Christmas on My Mind (19 page)

The diamond ring was rose gold and had the look of a family treasure. The stone was small but exquisite in its old-fashioned setting. “This is the ring my father gave my mother when he asked her to marry him,” Ben said. “Now I'm asking you, Jess. I'm aware that we have a mountain of complications to work out between us, but I want to know you'll be there when it's all settled—and I want you to know that I'll be there for you.” He slipped off the couch and dropped to one knee. “I love you, Jess. I think I've loved you ever since I saw you trying to push that car off the road. Will you be my wife and Ethan's mother?”

“Yes!” She flung her arms around him, pulling him up beside her. “A thousand times yes!”

He slipped the ring on her finger. It fit perfectly.

“Well then,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “It looks like you would've lost your bet.”

She stared at him. “My mother told you!”

He grinned. “She did. She said you wouldn't bet against my proposing before the end of the year.”

“That's not how it was. I said I wouldn't bet at all!” Jess protested.

“Feisty little thing, aren't you?” he teased. “Are you going to be this contrary all the time?”

“Probably. If you want meek and submissive, you've got the wrong woman.”

“I've got the only woman I want.” Taking her in his arms, he captured her mouth in a kiss that went on and on, a kiss filled with passion, promise and hope for the future.

For both of them, it was the best Christmas ever.

Epilogue

 

D
ressed in Clara's ivory lace wedding gown, Jess stood in the hallway, waiting for the music to begin. At last the day had come. She was about to marry the love of her life.

She and Ben had agreed on a simple wedding. Branding Iron Bed and Breakfast may not have been the most elegant place for such an event; but today the old refurbished house overflowed with joy. With its freshly painted siding, green lawn, blossoming flower beds, and long-neglected pink floribunda roses climbing over the porch, it welcomed everyone who came to celebrate.

From where she stood, Jess could see into the dining room where the guests were waiting. The mothers had been seated in the front row. Clara wore soft, tasteful blue; Francine was spectacular in red, from her perky hat and flashing nails to her four-inch stilettos. Somehow the contrast seemed perfect.

Jess had phoned Ben's sister Ellie and asked her to be matron of honor. Ellie, tall, dark and even more beautiful than her photographs, had come just for the weekend, without her husband. Her polite but subdued manner suggested that her marriage troubles were far from over. Jess had known better than to ask personal questions. She could only hope that later, as they got to know one another, they might become close.

Ethan, a little superstar in a boy-sized tux, was greeting the guests and showing them to their seats. When the ceremony began, he would take his place beside his father as best man. After the wedding he'd be flying to Boston to spend a few weeks with his mother and new baby sister. But he'd be back here in plenty of time for summer fun before school started.

Now Ellie, her designer gown a slim mauve column, slipped in front of Jess to enter first. Glancing back over her shoulder, she gave a flicker of a smile. “Ready?”

Jess nodded, smiling back. Getting to this day had taken time and patience. The issue of Ben's mother had been settled when the smaller home next to Clara's went up for sale. Now it would be theirs—private but close by in case Clara needed anything. Jess's growing business was another complication. But Francine, now six months sober, had agreed to run the bed and breakfast from night to morning, with Jess taking over during the day. So far it was working out fine.

The music, a solo guitar arrangement of The Beatles' “Long and Winding Road,” brought the guests to their feet. With Ellie gliding ahead of her, each of them carrying a single white rose, Jess walked out of the hallway and up the makeshift aisle to where Ben waited for her. The love in his eyes warmed her, as it had warmed her on that magical Christmas night when he'd asked her to marry him. How would their family change in the years ahead? How would they celebrate the Christmases to come? Only time would tell. But whatever the future held, they would face it together.

Read on for a sneak peek at
Janet Dailey's brand-new Americana Romance,
Sunrise Canyon
.

T
he sky was still dark above the high gate of the Flying Cloud Ranch. The desert foothills lay pooled in shadow. Stars were fading above the Santa Catalina Mountains that rose to the east. Beyond their rock-clumped ridges, the coming sunrise burnished the sky with streaks of pewter.

The narrow trail wound downhill among stands of paloverde and towering giant saguaros. Razor-spined chollas glistened like cut crystal in the silvery light. A kangaroo rat darted across the path, the flash of movement causing the mare to flinch and snort.

“Easy, girl,” Kira Bolton murmured, soothing the animal with a gentle touch of her hand. “It's all right. You're fine.”

Too bad she couldn't calm herself with the same words. These dawn rides usually brought her peace. But Kira felt no peace this morning. She'd been in turmoil since last night, when her grandfather had given her the news she'd never hoped to hear.

“What if he doesn't want to come?”
Kira had asked, hoping she was right.

Kira had known better than to argue with the determined old cowboy—even though the last person she wanted to see again was Jake O'Reilly. After three years, she was still coming to terms with her cousin Wendy's death. Jake's presence would rip open all the old wounds—wounds that were still raw below the surface.

