A Cowboy Christmas Miracle (Burnt Boot, Texas Book 4) (3 page)

“Well, miracles do happen during the Christmas season, so keep the shovels right handy. Them two old women just might need them to dig a hole for the feudin’ hatchet by the time the holidays are over.” Rosalie drank the rest of her beer and tossed the bottle in the trash can, turned off the lights in the bar area, and nodded toward the clock.

Betsy’s boots hit the floor with a thud when she hopped off the bar stool. “My therapy session appears to be over.”

A smile lit up Rosalie’s eyes. “I’ll send you a bill next week. Just listen to me, girl. Sit down and let love come find you. That way, it’ll work.”

Betsy picked up her extra beer and headed for the door. “Pretty hard to do when your name is Betsy Gallagher, but I’ll try. Same time next Thursday?”

“I’m open anytime for you, kiddo.”

Aggravated and angry, not to mention cold and downright frustrated, Declan sat down under the limp, bare limbs of the weeping willow tree and tossed a smooth rock out into the Red River. The moonlight lit up the peaks of the swirls that started small and grew outward to the bank. He picked up another rock and threw it the opposite direction, but a big fish flopped up out of the water and spoiled the circles before they reached the red-dirt sandbar.

He wanted—no, he needed desperately to talk to his sister, Leah, about this mess he’d backed into. But she’d probably tell him the same thing Quaid had, which was to give Tanner a thousand dollars and forget the whole thing. Declan shook his head slowly. He could not let a Gallagher win that easy.

But holy hell! Betsy?

He’d admired her since they were kids sitting on the opposite sides of the church. Her red hair, hanging in braids those days, had intrigued him. Those gorgeous emerald-green eyes mesmerized him, especially when they were teenagers. But she was a Gallagher, and that just didn’t mean
no, you cannot date he
r
; it meant
hell no, you will not even think such thoughts.

“Declan?”

He looked up to see her silhouetted by the moonlight. Curves in all the right places, red hair flowing down her back, and yet he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Betsy?” he muttered.

“What the hell are you doing here this time of night?”

It was Betsy, all right. With that gravelly, sexy voice, there was no denying it.

“I might ask you the same thing,” he answered.

She pushed the branches aside and sat down, leaving a foot between them. “This is my thinkin’ place, and you have no right to be here.”

“It’s also my thinkin’ place,” Declan said.

“I’ve never seen you here before, so you are lying to me.”

“Cross my heart”—he made the sign over his chest—“and hope to die, I am not lying. I come here all the time. I guess Brennans and Gallaghers don’t usually think at the same time or our paths would have crossed before now.”

Talk about fate landing luck right in his lap.

This was Betsy Gallagher, not just someone who walked in the bar from off the street, and the very night that the bet had been made, she appeared at his favorite spot. It had to be an omen that he should proceed with the bet, didn’t it? A chilly north wind swept the sweet scent of perfume and beer mixed together toward him. He inhaled deeply and studied her with side-glances.

She hadn’t changed since they were in Sunday school together. But those curves and that sass were enough to drive a man to unholy thoughts.

Tomorrow, when Tanner thought about what he’d created, it would all change. He’d come crawling to Declan and hand him a thousand dollars, which would be twice what Declan had lost in the poker game that night. The bet would be off and the Brennans would save face, even though no one would ever know.

Declan was tempted to tell Betsy right then and there what had happened at the poker game. She already hated him because he was a Brennan, but he had made a promise that until the bet was settled, he wouldn’t tell. However, when Betsy found out that her favorite cousin had let it go on for even twenty-four hours, she’d shoot first and take names later. And she would find out because nothing ever stayed a secret very long in Burnt Boot.

* * *

Betsy scanned the banks of the river. If anyone saw her sitting beside Declan, she really would be in more trouble than she could dig herself out of in a lifetime. Tanner would find a way to have her committed to a convent, and her grandmother, Naomi, would disown her.

“So what brings you to the thinking tree tonight, Declan Brennan?” she asked.

“Life, mistakes, and poker games,” he answered.

“What?” Betsy frowned.

“You asked me what I was thinkin’ about. That’s what I’m thinking about—life, mistakes, and poker games. You shouldn’t be here. You know the trees and rocks have eyes, and they can tattle. By morning, your family will be makin’ you tie your own noose to hang you with,” he said.

