Wild West Christmas. Lynna Banning

in short pants. This one might be old enough to recall him. Cody’s mink-brown hair curled from beneath his cap and was the same color exactly as his mother’s had been. Dillen’s smile faded as an unfamiliar stab of grief pierced him.

      He wanted to go to his nephews and hug them and tell them that he’d take care of them, but the truth was he could barely take care of himself.

      His attention turned back to Alice. He drank in the sight of her. Damn, he thought, what he wouldn’t give to have a woman like Alice Truett. Everything, anything, but wanting didn’t make that possible. He sure had learned that lesson well.

      Dillen found the strength to step forward. This next part would sure be hard. But it had to be done, for the boys’ sake.

      As he neared her, he became aware of the mountain of luggage on the cart behind her. It looked like they’d emptied an entire freight car. He had a sudden horror that all that gear might belong to Alice. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Dillen counted four hatboxes and knew with cold certainty that they all belonged to the wealthy, entitled miss who might already be spoken for. That thought put a hitch in his stride. He fumbled in his pocket, feeling the two silver dollars knock together. How much would it cost to take all that gear to the hotel? Worse still, how much would it cost to rent her a room?

      More than he had, he knew. Dillen gritted his teeth. He couldn’t afford Alice for even one afternoon—let alone a lifetime. The truth bit into him with sharp teeth, but he couldn’t shake it off.

      He came to a stop before them. Colin leaned back to stare, his mouth dropping open as he gaped, looking very much like he might cry. Cody had also spotted his uncle and gave a sharp tug on Alice’s sleeve before turning around, almost like a soldier awaiting inspection.

      Colin likely knew his uncle only through stories, if his uncle ever came up at all. Dillen wondered which stories he might have heard and scowled as a series of possibilities danced through his mind. He met Cody’s gaze. Two years was a long time to a child. Did the boy recall him?

      Alice did not need Cody’s warning for she now regarded him with a steady stare and a tight expression that took the lush, full curve from her enticing lips. Didn’t matter. Even frowning, seeing Alice was like seeing a butterfly in December. He still felt dizzy with the effort of not reaching out to touch her. He noticed the hollows beneath her cheeks now. She’d lost weight and sleep, he realized, judging from the smudge marks under her eyes. Had she been at Sylvie’s grave when they’d lowered his sister into the ground?

      Sylvie had written him on occasion, when he had a place to receive mail. She had said that she and Alice had remained friends after his parting. Her presence here told him without words that this was true.

      “Mr. Roach,” said Alice, her voice formal, but still sweet music to his ears.

      Had she really let him kiss her that Christmas Eve, before he’d met her family and everything had gone to hell?

      He found himself reaching, clasping her by the shoulders and turning her so he could look at the face he thought of each night and every day on waking. Alice stared up at him, her mouth now slightly open as she drew in a surprised breath. He acted on instinct, pulling her in and holding her close, feeling her stiffen and then, an instant later, go as pliant as a willow branch. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of her skin and felt the soft brush of her hair on his face. Then she was stiffening again, turning to stone in his arms as she leaned away. She gave him a small shake of her head and then glanced to the boys, collecting their hands once more.

      “I am exceedingly sorry for your loss, Mr. Roach,” Alice said, her tone stiff with formality. “Your sister was a good friend, a loving wife and an exemplary mother.”

      Now Dillen felt awkward. He shouldn’t have hugged her. He had no right. She might even be spoken for, though Sylvie had not mentioned it. He glanced to her left hand and saw it sheathed in a finely made black leather glove, revealing nothing. He met her gaze, finding the small line between her brows that indicated concern. He waited, his stomach knotting as she pulled the boys forward so they stood shoulder to shoulder just before her now.

      “These are your nephews.” Then she spoke to the pair. “Colin and Cody Asher, this is your mother’s only sibling, your uncle Dillen Roach.”

      The woman could make a formal introduction like nobody’s business.

      Dillen knelt down to meet the two at eye level. “Hello, boys. I’m your ma’s brother.” Colin stuck his thumb in his mouth as he fell back against Alice, huddling against her as if trying to disappear into the fine wool and velvet of her skirts. Dillen turned to Cody and extended his hand, open and up as he would to an unfamiliar dog. The boy looked at Dillen’s empty hand. Confusion wrinkled his brow as he glanced from his uncle’s empty hand back to his uncle. Why the devil hadn’t he thought to buy a peppermint stick? Instead he had brought them nothing. How appropriate. “You remember me, son?”

      Cody nodded. “Yes, sir. You use to come by Sundays for supper and play the fiddle. You used to pour medicine from a bottle into your coffee when Ma wasn’t looking. Are you feeling better now?”

      Dillen glanced to Alice, whose look showed reproach at this revelation. It was true. He had brought liquor into his sister’s home. Young and dumb, he’d been. Now that memory shamed him, but it did serve to illustrate what he already believed. He’d make a terrible parent, maybe even worse than his own father, if that were possible.

      Dillen gave the boy a gentle punch in the arm. “I still occasionally feel the need to take a dose.”

      Alice might as well know that he was not the man she hoped he’d become. Show her right off the disappointment he was and confirm in her mind that she was well rid of him. No use putting it off. Dillen rose to face her.

      “The front of your coat is all wet.” She lifted a gloved hand to touch him, and then hesitated. He looked at the finely made, fitted black leather sheathing her hand like a second skin. Had she bought her mourning attire especially for this journey? Of course she would have. Nothing but the best for the Truett family. Their eyes met and held.

      “Why’d you bring them, Alice, when I asked you not to?”

      She bristled as if he had struck her clean across the face. “You said nothing of the sort.” She released Cody and rummaged in a small velvet reticule that hung from her slim wrist by a satin cord. A moment later her gloved hand reemerged holding a folded scrap of paper. She straightened the page and cleared her throat before reading aloud. “‘Interested in taking the pair. Stop. Immediate delivery. Stop. Will pay for transport for both plus handler. Stop. Wire arrival date and time.’”

      Dillen’s stomach dropped six inches as he realized two things simultaneously. He’d sent Alice the wrong telegram, and that meant that the horses that his boss was expecting him to have purchased were not going to be delivered.

      Dillen snatched the telegram and read. Then he threw down his hat and swore.

      “Holy hell!”

      Alice gasped and covered Colin’s ears too late as Dillen pressed a hand to his forehead and swayed. He had two duties. Help Bill Roberts with the jobs he could no longer manage at the ranch and purchase and train those two green horses. How was he going to tell his boss that he’d failed to buy the twin Welsh ponies? Worse yet, how was he supposed to train two horses he didn’t have?

      What had he wired Alice exactly? Something about writing after the first of the year. He muttered a curse, because he knew the breeder had at least one other offer.

      He retrieved his hat, turned to Alice and said, “I gotta go.”

      “What?” she yelped.

      But Dillen didn’t answer because he was already running over the icy platform toward the telegraph office.

Chapter Three

      Dillen Roach ran to the telegraph station. If Alan Harvey found out that he’d sent that telegram,