RaeAnne Thayne – The Rancher's Christmas Song (страница 7)

“Why are you driving us home?” Colter asked when they had their seat belts on in her back seat. “Where’s our dad?”

“He’s taking care of a sick horse, he said. The vet’s there with him and they lost track of time.”

“That’s Frisco. He was our mom’s horse, but he’s probably gonna die soon.”

She wasn’t sure how to reply to that, especially when he spoke in a matter-of-fact way. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s really old and too ornery for us to ride. He bites. Dad says he better not catch us near him,” Trevor said.

She shivered, then hoped they couldn’t see. She had to get over her fear of horses, darn it. After more than a year in horse and cattle country, she thought she would be past it—but then, twenty years hadn’t made a difference, so why should the past year enact some miraculous change?

“You better do what he says.”

“We don’t want to ride that grumpy thing, anyway,” Trevor said. “Why would we? We both have our own horses. Mine is named Oreo and Colt’s is named Blackjack.”

“Do you have a horse, Miss Baker?”

She remembered a sweet little roan mare she had adored more than anything in the world.

“I used to, when I was your age. Her name was Ruby. But I haven’t been on a horse in a long, long time. We don’t have any horses on the Baker’s Dozen.”

In one bold sweep, her dad had gotten rid of them all twenty years ago, even though he had loved to ride, too. Thinking about it always made her sad.

“You could come ride our horses. We have like a million of them.”

Familiar fear sidled up to her and said hello. “That’s nice of you, Colter, but I don’t know how to ride anymore. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in a saddle.”

“We could teach you again,” Trevor offered, with a sweet willingness that touched something deep inside. “I bet you’d pick it up again easy.”

For a moment, she was very tempted by the offer but she would have to get past her phobia first. “That’s very kind of you,” she said, and left it at that. The boys didn’t need to know about her issues.

“Hey, you know how to sing, right?” Colter said suddenly, changing the subject.

Considering she had one degree in music therapy and another in music education, she hoped so. “Yes. That is certainly something I do know how to do.”

“And you play the guitar. You do it in school sometimes.”

And the piano, violin and most other stringed instruments. “That’s right.”

“Could you teach us how to play a song?” Colter asked.

“And how to sing it, too?” Trevor said.

She glanced in her rearview mirror at their faces, earnestly eager. “Does either of you know how to play the guitar?”

“We both do, kind of,” Colter said. “Uncle Dan taught us a couple chords last summer but then he said he wouldn’t teach us anymore because we played too hard and broke all the strings on his guitar.”

“Oh, dear.”

These boys didn’t do anything half-heartedly. She secretly hoped they would continue to be all-in as they grew up—with a little self-restraint when it was necessary, anyway.

“But we would never do that to your guitar, if you let us practice on it,” he assured her with a grave solemnity that almost made her smile.

“We promise,” his twin said. “We would be super careful.”

She couldn’t believe she would even entertain the idea for a moment, but she couldn’t deny she was curious about the request. “What song are you trying to learn how to play and sing?”

“It’s a good one. ‘Christmas for the Cowboy.’ Have you heard that one?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s about this cowboy and he has to work on Christmas Eve and ride his horse in the snow and stuff,” Trevor informed her.

“He’s real mad about it, and thinks it’s not fair and he wants to be inside where it’s warm, then the animals help him remember that Christmas is about peace on earth and stuff.”

“And baby Jesus and wise men and shepherds,” Trevor added.

“That sounds like a good one.”

She combed through her memory bank but wasn’t sure if she had ever heard it.

“It’s our dad’s favorite Christmas song in the whole wide world. He hums it all the time and keeps the CD in his pickup truck.”

“Do you know who sings it?” she asked. It would be much easier to track down the guitar chords if she could at least have that much info.

The boys named a country music group whose name she recognized. She wasn’t very familiar with their body of work.

“So can you teach us?” Colter asked as they neared the turnoff for the Broken Arrow. “It has to be with the guitar, too.”

“Please?” Trevor asked. “Pretty please with Skittles on top?”

Well, she did like Skittles. She hid a smile. “Why is this so important to you? Why do you want to learn the song so badly?”

As she glanced in the rearview mirror, she saw the boys exchange looks. She had noticed before they did that quite often, as if passing along some nonverbal, invisible, twin communication that only they understood.

“It’s for our dad,” Trevor finally said. “He works hard all the time and takes care of us and stuff and we never have a good present to give him at Christmas.”

“Except things we make in school, and that’s usually just dumb crap,” Colter said. “Pictures and clay bowls and stuff.”

Ella had a feeling the art teacher she shared a classroom with probably wouldn’t appreciate that particularly blunt assessment.

“When we went to bed last night after the concert, we decided we should learn that song and play it for our dad because he loves it so much, but we don’t know the right words. We always sing it wrong.”

“Hey, maybe after we learn it, we could play and sing it in the Christmas program,” Colter said.

“Yeah,” Trevor said, “Like that guy and his wranglers last night.”

She didn’t know how to respond, afraid to give the boys false hope. She didn’t even know what song they were talking about, let alone whether it was appropriate for a Christmas program designed for senior citizens.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that song—” she began.

“You could learn it, couldn’t you?” Colter said.

“It’s probably not even too hard.”

As she turned into the ranch, they passed a large pasture containing about a dozen horses. Two of them cantered over to the fence line, then raced along beside her SUV, their manes and tails flying out behind them.

She felt the familiar panic, but something else, a long-buried regret for what she had lost.

“If I can find the song and agree to teach you, I need something from the two of you in return.”

“Let me guess. You want us to quit messing around at rehearsal.” Colter said this in the same resigned tone someone might use after being told they faced an IRS audit.

“Absolutely. That’s one of my conditions. You told me you could behave, but today wasn’t a very good example of that. I need to be able to trust you to keep your word.”

“Sorry, Miss Baker.”

“We’ll do better, we promise.”

How many times had the boys uttered those very same words to one voice of authority or other? No doubt they always meant it, but something told her they would follow through this time. It touched her heart that they wanted to give this gift to their father, who had sacrificed and struggled and refused to give up custody after their mother died.

She wanted to help them give something back to him—and she wanted something in return, something that made her palms suddenly feel sweaty on the steering wheel.

“That is one of my conditions. And I’m very firm about it.”

She paused, sucked in a breath, then let it out in a rush and spoke quickly before she could change her mind.

“I also have one more condition.”