A Husband For Christmas. Diana Palmer

when I told him. He...crushed it.”

      Melly closed her eyes for an instant. “I noticed his hand was bandaged this morning,” she murmured. “I wondered why...”

      “He said some things that made me think,” Abby recalled, smiling faintly. “He may not be a psychologist, but he’s got a lot of common sense about things. He said I was giving the man who attacked me a hold over me, by dwelling on it. I’d never considered it in that light, but I think he has a point.”

      Melly smiled at her gently. “Maybe he ought to open an office,” she said impishly.

      Abby grinned back. “Maybe he ought.” She studied her sister closely for a minute as her head bent over the computer keyboard while she typed in a code and glanced up at the screen. The abbreviations were Greek to Abby, but they seemed to make sense to Melly.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Herd records. We’re getting ready to cull cattle, you know. Any cows that don’t come up to par are going to be sold off, especially if they aren’t producing enough calves or if the ones they’re producing aren’t good enough or if they’re old....”

      “Slavery,” Abby burst out. “Horrible!”

      Melly laughed merrily. “Yes, Cade was telling me what you thought about veal smothered in onions.”

      “That’s really horrible,” she muttered. “Poor little thing, all cold and half-frozen and its mama turned her back on it, and Cade talks about eating it....”

      “Life goes on, darling,” Melly reminded her, “and a cattle ranch is no place for sentiment. I can’t just see you owning one—you’d make pets of all the cattle and become a vegetarian.”

      “Hmm,” Abby said, frowning thoughtfully, “I wonder if Cade’s ever thought of that?”

      “I don’t know,” came the amused reply, “but if I were you, I’d wait until way after roundup to ask him!”

      Abby laughed. “You may have a point.”

      Melly murmured something, but her mind went quickly back to the computer and her work. Abby, curious, asked questions and Melly told her about the computer network between Cade’s ranches, and the capacity of the computer for storing information about the cattle. There was even a videocassette setup so that Cade could sell cattle to people who had never been to the ranch to see them—they could buy from the tape. He could buy the same way, by watching film of a bull he was interested in, for example. It was a far cry from the old days of ranching when ranchers kept written records and went crazy trying to keep up with thousands of head of cattle. Abby was fascinated by the computer and the rapidity of its operation. But after a few minutes the phone started ringing and didn’t stop, and Abby wandered off to watch the snow.

      “Isn’t Cade going to come in and eat?” Melly asked as Calla set a platter of ham and bread and condiments on the table, along with a plate of homemade French fries.

      “Nope.” The older woman sighed. “Said to pack him a sandwich and a thermos of coffee and he’d run up to the house to get it.” She nodded toward a sack and a thermos on the buffet.

      “Is he coming right up?” Abby asked.

      “Any minute.”

      “I’ll carry it out,” Abby volunteered, and grabbed it up, hurrying toward the front door. She only paused long enough to tug on galoshes and her thick cloth coat, and rushed out onto the porch as she heard a pickup skid up to the house and stop.

      Cade was sitting in the cab when she crunched her way through the blowing snow to the truck. He threw open the passenger door.

      “Thanks, honey,” he said, taking the sack and thermos from her and placing them on the seat beside him. “Get in out of the snow.”

      She started to close the truck door, but he shook his head. “In here,” he corrected. “With me.”

      Something about the way he said it made her pulse pound, and she shook herself mentally. She was reading things into his deep voice, that was all.

      “Hank said you were turning the air blue. Is this new snow your fault?” Abby asked him with humor in her pale brown eyes.

      He returned the smile and there was a light in his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. “I reckon,” he murmured, watching the color come and go in her flushed face. “Feel better this morning?”

      “Yes, thank you,” she said softly.

      He reached out a big hand and held it, palm up.

      She hesitated for an instant before she reached out her own cold, slender hand and put it gingerly into his. The hard fingers closed softly around it and squeezed.

      “This is how it’s going to be from now on,” he said, his voice deep and quiet, the two of them isolated in the cold cab while feathery snow fell onto the windshield, the hood, the landscape. “I’ll ask, I won’t take.”

      She looked into his eyes and felt, for a second, the old magic of electricity between them. “That goes against the grain, I’ll bet,” she said.

      “I’m used to taking,” he replied. “But I can get used to asking, I suppose. How about you?”

      She looked down at his big hand swallowing hers, liking the warmth and strength of it even while something in the back of her mind rebelled at that strength. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.

      “What frightens you most?” he asked.

      “Your strength,” she said, without taking time to think, and her eyes came up to his.

      He nodded, and not by a flicker of an eyelash did he betray any emotion beyond curiosity. “And if I let you make all the moves?” he asked quietly. “If I let you come close or touch or hold, instead of moving in on you?”

      The thought fascinated her. That showed in her unblinking gaze, in the slight tilt of her head.

      “Therapy, Cade?” she asked in a soft, steady tone.

      “Whatever name you want to call it.” He opened his hand so that she could leave hers there or remove it, as she wished. It was more than a gesture—it was a statement.

      She smiled slowly. “Such power might go to my head,” she said with a tentative laugh. “Suppose I decided to have my way with you?” she added, finding that she could treat the matter lightly for the moment.

      He cocked an eyebrow and looked stern. “Don’t start getting any ideas about me. I’m not easy. None of you wild city girls are going to come out here and lure me into any haystacks.”

      She let her fingers curl into his and hold them. “It’s a long shot,” she said after a minute.

      “My grandfather won this ranch in a poker game in Cheyenne,” he remarked. “I guess it’s in my blood to take long shots.”

      “Won’t it interfere with your private life?” she added, hoping her question wouldn’t sound as if she were fishing.

      He studied her closely for a minute before he replied. “I thought you knew that I don’t have affairs.”

      She almost jumped at the quiet intensity of his eyes. “I...never really thought about it,” she lied.

      “I’ve had women,” he said, “but nothing permanent, nothing lasting. There’s no private life for you to interfere with.”

      She was suddenly fiercely glad of that, although she didn’t know how to tell him. “It’s not going to be very easy,” she confessed shyly. “I’ve never been forward, even before this happened.”

      “I know,” he murmured, smiling down at her. “I could sit here and look at you all day,” he said after a minute, “but it wouldn’t get the work done,” he added ruefully.

      “I