The Cowboy's Christmas Lullaby. Stella Bagwell

      When the brief conversation ended, she handed the phone back to the ranch hand. “Lilly tells me you’re a nice, capable guy. So if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll get the boys and my things from the car.”

      “Fine,” he told her. “While you do that, I’ll call the roadside service.”

      * * *

      Short minutes later, Denver steered his truckload of passengers onto the long drive leading up to his house. Next to him, in the passenger seat, Marcella Grayson’s hands were clenched tightly together on her lap as she stared straight ahead at the dark landscape beyond the windshield.

      Beneath the dim lighting of the dashboard, he could see enough to tell him the long hair hanging nearly to her waist was a light shade of red, but the thick lashes framing her eyes made it impossible to detect their color. Her features were dainty and soft, and from what he could see, she had that creamy pale skin that only true redheads possessed.

      What kind of idiot could have left this little beauty and two boys behind? he wondered. Or had she left him?

      What the hell does it matter, Denver? This pretty redhead is none of your business. You need to concentrate on helping her get her car going and forget about all the rest. That’s what you need to do.

      “Mister, do you know how to ride a horse?”

      Denver glanced over his shoulder to see the question had been spoken by the boy called Peter. Tall and thin, with a headful of corn-yellow hair, he had a wide mouth and an eagerness in his voice that said he was basically a curious child.

      “A little,” Denver said, then realizing the woman was giving him an odd look, he gave her a reassuring wink.

      Harry was quick to correct his brother. “Dummy! He’s a cowboy and that’s what cowboys do. They ride horses!”

      “How do you know he’s a cowboy?” Peter demanded.

      Harry let out a loud sigh of exasperation. “Can’t you see his hat?”

      “Yeah, but he might be wearing that for Halloween,” Peter reasoned.

      The exchange between the two boys had Denver smiling to himself. Clearly this was a pair of town kids. Unlike the children who’d been raised here on the Silver Horn and were accustomed to being around ranch hands and livestock.

      “Harry, quit calling your brother a dummy,” his mother chided. “Peter is asking questions because he wants to learn.”

      Marcella’s statement must have given the older boy the idea to ask his own questions, because the next thing Denver knew Harry had scooted to the edge of his seat.

      “I’ll bet you have a horse of your own, don’t you?” he asked.

      “I have five horses,” Denver replied.

      Clearly impressed, Harry exclaimed, “Five! What do you do with that many?”

      Stifling a chuckle, Denver said, “I use the horses to work with. We cowboys have to ride the range, you know. And riding just one horse every day would make him too tired.”

      “See, numskull,” Peter tossed at his brother. “You don’t know everything!”

      Just as the boys began to argue between themselves again, Denver braked the truck to a stop beneath a low-roofed carport connected to the east side of a wide, rambling house that appeared to be gray in color.

      “Here we are,” he said to the woman. “Let me turn on the lights and we’ll go in.”

      He climbed from the truck, and after flipping a light on beneath the patio, he opened a side entry door and switched on a light in the mudroom.

      Back at the truck, he opened the passenger door and offered his hand up to Marcella. When her fingers clasped around his, he couldn’t help thinking how soft and fragile her hand felt against his. And when she stood down on the ground next to him, he noticed she smelled like a mix of wildflowers and campfire smoke, a scent that was oddly appealing.

      “Thank you,” she murmured. “This is very kind of you, Mr. Yates.”

      Resisting the urge to clear his throat, he forced himself to release his hold on her hand. “Just call me Denver, ma’am. I’m not used to answering to Mister.”

      Smiling, she said, “Okay, Denver it is.”

      He stepped away from her and opened the back door of the truck. “Okay, boys, we’re here,” he announced. “Unbuckle and climb out.”

      Once the two children had departed the truck and sidled up to their mother, he locked the vehicle, then ushered the trio toward the nearest entry to the house.

      “I apologize for taking you through the mudroom,” he told Marcella, “but the light on the front porch isn’t working right now. I wouldn’t want any of you tripping over something in the dark.”

      “Don’t apologize,” she told him. “We’re just happy to be out of the cold. Right, boys?”

      “That’s right. Thank you, Mr. Yates,” Harry spoke up.

      “Yeah, thanks, Mr. Cowboy,” Peter added.

      Inside the kitchen, he flipped on the overhead light to see his unexpected guests gazing curiously around the cluttered room.

      Just when Denver was thinking how polite the boys were, Peter spoke up, “Gee, this is messy. Don’t you like to wash dishes?”

      “Peter!” Marcella gasped, then turned a red face to Denver. “I apologize for my son. He—uh—we don’t get out that much. I mean, visit folks in their homes.”

      Denver chuckled. “Don’t apologize. The boy is simply stating the obvious. The kitchen is worse than messy. It’s a busy time right now on the ranch. I don’t have a chance to do much housework.”

      “Don’t you have a wife?”

      This question came from the elder boy, and as Denver looked at him, he didn’t miss how much the child resembled his mother, right down to his carrot-topped hair.

      Marcella groaned. “I hope you can bear this until the mechanic gets here with the battery,” she said to Denver.

      “Forget it. I’m used to kids,” he told her, then to Harry, he said, “No. I don’t have a wife. Or a maid.”

      “What about kids?” Peter asked.

      Even though Denver had been asked that very question many times before, for some reason, having it come from Marcella’s towheaded son cut straight through him. “No. None of those, either.”

      “Sit down at the table, boys,” Marcella told the two youngsters. “And be quiet. Mr. Yates doesn’t want to be peppered with questions.”

      “They don’t have to sit at the kitchen table,” he told her. “They’re welcome to sit in the living room. I’ll turn on the television and they can watch it while you wait for the car to be repaired.”

      Mother and kids followed him out of the kitchen and into a long living room furnished with a burgundy leather couch and love seat, and an oversize recliner. In one corner, a television sat atop a wooden console, while a stack of DVDs shared a lower shelf with a remote control.

      Marcella took a seat at the end of the couch and instructed the boys to join her. While they settled themselves, Denver turned on the television, then passed the remote to her.

      “You’d better choose the channel,” he told her. “You’ll know what’s suitable for them to watch.”

      Accepting the remote, she gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks. And please don’t let us interrupt whatever you need to do. We can entertain ourselves.”

      “You’re not interrupting.” Not much, he thought wryly. Having a single mother with a pair of kids in his house was disturbing more than his privacy; it was