But this wasn't about her, Kira reminded herself. This was about Jake. More important, it was about the vulnerable five-year-old girl who still kept his and Wendy's wedding photograph on the nightstand next to her bed.

Halting the mare on a level ridge, she watched the morning shadows flow like water across the desert below. Here and there, small ranches and luxury estates dotted the landscape. Farther to the west, in the blue distance, Kira could see the outskirts of Tucson and the network of roads leading into the city.

The day promised to be a show-stopper. Spring on Arizona's Sonora Desert was a time of renewal—a time when the cactuses burst into glorious bloom and the earth teemed with life. Now, as dawn broke, the air rang with bird songs. A family of quail called from the branches of an ironwood tree. A cactus wren piped its song from a clump of blooming golden brittlebush. A tiny elf owl settled into its home—an old woodpecker hole in a giant saguaro—and closed its eyes.

Kira loved this country, and her grandfather's ten-acre ranch, which perched on a plateau at the crest of a small, hilly canyon—a canyon known only by the name she and Wendy had given it years ago, as children. They had called it Sunrise Canyon, for its magnificent view to the east and for the way the dawn painted the rocky cliffs with rose-gold light.

All too soon, the sunrise faded. It was time to go back, Kira told herself. Anytime now the ranch would awaken, the horses needing to be fed, her teenage students, as she liked to call them, waking up in the guest cabins, needing attention. On this, their first morning here, the three girls and four boys would be tired, hungry and probably cranky. They would need a lot of guidance and a healthy measure of discipline to get them through the day. As a licensed Equine-Assisted Therapist, it would be Kira's job to give it to them.

Tucker, the ranch's nine-year-old Australian shepherd mix, came wagging out of the gate as Kira rode in. Dismounting, she reached down and scratched his shaggy head. A friendly, mellow dog, Tucker played his own vital role in the ranch's therapy program. Now he followed Kira as she led her mare toward the stable.

The aromas of coffee, bacon and eggs wafted from the kitchen. Consuelo, the Mexican cook, stepped onto the back porch and struck the metal triangle that hung on a chain. The clanging sound echoed across the yard, a signal that breakfast was ready.

The seven students, most of them barely awake, trudged out of the three guest cabins—three girls in one, two boys in each of the others. None of them looked happy about being rousted out at six
AM
. But as her grandfather—Dusty, he preferred to be called—had told them in last night's welcome speech, if they didn't get up they would miss breakfast. If they didn't work, they wouldn't eat. They were to keep their cabins clean, do their own personal laundry and change their own beds with the sheets provided. If they broke the rules, their parents would be called to come and take them home.

The rules, as her grandfather had explained, were simple. Anybody who harmed an animal or another person, left the ranch without permission, took what didn't belong to them, used alcohol or drugs, or fooled around sexually (hanky-panky, he'd called it), would be gone the next day. The youngsters had raised their hands to show they understood and accepted the rules.

They weren't bad kids, but each one, in his or her own way, was in pain. That pain could manifest itself in any number of ways—bullying, withdrawal, self-mutilation, night terrors and other problems. Kira had read each of their files and spoken with the parents before admitting them to the program. They would be here for four weeks. All of them had been excused from school for the session. Most had brought homework assignments to do on their laptops or tablets.

Kira gave them a smile and a friendly wave as they trooped into the dining room for breakfast. Then she turned her attention to unsaddling Sadie and brushing her down before letting her into the grassy paddock. Dusty's big Jeep Wrangler was gone from its place in the parking shed. Her grandfather would already be headed north to Flagstaff, to pick up Jake—and bring a whole new set of complications to their lives.

She would miss Dusty today, and likely tomorrow as well. Together, the two of them made a perfect team—Kira with her master's degree and experience in counseling, and her grandfather with his imposing presence, his no-nonsense approach to kids, and his deep knowledge of ranching and horses. She could—and would—make it through the day without him. But things wouldn't be as easy, for her or for her students.

“Hi, Aunt Kira.” The little girl had climbed the paddock fence and was perched on the top rail, next to the gatepost.

“Hi, yourself.” Kira let the mare into the paddock and closed the gate. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Not yet. I was waiting for you. Where did you go?”

At five, with her mother's fiery curls and her father's intense dark eyes, Paige was a small bundle of stubborn independence. Only in quiet moments did her sadness flicker through—for Wendy, the mother she barely remembered, and for Jake, the father who'd gone to fight for his country and never had come back for her. After three years, she still mentioned her parents in her bedtime prayers.

“Where did you go, Aunt Kira?” she asked again.

“Just for a ride, to see the sun come up.”

“Why didn't you take me with you?”

“You were asleep. I checked.” Kira boosted Paige off the fence and lowered her to the ground. “Come on, let's go chow down.”

By the time they arrived in the dining room, the teens were refilling their plates. Good food, and plenty of it, was part of the ranch experience. Kira gave them a smile as she took her place with Paige next to her and filled their plates. “Eat up,” she said. “You're going to need your energy today.”

“What are we going to do?” A husky boy named Max asked her. “My folks told me we'd get to ride horses!”

