Her Christmas Cowboy Page 3

  “Okay, dogs aren’t scary,” Amy told herself. “Lots of people have dogs.” Except her mother had been terrified of them and Blake had said they were filthy, so she’d never really been around them much. Now, though, she was curious. What was this dog doing behind her house? Was he lost?

  Maybe he needed a friend.

  That random thought decided her. Maybe it was because Amy desperately needed a friend, too, that rescuing the strange, growly dog was suddenly very important to her. She opened the pantry and looked inside for something that seemed appealing to a dog. There was a lot of ramen noodle—her cheap pantry staple of choice—but she was pretty sure dogs didn’t eat that. Did they? She looked through her cans—beans, corn—and found a jar of peanut butter. Dogs liked that, didn’t they? She pulled it out and used a spoon to get a huge, sloppy blob and then went back to the back door. With her flashlight in one hand and peanut-butter spoon in the other, she moved out onto the step.

  The dog growled again, but when she shone her light, it didn’t move from its spot near the fence.

  “Hello?” She clicked her tongue, trying to call the dog. “Come here, boy. I have peanut butter.” When that didn’t entice him, she tried something else. She smacked her lips and made appreciative noises. “Mmm, good.”

  The growling turned into a whine that broke her heart, but he still didn’t get up. Worried, Amy crept off the step and into the snow. She headed toward the dog, even though it was bitterly cold, the wind biting. She couldn’t leave the dog outside, not when he was whining like that.

  So she crouched over and crept forward, step by step, into the darkness, and held the peanut-butter spoon out like a peace offering. “Come on. Don’t you want this? It’s yummy.”

  The closer she got, the better the look she got at him. It was hard to tell, but his face was thin and looked unhealthy. His coat was ratty and filthy, black on the ears and body and gray everywhere else. His muzzle was gray, too, and his eyes looked to be milky white.

  Oh. He was blind.

  Her heart squeezed again, because he was sniffing the air, but he didn’t get up. He was shivering, too, she noticed. She tried shining the flashlight right in his eyes, but it got no reaction. Only when her feet crunched in the snow did the dog get alert.

  Definitely blind.

  “I got some yummy peanut butter for you,” she told him, vaguely aware she was using a baby voice to talk to him. His tail gave a hopeful thump, though, and so she kept talking in that silly, insipid voice. “It’s so tasty good, and I can’t possibly eat it all. So I thought, hey, why don’t I bring some out to my puppy friend. Can that be you, good boy?”

  The tail thumped again.

  Feeling encouraged, Amy set down the flashlight, then reached out and touched the dog’s head.

  He snapped at her, catching her fingers. They both yelped in surprise, and she fell backward in the snow. The peanut-butter spoon fell, and Amy clutched her hand tightly. It stung, but he hadn’t broken the skin. Even now, as she watched, the blind dog’s head bobbed and he sniffed the snow, looking for the spoon. He was still hungry, just scared. And here she was, the dummy that tried to touch a blind, scared dog. Of course he snapped at her.

  “You’re coming inside with me,” she told him. “I have a plan.” Amy gently tossed the spoon closer to him, and when he began to lick it hungrily, she crept back toward the house and grabbed her only blanket. Mental note: she needed more linens. Maybe she’d look for some at estate sales this weekend. For now, her scared dog friend needed it more than she did. She grabbed the jar of peanut butter, too, and took it with her as she went outside. The dog was still there, licking at the spoon, and before she could lose her courage, she marched up to him and set the jar of peanut butter down and opened it under his nose. When it distracted him, she wrapped him in the blanket and picked him up.

  He snapped at her. She expected that, because he was scared. And even though he twisted and yelped and scratched at her arms, Amy made soothing sounds and carried him inside despite everything. When she was finally in the house, she set him down and began to rub him with the blanket. “It’s okay,” she promised him in a soft voice. “It’s warm in here and no one will hurt you.”

