A Tall, Dark Cowboy Christmas. Maisey Yates

to waste money on a car. And she didn’t want to save up that long for anything. Not right now.

      But today, in a pair of worn jeans, another threadbare sweater, with the heavier sweater she’d been wearing over the top of it, she was feeling slightly day-old. And then some.

      At least her hair was clean. Clean and brushed and silky feeling for the first time in weeks.

      As victories went, it was a small one, but she would take it.

      When she walked into the mess hall, Grant was standing against the back wall, leaning against the display with the coffee on it. He lifted his cup. “You’re late.”

      “I know,” she returned.

      “If you know what time it is, then why didn’t you come at the right time?”

      “Because it’s early? And it took a little longer for me to get ready and get over here than I realized it would.”

      “Get it figured out for tomorrow,” he said, his tone hard. Uncompromising.

      “Do you let anyone make mistakes?”

      “Nope.”

      “What about yourself?” she asked. “Are you allowed to make mistakes?”

      He stared at her, the moment stretching out into two. “No,” he responded.

      And the funny thing was she absolutely believed him. The gravity in his green eyes was far too severe for her to even consider that he might not be deadly serious.

      “Come on,” she said, reaching past him and grabbing a coffee cup, her elbow brushing against his solid midsection. She clenched her teeth, trying not to think about just how solid that midsection was. “Mistakes are like walnuts in the cookies of life.”

      “What does that mean?” he asked.

      “It would be better without them, but somehow they end up in there half the time, anyway.”

      The corner of his mouth twitched, lifted upward slightly, and McKenna’s heart leaped up half a foot in response. She didn’t know why she was reacting to him. He was hot. Big deal. Men were often hot. Sure, not commonly as hot as this one, but whatever.

      Of course, there was no reason to be too...too guarded with him. He’d been nice to her, and anyway, it was better for her if he liked her. Or whatever his version of liking someone might be.

      “Careful,” she said. “You almost smiled at me.”

      “Won’t happen again.”

      She arched a brow. “Does that make your smile a mistake, Grant?”

      “No,” he said. “Just an unplanned facial tic.”

      “Damn. You’re a hard case.”

      “Not the first time I’ve heard that one.”

      He took a sip of his coffee and her eyes were drawn to his mouth. She had never really been into the cowboy thing or the beard thing. But she liked his. His mouth was... Well, it could almost be called pretty. Except for all the ruggedness that surrounded it. She shouldn’t be staring at it.

      She popped the lid on her coffee cup and lifted it. “I’m ready.”

      “Just fifteen minutes late now,” he said.

      She chose to ignore that. She had hot coffee. She wasn’t going to spoil it with a fight. “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve woken up to some decent coffee.” She took a long sip. “It’s blessed.”

      “Blessed?”

      “If there was a patron saint of caffeinated beverages I’d be saying a prayer of thanks to him right about now. Or her.”

      “So tell me,” he said, pushing away from the coffee stand, the only indication that he was ready to get moving. McKenna started to follow him out the door. “How exactly did you find yourself in a position where you’re waking up without coffee in the morning?”

      Her stomach twisted, her guard going right back up.

      She squinted at him, trying to read his face. “Why do you want to know that?”

      “I’m curious,” he said. “Also, maybe wanting to make sure you didn’t murder someone and are now on the run.”

      “I told you I wasn’t on the run from the law,” she said.

      “It’s entirely possible you’re running from becoming identified by the law. Which makes you not on the run from the law on a technicality.”

      “No,” she said. “I’m pretty sure that makes me on the run from the law on a technicality actually.”

      “Whatever.”

      “It’s a whole series of bad choices, Grant,” she said, trying to sound light and not ashamed or depressed. “The main one being that I got screwed out of my apartment and my deposit and decided to come here.”

      “Why here?”

      “I found out that I have... A family connection. But I’m not sure how to approach it. You know, since random family members showing up at the front door aren’t always welcome.” She wasn’t going to tell him about what the family relationship was. Certainly wasn’t going into the fact that she was Hank Dalton’s secret baby.

      “Is this your only family?”

      She nodded. “At least, the only family I want to find. I could maybe track my mom down, but she gave me up. I’m not looking for a tearful reunion. Anyway, I’m not even sure why she gave me up. For all I know she had good reason.”

      “Right,” he said. “So you found out you had some extended family here.”

      “Yes,” she responded. It was kind of a lie. But not totally. Not that it really mattered. She lied all the time. What was one more?

      “But your truck broke down.”

      “Dead as a doornail.” She waved her hand in a broad gesture. “At least, barring me finding a thousand dollars. Let me tell you, that is not likely.”

      “Right.”

      “I don’t really have any connections. The last couple years... There hasn’t really been anyone. I figured why not start over. Totally. Somewhere new. I had a plan. Not the best plan, but I had one. I should know better than to make those by now.”

      “You’re preaching to the choir,” he responded.

      She thought about pressing for more information, because she was curious. Curious what force on heaven or earth had ever dared oppose Grant Dodge. He seemed far too formidable for anyone or anything to dare. But she also had a feeling—a pretty rock-solid one—that he wasn’t interested in having heart-to-heart talks. Least of all with her. The man was a fortress, and she had a feeling that was by design. That he was keeping things locked up for a reason.

      Hell, she could understand that.

      “Don’t you want to know what we’re doing this morning?” he asked.

      “Yes,” she said, taking a sip of hot, fortifying coffee. “My brain is feeling just awake enough to handle that information.”

      “We’re painting the barn.”

      She thought of the pretty, bright-red structure he had showed her yesterday morning. “Isn’t it painted?”

      “One of them.”

      “There are more barns? Multiple barns?”

      “Several. This is the one we keep supplies and machinery in. But Wyatt thinks that we should freshen it up for the tourists.”

      “And you don’t?”

      “I don’t have a thought about barns, or the color of them, at all.”

      “Oh,