“So you will,” Kira said. “But not right away. First you'll be learning how to take care of a horse—feed it, groom it and keep its quarters clean. Then you'll learn how to work with it on the ground. Next will come things like putting on the saddle and bridle. After that, if you've learned your lessons and your horse trusts you, you get to ride. But keep one thing in mind. Nobody rides until the whole group is ready. That means if one person is slow catching on, the rest will help them. We go forward together or not at all. Got it? Raise your hand if you understand.”

Seven hands went up.

“How long does that part usually take?” Lanie was petite and dark-eyed, her sleeves buttoned at the wrists to hide the razor cuts on her arms.

“A couple weeks, at least,” Kira said. A mutter went around the table. She smiled and shook her head. “Riding your horse is a privilege—one you'll be expected to earn. At the end of every day we'll sit down in a group and talk about our experiences and what we've learned from them. You'll also have weekly one-on-one sessions with me to talk privately about anything that concerns you. Any questions?”

Heather, a plump, freckle-faced girl, raised her hand. “When do we start?”

Kira glanced at the clock on the wall. “You've got twenty minutes to finish eating, bus your dishes, and go back to your cabins to brush your teeth, use the bathroom, and whatever else you need to do. Then meet me out front at seven-fifteen sharp.”

Kira waited until everyone had scraped their plates and carried their dishes to the plastic tub on the side counter. Then, as her charges scattered to their cabins, she went outside. With Paige and the dog tagging along, she filled the feeders in the paddock with hay, and turned the stabled horses out with Sadie. All the horses were older animals, patient and wise. In the weeks ahead, they would have much to teach the troubled youngsters who'd come here to heal.

Today the students would get a chance to observe the horses from outside the fence—their body language, how they interacted, supported each other, and resolved differences. If this group of teens was typical, they would already be picking out their favorites.

But their first lesson would be the one waiting when they came outside this morning—a reality that anyone working with animals had to deal with. Forcing her worries to the back of her mind, Kira set out two wheelbarrows, seven sets of gloves and seven shovels. It was time to muck out the stable.

* * *

“This must be your lucky day, O'Reilly! Some old geezer just paid your fine!”

Startled out of a doze, Jake sat up on his bunk and swung his feet to the concrete floor. “Are you messing with my head? I don't know any old geezer.”

“Well, he must know you. He just showed up with a receipt from the court clerk for a thousand dollars cash. Here.” The deputy tossed Jake a plastic trash bag containing his clothes and boots. “Get dressed. You can pick up the rest of your stuff up front.”

Knowing better than to ask questions, Jake stripped off the hated orange jumpsuit and scrambled into his clothes. He could barely remember the bar brawl that had landed him here—a blur of angry words and fists crunching into flesh and bone. But the memory of his hearing before the judge was crystal clear, including the
pro bono
lawyer who'd asked for leniency on the grounds that Jake was a war hero.

He'd been allowed to plead the assault and battery charge down to disorderly conduct, but the sentence was still a stiff one. A thousand dollar fine or thirty days in the Coconino County Jail. Not having the money, Jake had been forced to do time—which meant losing his construction job and missing his rent payment. By now the damned landlord had probably sold everything he owned—not that it would be much of a loss.

But today, out of nowhere, somebody had paid his fine and set him free.
An old geezer
, the deputy had said. That couldn't be right. There had to be a catch—there always was. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. If so, when the truth came out, he could expect to be thrown right back into that cell.

Whatever was going on, Jake told himself, he mustn't get his hopes up.

After hooking his belt and shrugging into his denim jacket, he opened the cell door, which was unlocked, and stepped out into the hall. The deputy was waiting to escort him down the corridor, past the security desk, to the reception area.

As he stepped into the open space, a tall figure rose to greet him—whip-lean with stooping shoulders, a hawkish nose, silver hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. “Hello, Jake,” he said.

“
Dusty
?” Jake froze, struck by the shock of recognition. He hadn't seen Wendy's grandfather since her funeral, three years ago, and they'd barely spoken that day. “I don't understand,” he said. “What are you doing here? What do you want from me?”

“Get your things, boy,” the old man said. “We can talk later, while I treat you to a good steak dinner.”

“Thanks, but I can buy my own food—and I'll find a way to pay you back for bailing me out.” Jake collected his bagged personal effects from the checkout counter—his wallet with $48 cash in it, his cheap Timex watch, and his keys—one to his apartment and the other to the '95 Ford pickup that had thrown a rod, trashing the engine, two days before the fight that had led to his arrest.

The old man had headed for the parking lot. Striding after him, Jake inhaled the crisp mountain air as he tried to recall what Wendy had told him about her grandfather. Dusty Wingate had been a national bronc riding champion back before Jake was even born. After too many injuries on the rodeo circuit, he'd retired to manage the family dude ranch near Tucson. Now in his seventies, he still made an impressive figure—like a modern-day Buffalo Bill in jeans and boots, a fringed leather jacket and a bolo tie strung through a hunk of silver-mounted old-pawn Navajo turquoise.