  He hunched his shoulders and slunk over to a corner, where he huddled, shivering. She draped the blanket over him, then went outside and retrieved her flashlight and peanut butter. By the time she sat down, she was wiped and smelled like wet dog. Had she eaten? Did she care? She was exhausted, but she might as well put something in her stomach before she figured out what to do with her new friend. Maybe a neighbor was missing his buddy. She’d look online after she had something in her growling stomach.

  The moment she got the ramen out of the microwave, though, the dog started sniffing and looking interested, so she made another bowl and then sat near him on the floor while they both ate.

  “I don’t suppose you know how to fix ceilings, do you?” Amy murmured between forkfuls of noodles. “Because I could use a guy.”

  The dog ate messily and didn’t answer. He was clearly starving, though; that much was obvious. By the time he licked the bowl clean, half the broth was on the floor and he was still hungrily looking for more, so she gave him hers. Under all that matted fur, she’d bet he was pitifully thin. If someone was missing their dog, they’d been missing him for a few days now.

  All right, her new buddy would stay with her tonight, and if she couldn’t find a missing dog description of him on the neighborhood forums, she’d get him some dog food and some dog shampoo—they made that sort of thing, didn’t they? And she’d have herself a new roommate.

  Her new town and new life seemed a little less lonely now. Amy looked around the bare house, at the secondhand love seat with the ugliest floral pattern ever and the broken CRT television in the corner that weighed more than she did. Her house was as bare as her social calendar, but she was determined to change that.

  “Isn’t that right, Donner?” She smiled at the dog. He wasn’t a Rudolph or a Vixen, but maybe he could be a Donner. It was just Christmasy enough, she decided.

  She and Donner were going to have a great holiday, Amy decided.

  CHAPTER THREE

  She woke up to Donner licking her face, which made her sputter and realize that she’d slept on the floor . . . and she’d overslept for work. After walking and feeding Donner using rope for a leash, Amy raced out of the house with her hair in a bun and her blouse unironed—luckily she could throw a cardigan over it and complain she was cold. The day breezed past, and it was a Friday, which meant it was her favorite of all days.

  Payday.

  At least, she was pretty sure it was payday. Which was good, because she was broke. She had a neat little app on her phone that let her check her bank balance—a novelty for her since Blake had never let her touch their money in the past—and when she checked her account, it showed a bright red number and a lot of negatives pending.

  Whoops. That was a new experience, too.

  Once school was out and her students sent home, she texted her accountant. Not that she needed an accountant, but she did need someone she could trust that was good with money, and Layla had helped her get started when she’d arrived in Painted Barrel, clueless about bank accounts and credit lines and anything of that nature.

  Also, Layla was about the same age as Amy and into thrifting and estate sales, so she was determined to befriend her.

  AMY: Hi Layla! Did I get paid?

  LAYLA: You get paid semimonthly.

  AMY: What’s that mean? It’s Friday. I get paid on Friday right? Every other Friday?

  LAYLA: No, you get paid on the 15th and the 30th. You don’t get paid today. Sorry!

  Oh. Well, that sucked. Chewing on her lip, she considered. The fifteenth wasn’t for at least a week, and she was broke as a joke. You would think she would have gotten the hang of how her paycheck worked a
t this point, but nope.

  AMY: Did my alimony payment come in from Blake? That’s supposed to come in at the beginning of each month, right?

  LAYLA: It is and no surprise, it has not. I’m sorry. I know he’s supposed to pay. Because he’s self-employed it’s harder for the state to shake payments out of him.

  Amy sighed. She knew all about that. Ever since she’d divorced Blake, she’d learned that he loved to hide his money—and she knew he had some—in various businesses and pretend like he didn’t cut himself a check. Even though he was supposed to send her alimony money every month, it never showed up. Layla was helping her with that, but she could only do so much.

  AMY: OK, thank you. Any leads on any estate sales in our area?

  LAYLA: No, but there’s a huge one in Casper! You should check it out. It was on all week and they’re closing everything out later today. That means everything left will be 50% off and I know you like a sale.