“And some trees are Gallagher trees, like this one. I laid claim to it years ago. I will, however, give you all the rocks that you want to carry down the river bank, and you can let me think in peace.”

“This is definitely a Brennan tree. I believe my grandfather planted it and held his first church services right here under it, so you can have the rocks. Have a nice evening, Betsy. See you around.”

She tugged her jacket across her chest and crossed her arms. “I’m stayin’. And your grandpa didn’t plant this tree. Mine did. He needed a place to make his moonshine, and the tree limbs provided a cover for the smoke.”

“Well, tonight, I was here first so I’m claiming squatter’s rights,” Declan said.

“Then you can leave first.”

He didn’t move a muscle.

“So?” she asked.

He settled against the bark of the tree and stretched out his legs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

If the rumors were only half true, and if Declan Brennan notched his bedpost for every woman he’d had sex with, like the cowboys in old westerns notched their guns for every kill, all four of his bedposts would be a knotty mess. Against that smile, those eyes, and the vision of his ripped abdomen under a snug, dark-blue knit shirt—which she saw before he put on his coat in the bar—no woman had a snowball’s chance in hell of not being attracted to him. She glanced his way and his sapphire-blue eyes caught hers. She quickly blinked and looked out across the river.

“So since neither of us can admit defeat and leave, tell me, Betsy, what are you thinkin’ about tonight?” he asked.

“Life, lost loves, and Christmas,” she answered honestly.

“No one can understand life, so you might as well not fry your pretty little brain cells with that topic. Lost loves is way out of my league. As a matter of fact, love is out of my league.” He smiled.

“Oh, really? I thought you’d loved many times in your life,” she said.

“Dated. Had a good time. Not loved. Never loved,” he said. “So that leaves Christmas. What about it?”

“We aren’t having it this year.”

“Yes, we are. Granny Mavis has been talking about putting up the tree in front of the store all week. It’s still going on like every year,” he argued.

“I’m talking about the programs at the church. Y’all burned down our school, and that’s where part of the decorations were stored.”

“Well, y’all blew up our school when you put dynamite in the septic tank. If I remember right, you were right there in the middle of the shit storm and almost got hit with a toilet,” he reminded her.

“Doesn’t matter who did what. There won’t be any of our church programs, and that isn’t right. We should have at least one with the nativity the Sunday before Christmas.”

“Hard as it is to believe, I agree with you, even though you are a Gallagher, but it isn’t about to happen, so you’re wastin’ your time thinkin’ about it.”

She shrugged. “I talked to my granny and begged her to donate the money for new props, but she said that it’s the Brennans’ fault, and they should put up the money.”

Why was she talking to Declan about this anyway? She knew for a fact that his granny had issued the same ultimatum about not donating a dime to the Christmas cause. Angela would have to be content with Christmas music that morning and a sermon about the birth of the Christ child.

Declan pulled a bottle of whiskey from his pocket and took a long swig. He looked at it for several seconds before he held it out to Betsy. She checked the sky for dark clouds and possible lightning bolts before she took it from him and let the warmth of a shot of Jack Daniels slide down her throat.

She handed the bottle back to him and realized that her lips had touched the same bottle that a Brennan’s had. Tanner would make her eat soap if he found out she’d been sharing a drink with Declan. Worse yet, he’d blackmail her for the rest of her life.

“Merry Christmas, Betsy.” He smiled as he tipped up the bottle for another swig and then put the lid back on before he tucked it away in his pocket.

No wonder women fell at his feet—or, rather, into his bed. One little grin along with a shot of whiskey and Betsy had the desire to push him backward right there on the cold, red sand. If he really turned on the charm, there would be nothing left to do but shuck out of her jeans and boots.

“I’m still cold,” he said as he pulled the bottle back out, took another gulp, and handed it back to her. That time, he almost dropped it and they had to do some fancy scrambling to get it passed from one to the other.

“Be a shame to waste a drop of good Tennessee whiskey,” he said.

His drawl was more intoxicating than the whiskey and heated her insides, but what brought on more fire was his touch. Declan Brennan was forbidden fruit. No, he was a whole forbidden tree. He was even worse than that tree that Eve partook of in the Good Book, and the results would be worse than having to wear fig-leaf clothing in the middle of a Texas winter.

“What if…” he started and stopped.

“If what?” she asked.

“Well, what if we kind of did something in secret?”

