A Rancher for Christmas. Brenda Minton

knocked on the door and then looked out at the windblown fields dotted with small trees, waiting for someone to answer. No one did. There was no muffled call for her to come in, or footsteps hurrying to answer the door. She leaned her forehead against the rough wood, her hand dropping to her side. Her heart ached.

      After a few minutes she wiped away the dampness on her cheeks and reached for the handle. It wasn’t locked. She pushed the door open, hesitating briefly before stepping inside. Why should she hesitate? Nothing would change the reality that Lawton and his wife had been killed in a plane crash two weeks ago. She’d missed the opportunity to see him again. She’d missed the funeral and the chance to say goodbye.

      But she could be there for his girls.

      As she stepped inside she flipped a switch, flooding the stone-tiled foyer in soft amber light. The entryway led to a massive living room with stone flooring, textured walls in earthy tan and a stone fireplace flanked by brown leather furniture.

      Enveloped by silence and the cool, unheated air, she stood in the center of the room. There were signs of life, as if the people who had lived here had just stepped out. There were magazines on the coffee table, a pair of slippers next to a chair. Toys spilled from a basket pushed against the wall. Her throat tightened, aching deep down the way grief does.

      “It isn’t fair,” she said out loud, the words sounding hollow in the empty space.

      She should have come to Texas sooner but she’d needed time to come to terms with what Lawton had told her. His father, Senator Howard Brooks, had an affair with her mother, Anna, a drug addict from Oklahoma City. Breezy was the result of that brief relationship. She’d known for years that she wasn’t the true granddaughter of Maria Hernandez, the woman who had taken her in years ago. Maria had given her that information shortly before she passed away.

      Now she knew who she was. But what good did that do her?

      She left the living room and walked to the kitchen. The room was large and open, with white cabinets and black granite countertops. She moved from that room, with sippy cups in a drainer next to the sink, to the dining room.

      A table with four chairs and two high chairs dominated the room. On the opposite wall were family portraits. She stopped at the picture of an older man in a suit, a flag of Texas behind him. Her father, Senator Howard Brooks.

      In the next picture his wife of over forty years stood next to him. They looked happy. Evelyn Brooks hadn’t known about her husband’s brief affair or his daughter. He’d confessed the secret on his deathbed one year ago.

      Breezy drew in a breath and fought the sting of tears. She’d never been one to cry over spilled milk. Not even if that meant she might have had a real family.

      This was different, though. This was a family lost. Her family. She had a habit of losing family. It had started more than twenty years ago, after her mother’s death, when she and her siblings were all separated. Mia was adopted by the Coopers and Juan went to his father’s family. Breezy had been taken in the night by Maria because she had worried they would eventually learn the truth, that Maria’s son wasn’t really Breezy’s father.

      Out of fear, Maria had kept them moving from town to town, living in cars, shelters and sometimes pay-by-the-month hotels.

      Breezy brushed off the memory. It was old news.

      A wedding photo hung on the wall. She studied the image of her brother and his pretty bride, both wearing identical looks of joy. At the last picture her heart stilled. Lawton, his wife, their two baby girls.

      Just then, a sound edged in, a door closing. Footsteps, heavy and booted, echoed in the empty house. She held her breath, waiting.

      “Who are you?” The deep male voice sent a shiver of apprehension up her spine.

      Breezy turned, not quite trembling in her shoes, but nearly. The man filled the doorway. His tall, lean frame in jeans and a dark blue shirt held her attention, and then her eyes connected with pale blue eyes in a suntanned face. His dark hair was short but messy, like he’d just taken off a hat. She let her gaze drop, almost expecting a holster, Old West style, slung low on his hips.

      Of course there wasn’t one.

      “I’m Breezy. Breezy Hernandez.” Chin up, she swallowed a lump of what might have been fear.

      His eyes narrowed and he frowned. “The missing sister.”

      She wanted to argue she hadn’t been missing. She hadn’t known she was lost. She’d needed time to process that she had this brother. She’d needed time alone to figure out what it meant to find out who her father was. The ache in her heart erupted again. She’d been on the run for most of her life; it had become second nature to take off when things got a little dicey. Maria Hernandez had taught her that.

      “So we know who I am. Who are you?” She managed to not shake as she asked the question, meeting his somewhat intimidating gaze.

      “Jake Martin.”

      “Of Martin’s Crossing.” The town in the middle of nowhere that she’d driven through to get here.

      “Yes, Martin’s Crossing.”

      “The girls?” She glanced back over her shoulder and saw that he was moving toward her.

      “They’re safe.” He stepped close, smelling of the outdoors, fresh country air and soap. “I got a call from Brock, the attorney in Austin. He said he told you to come here and talk to me.”

      “Yes, he told me about Lawton and asked me to find you.” She shook her head. “I missed the funeral, I’m sorry.”

      She didn’t give him explanations.

      She guessed the Goliath standing in front of her wouldn’t want to hear explanations. He wouldn’t want to know how much it hurt to know that all these years she’d had another brother. And now he was gone.

      “Right.” He looked away, but not before she saw the sorrow flash across his face, settling in his eyes. She started to reach out but knew she shouldn’t. Her hand remained at her side.

      Maybe they were feeling the same sense of loss but he didn’t seem to be a man who wanted comfort from a stranger. From her.

      “So, you came for your inheritance?” He dropped the words, sharp and insulting.

      “Is that why you think I’m here?”

      “It would make sense.”

      She shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. It’s insulting.”

      He shrugged one powerful shoulder. “Your brother was my best friend. His daughters are my nieces. I have every right to keep them safe.”

      “I’m not here for any reason other than to see them.” She turned and walked back to the kitchen.

      “Running?” He followed her, light on his feet for a man so large.

      “Not at all. I need a minute to cool off so I don’t hit you with something.”

      At that, the smooth planes of his face shifted and he smiled. She was slammed with a myriad of other emotions that seemed more dangerous than her rage. At the sink she filled a glass with water and took a sip. He scooted a chair out from the island in the middle of the big room and bent his large form to fit the seat. She ignored the lethal way he sat, like a wild cat about to attack. She ignored that he had beautiful features, strong but beautiful. She could draw him, or chisel his likeness in stone.

      Or grab a chunk of granite and...

      His eyebrows lifted, as if he guessed where her thoughts had gone.

      “I’m not here to take what I can and leave.” She remained standing on the opposite side of the island, not wanting to be anywhere near him. She needed that force of wood and stone between them.

      “Really.” His voice was smooth but deep, and full of skepticism.

      “Yes,