  Oh, heck, she did. The only things she bought anymore were on sale. Layla texted her the address, and it was close to a consignment shop in Casper, so she rushed home, fed the dog, shoved a bunch of her designer clothing into the back of the car—and some of her jewelry—and drove as fast as she could to Casper, which was more than an hour away with the snowy weather.

  Much to her disappointment, the consignment shop didn’t pay in advance, so she hocked her delicate Rolex and her pearl earrings with the matching bracelet that Blake had gotten her for their second anniversary. She left the clothes with the consignment shop anyhow, since she’d probably need more than the hundred bucks she had on her now, and drove as quickly as she could to the estate sale. They were packing up as she arrived, but they let her pick through the boxes after she begged prettily.

  Fifty dollars later, she had some dishes, some linens, a dog bed, and an entire box of random Christmas decorations that looked pretty dated. She was positive she could repurpose them to be useful, though. After all, the animatronic Santa humping on Mrs. Claus didn’t have to be humping, did he? She could separate them and then just have . . . two happy, jolly old elves who happened to have weird expressions on their faces.

  It’d work. She’d make it work. That was Amy Mckinney’s new motto—she was independent, damn it, and she didn’t need her ex-husband, Blake Todd, to run her life. With a firm, angry nod at the world, Amy packed her finds into the back of her car and put the key into the ignition.

  It didn’t start.

  Her heart stuttered. She panicked. Took a deep breath. Sure, her car was old, but it wasn’t that old, was it? She closed her eyes, said a little prayer, and then tried the key again. This time, the car choked, but the engine turned over.

  Triumphant, Amy set off on the road back to Painted Barrel in the darkness. Today was a much better day than yesterday.

  * * *

  * * *

  At least, Amy’s day was better for about half an hour.

  Halfway back to Painted Barrel, with the distance equally far back to Casper, her car sputtered. She coasted to the side of the road as the lights died out and everything just went . . . dead.

  She allowed herself to panic. Just a little, as she sat in the darkness. Cars didn’t just die like that because it was cold, did they? Something else had to be wrong, and she wasn’t close to anything at all. There wasn’t a nearby gas station or even a rest stop. There was nothing on this stretch of road and the cars that passed weren’t nearly as plentiful as she wanted them to be. This was fine, though. She’d figure this out. With that thought in her head, she closed her eyes and calmly turned the key in the ignition.

  Nothing happened. The car didn’t respond.

  Amy sucked in a shuddering breath, then popped the hood of the car. She got out, wincing at the bitterly cold air, and clutched her jacket closer to her body. She lifted the hood and peered down at the dark engine, because it felt like something she should do, as a capable person. She had no idea what she was looking at, though, and gazing down into the shadows at a bunch of mechanical parts made the bubbling despair she was trying to fight rise to the surface anyhow.

  She was . . . stranded.

  She had no idea what to do now. What did one do when a car stopped? If she were back in Houston—and still Amy Mckinney Todd, wife of Blake Todd, high-powered entrepreneur—she’d call her husband, knowing full well that he’d chastise her like she was a child. But he’d take care of it. He’d taken care of everything. He’d controlled everything.

  Without that rigid, smothering control, she felt free. She also felt completely out of her depth when it came to situations like this, though. What did people do when their cars broke down? She hurried back into the driver’s seat as a lone car whizzed past and climbed inside the relative warmth of the cab. It was going to get cold fast if her car didn’t have power. She could freeze to death, all because she didn’t know what to do now.

  God, how Blake would laugh at her “independence,” that asshole.

  She drew a calming breath. Anger at Blake always galvanized her. Hadn’t he smirked all through their divorce proceedings? Told her she’d be utterly helpless and she’d come crawling back, begging for him to help her. If nothing else in life, she was going to succeed, by golly, just to prove him wrong. Amy pulled out her phone and began to google.

  Okay, she could call a tow truck.

  Except . . . she didn’t have the money for something like that. All she had was the little bit of cash from pawning her jewelry, and she’d been hoping to use it for groceries for herself—and her new friend, Donner—this week.