“Declan Brennan, I’m not ever going to be a notch on your bedpost,” she said. “It would take more than half a bottle of Jack Daniels to get me softened up enough for that.”

“You’re not my type,” he said bluntly.

“Well, that damn sure breaks my heart. I just knew you were trying to get me drunk and take advantage of my innocence.”

“You probably have more notches on your bedpost than I have on mine if the gossip is true, so don’t be calling the kettle black.”

She had to fight the heat rising in her neck. No way was he seeing Betsy Gallagher blush. “So you’re the kettle and I’m the pot here? What if I want to be the kettle?”

He might be off-limits, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t flirt a little bit. After all, no one was looking. Just to be sure, she scanned the area again and didn’t even see a stray dog or a fish that might rise up to tell on her.

“Gallaghers blow up schools. They have to be the pot. Do you get the pun?” His eyes sparkled in the moonlight.

“Yes, and it’s a stupid pun. But if you weren’t talking about secret sex, what kind of secret was on your mind?” she asked.

“What the church needs is stuff, right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Well, Granny Mavis has banned any member of the family from giving a single dime to the church for the Christmas program. So we’ll have to get around that,” he said.

“So did my granny. She’s threatened to throw us off Wild Horse if we set up a fund or donate a penny to buy new things for the programs.”

“Okay, then, we cannot ask for money or give money. But that doesn’t mean we can’t donate or ask for stuff, does it? I bet I can get some Brennans to give me some stuff, like a Christmas tree from a shed that no one is using and maybe some spare ornaments. If I go about it right, Granny wouldn’t know,” he said.

“And I could do the same with the Gallaghers—like a manger for baby Jesus and maybe some lights. We could both work on the folks who aren’t family, like Polly and Gladys and Verdie and the O’Donnells.”

“We could talk to the preacher on Sunday after church. I’ll ask him if we might come in and visit with him before choir practice that evening. If he’ll help us out, we could leave our donations at the church on a particular night of the week and no one would ever know where the stuff came from, not even Preacher Kyle. Then, there could be a Christmas program,” Declan said.

Betsy had nodded as he spoke. “You ever wish this feud was over?”

“You don’t know how many times,” he whispered. “But we might as well wish in one hand and spit in the other. You can guess which one would fill up fastest.”

She nodded seriously. “No question about that, but if I said it out loud, Granny Naomi would probably hang me from the nearest pecan tree with a length of rusty barbed wire.”

“When do we start our job of begging, borrowing, or stealing the Christmas stuff?” he asked.

“How about the day after Thanksgiving? That work for you?”

“That will give us three weeks to get it all gathered up in time. We’ll keep it secret until, say, December 18. That will give the folks time to get all the stuff we collect set up and put the program together. It’s pretty much the same every year anyway. Who’s going to be in charge of the play this year?”

“The Gallaghers have a baby boy due right after Thanksgiving,” she said.

“We’ll have to do some meeting in secret to discuss who we’re getting things from, so people won’t put two and two together and realize that we’re working together.”

Betsy wasn’t afraid of rattlesnakes. Mice and spiders didn’t scare her. If the devil himself rose up out of the Red River, she’d kick him right in his little forked tail and drown his sorry ass right there in the cold water. But the idea of working with a Brennan and the repercussions it could cause came close to making her jump up and run like the wind back to Wild Horse Ranch. Naomi Gallagher scared the bejesus out of her, and meeting in secret with Declan Brennan would cause a stir worse than old Lucifer rising up out of the river.

He shoved his hand out toward her. “Deal? After we talk to the preacher Sunday evening, we’ll make plans and a list.”

She told herself that the vibes she’d felt were the result of too much whiskey, but her heart warned her that she was playing with pure fire. She put her hand in his and attributed the fiery jolt that rippled through her body to the fact that she was in cahoots with a Brennan.

* * *

The hall clock chimed twelve times as Declan started up the stairs. The house seemed bigger and emptier since his sister, Leah, had moved out and gotten married last August. It felt as if it was waiting on him to do the same, as if he no longer belonged there, even though he’d been born there and had the same room since he was a baby.

He tossed his black felt hat on the bed, threw his coat on the back of a wooden rocking chair in his bedroom, and kicked off his boots. Then the pacing began—from one end of the room, around the foot of the queen-size poster bed, to the other side of the room and back again.