I’m, uh, taking a break,” she supplied.

      “Are you?” He shouldered away from the doorjamb. “Stay through roundup and I’ll fly you back to New York myself.”

      He turned, and her eyes followed his broad-shouldered form as he walked into the hall and yelled for Calla.

      “I hope you’ve got enough to feed the hands, too!” he called, his deep voice carrying through the house. “Jeb’s nighthawking with Hank!”

      Jeb was the bunkhouse cook—some of the cowboys had homes on the ranch where they lived with their families, but there was a modern bunkhouse with a separate kitchen for the rest.

      “Well, I’ll bet the boys are on their knees giving thanks for that!” Calla called back. “It’ll be a change for them, having decent food for one night!”

      Cade chuckled deep in his throat as he climbed the stairs. Abby couldn’t help but watch him, remembering old times when she’d worshipped that broad back, that powerful body, with a schoolgirl’s innocent heart. How different her life might have been if Cade hadn’t refused her impulsive offer that long-ago night. Tears formed in her eyes and she turned away. Wishing wouldn’t make it so. But it was good to be back on Painted Ridge, all the same. She’d manage to keep out of Cade’s way, and perhaps Melly was right. Perhaps being home again would help her scars to heal.

       3

      Abby might have planned to avoid him, but Cade seemed to have other ideas. She noticed his quiet, steady gaze over the dinner table and almost jumped when he spoke.

      “How would you like to see the new calves?” he asked suddenly.

      She lifted her eyes from her plate and stared at him, lost for an answer. “Isn’t it still snowing?” she asked helplessly.

      “Sure,” he agreed. “But the trucks have chains. And the calving sheds are just south of here,” he reminded her.

      Being alone with him was going to unnerve her—she knew it already—but she loved the sight of those woolly little creatures, so new to the world. And she liked being with Cade. She felt safe with him, protected. Despite the lingering apprehension, she wanted to go with him.

      “Well?” he persisted.

      She shrugged. “I would kind of like to see the calves,” she admitted with a tiny smile. She dropped her eyes back to her plate, blissfully unaware of the look Cade exchanged with Melly.

      “We’ll have dessert when we get back,” Cade informed Calla, pushing back his chair.

      Minutes later, riding along in the pickup and being bounced wildly in its warm interior, snow fluttering against the windshield, it was almost like old times.

      “Warm enough, honey?” Cade asked.

      “Like toast.” She wrapped the leather jacket he had loaned her even closer, loving its warmth. Cade was still wearing his shepherd’s coat, looking so masculine he’d have wowed them even at a convention of male models.

      “Not much farther now,” he murmured, turning the truck off onto the farm road that led to the calving pens, where two cowboys in yellow slickers could be seen riding around the enclosures, heads bent against the wind.

      “Poor devils,” she remarked, watching.

      “The men or the heifers?” he asked.

      “Both. All. It’s rough out there.” She balanced her hand against the cold dashboard as he stopped the truck and cut the engine at the side of the long shed. Cade was the perfect rancher, but his driving left a lot to be desired.

      “Now I know how it feels to ride inside a concrete mixer,” she moaned.

      “Don’t start that again,” Cade grumbled as he threw open the door. “You can always walk back,” he added with a dark glance.

      “Did you ever race in the Grand Prix when you were younger, Cade?” she asked with a bright, if somewhat false, smile.

      “And sarcasm won’t do the trick, either,” he warned. He led the way through the snow, and she followed in his huge footprints, liking the bite of the cold wind and the crunch of the snow, the freshness of the air. It was so deliciously different from the