  Oh no. Poor Donner. He was all alone at her house and probably worried. Did dogs get worried? She thought of the dirty, disheveled collie and hoped he was okay. All right, for Donner’s sake, she had to get home.

  So she went down her list of contacts in her phone instead. Lisa—the high school teacher—didn’t have her car at night because she shared with her husband. Jenny—another elementary teacher—had a boyfriend in Ten Sleep who she visited on the weekends. Royce—the principal—didn’t answer when she called, and neither did his secretary (and wife) Elizabeth.

  She went down her tiny list of friends, panicking. Layla didn’t pick up and her phone went to voicemail. Becca—her friend and the local beautician—was out with her new husband tonight. She couldn’t call her and interrupt her date, not when she knew that Becca had one of her husband’s brothers babysitting for her.

  Greg! Her landlord. He was nice enough, wasn’t he? And he was always asking her out on a date. She dialed him quickly, her heart pounding. If he came and saved her, she’d absolutely go out with him on a date—

  The phone went immediately to voicemail. Not even one ring.

  Frowning, she tried again. Same thing.

  He was ignoring her calls. So much for him having a “guy” to come fix things. Now he was just flat-out ignoring her. Amy choked on a horrified laugh. At least she didn’t have to date him now.

  The only other person on her list was Caleb, and she blanked out for a moment on who he was. Then it dawned on her. Right. Caleb Watson, one of Libby’s uncles. The quiet, weird one who had volunteered to be Santa even as he’d crushed his own hat in his hands.

  He was a stranger . . . but she was out of options.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she dialed his number. Her heart pounded. What would she do if he blew her off? If he couldn’t be bothered? If—

  “Hello?” He answered on the second ring, his voice slightly surprised.

  “Oh my god. Caleb. Hi!” Amy knew she sounded hysterical, but she didn’t care. “I’m sorry to bother you but I don’t have anyone else to call. I seem to be having some car trouble and I don’t have the money for a tow truck and—” She drew in a shuddering breath, trying not to cry.

  “Where?” Caleb barked out.

  “Highway,” she managed. “Coming back from Casper. I’m about hal
fway—”

  “Wait there,” he said and hung up.

  Wait there? It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she didn’t have anywhere else to go, but she’d be arguing with a dial tone. Did that mean he was on his way? She didn’t know. Worried, Amy texted him.

  AMY: I’m sorry to be a bother, but does that mean you’re on your way?

  CALEB: Y

  Okay, she was going to take that as a “yes” and relax, just a little. Inhaling deeply, she wrapped her coat around her body tighter and sank low into the bucket seat. She could do this. It was fine. She could be independent and strong and not need anyone tomorrow.

  Tonight, she was just grateful a stranger was on his way to rescue her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It seemed to take forever for him to show up. She knew it wasn’t that long—she’d been checking her phone in between rounds of sudoku to try to calm her mind—but it felt like an eternity. The car was getting cold, her breath puffing in front of her face in clouds, and her Prada jacket, while lovely and stylish, didn’t do much to keep her warm. Her Houston clothes weren’t going to cut it in Wyoming. She’d have to get warmer gear at some point.

  Like when she got her alimony checks in.

  Amy was coat shopping on her phone when a truck pulled up in front of her, then backed up and turned around until the lights shone in through the windshield. Gratitude rushed through her and she unlocked the car door and stepped out, on the verge of weeping. “Hi,” she called out in a wobbly voice. “I hope I’m not ruining your evening.”

  The big cowboy was silhouetted in the headlights, all hat and shoulders, and she’d never been so glad to see anyone. He walked over to the passenger side of his car and pulled a blanket out, then approached her. “You’re a bother.”

  “Oh.” Her heart sank.

  “No bother,” he growled, as if frustrated. “Meant to say no bother.” And he carefully tucked the blanket around her shoulders, wrapping her in warmth. He handed her a thermos next, then ducked his head as he moved toward her car. “No bother,” he muttered again.