Christmas Creek Cowboy
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Synopsis
Cowboys and Christmas are an unbeatable combination in this charming western novella from the USA Today bestselling author. A perfect gift for fans of Linda Lael Miller, Jill Shalvis, and Maisey Yates.
In small-town Christmas Creek, Texas, folks go all out for the holidays, but Sheriff Calen Jameson is too busy commiserating about cheating exes with his best friend, Emmy Kendrick . . .
Calen always thought his close bond of friendship with Emmy was too precious to risk with romance. Yet maybe it’s time to start making some changes—by firing up the heat between
them . . .
[Previously published in Christmas Eve Cowboy]
Release date: September 26, 2023
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 86
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Christmas Creek Cowboy
Delores Fossen
Chapter 1
Sheriff Calen Jameson wasn’t ready to start snarling “bah humbug,” but he was darn close to it. Along with this being the first anniversary of the worst anniversary in history, there was an inflatable cowboy Santa the size of an eighteen-wheeler lying sideways on Main Street. It had landed there after tumbling off the roof of the hardware store.
The Santa was not only blocking traffic—yes, even a small town like Christmas Creek, Texas, had traffic—it had also knocked down a row of life-size plastic Texas longhorns. The very ones the city council had insisted on displaying every year in between streetlamps that were already overly decorated. The longhorns looked creepy with their vacant, staring eyes, but it was a décor argument Calen had lost a dozen times in the dozen years he’d been sheriff.
Despite the hardware store being filled with all sorts of ropes and such, the massive cowboy Santa obviously hadn’t been anchored well enough. That was the reason for the fall, the traffic jam, and why he was on the way to see the store owner.
And wouldn’t that be fun?
Not because the owner, Lou “Wheezer” Sommers, was a jerk but because Lou was the polar opposite of Ebenezer Scrooge and would insist on hauling the Santa back up to the roof so that no one missed out on this seasonal delight. Wheezer would also probably forget Calen’s rule about bellowing out something Calen didn’t want to hear.
Merry Christmas or happy holidays.
Because those greetings were reminders of that worst anniversary, Calen had let it get around the gossips that it’d be best if no one uttered anything like that to him, and most people had complied. Wheezer possibly wouldn’t because in his usual holiday gushing, it would be second nature to gush first and think later.
It was Wheezer’s over-the-top enthusiasm that had the man insisting the inflatable Santa go back on top of the store. Since the fall could have seriously hurt someone, Calen would make sure it was done right this time. And he’d have to do that while being bombarded with the music of the season that was being piped through various speakers on Main Street.
Too bad the shop owners hadn’t coordinated the tunes, because as he walked from the sheriff’s office, Calen heard an annoying mix of “Jingle Bells,” “Little Drummer Boy,” and “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”
It was only two blocks from the sheriff’s office to the hardware store, and Calen kept on his serious cop’s face to deter anyone from doling out unwanted greetings, complaints, and sympathetic comments about how miserable he must be over this one-year anniversary deal.
His cop’s face didn’t work, though.
Overly cheerful people, perhaps on eggnog and sugar cookie highs, made giddy entrances and exits from the shops while calling out hellos and “Have a good day” to him. A few informed him of the cowboy Santa—as if he could have missed hearing about the darn thing. And way too many mentioned the anniversary of the “incident.”
Most of those mentions were muttered “Hugs,” “Thinking about you today,” and other such sentiments better reserved for social media posts and greeting cards. Probably because the bulk of residents didn’t want to say aloud what had actually happened.
Well, not aloud to him anyway. And not within hearing distance of any kids. Because the incident wasn’t for little ears.
Calen figured this anniversary was still a tasty side dish served up by gossips, especially since some of them had personally witnessed the X-rated event that’d caused him to end his engagement to his ex, Sasha Peterson. Specifically, many had seen Sasha in the elf costume she’d donned for the dress rehearsal of the annual Christmas play.
Or rather, they’d seen Sasha partly in that costume.
She’d been naked from the waist down, her green tights pooled around her ankles, when all sixteen members of the chorus, Calen, and several others had walked in on her with the mayor, Owen Granger, who’d been in a Santa suit.
Both Sasha and Owen had insisted their encounter was a one-time mistake. One brought on by too much alcohol during a holiday party. They’d begged for forgiveness and had sworn it wouldn’t happen again, but Calen hadn’t been able to erase that image of them together. He also hadn’t been able to shove aside the punch-to-the-gut betrayal by the woman who’d sworn her undying love to him. An equally hard punch from Owen, Calen’s friend since childhood.
Pushing the “poor, pitiful Calen” looks aside, he made his way past the Yuletide Tea Shop, which had opted to pipe out “Silver Bells,” as Gladys Herman, the owner, stepped out.
“Sheriff, you’re looking lower than a fat penguin’s butt,” Gladys announced. “When you’re done fixing that Santa, you ought to come into the shop for a cup of peppermint chai. It’ll perk you right up.”
He made a sound that could have meant anything, but Calen knew tea wouldn’t fix his mood. Nothing could. He just needed to get through this day, and then he’d have the one-year anniversary under his belt. Maybe day 366 would bring an end to the gossip about his crappy personal life.
Calen reached the Santa and squeezed past the inflated cowboy hat and around a couple of the toppled longhorns, too, as he spotted one of his deputies, Mick Webster, who was calling out instructions to Wheezer and his workers. Thankfully, they were already in the process of hauling up the Santa by pulling ropes they’d attached to various parts of the inflatable.
That was the good news. The bad was that the task had drawn gawkers, and somebody could get hurt. Calen was betting the sucker weighed over a hundred pounds. It was a miracle it hadn’t smashed into someone or something other than a few of the plastic longhorns.
“All of you need to back up,” Calen called out to no one in particular before he turned to Mick. “You got here fast.” Mick was on patrol duty, so he could have been anywhere in town or the outlying areas.
“I was in Frosty’s having lunch.” The deputy hiked his thumb at the diner across the street where the bottom of Santa’s sleigh was smashed against the door. “Had to go out through the back.”
Calen could see why Mick had needed to do that. With the darn thing wedged across Main Street, Santa’s sleigh was now a barricade. It blocked the front door and windows, along with smooshing the diner’s Frosty the Snowman mascot against the glass. One of Frosty’s arms stuck out in what looked like a “help me” gesture.
“Happy holidays, Sheriff. We got this,” Wheezer called down to him. “Oops,” he immediately added, obviously remembering the greeting Calen didn’t want to hear.
Wheezer was wearing a Santa suit, and the man was no doubt grinning beneath his fake white beard. “Sure sorry to add this to your downer of a day. When we’re done, come on into the store for some hot cider.”
Calen shrugged, neither accepting or declining, but the man was right a. . .
Sheriff Calen Jameson wasn’t ready to start snarling “bah humbug,” but he was darn close to it. Along with this being the first anniversary of the worst anniversary in history, there was an inflatable cowboy Santa the size of an eighteen-wheeler lying sideways on Main Street. It had landed there after tumbling off the roof of the hardware store.
The Santa was not only blocking traffic—yes, even a small town like Christmas Creek, Texas, had traffic—it had also knocked down a row of life-size plastic Texas longhorns. The very ones the city council had insisted on displaying every year in between streetlamps that were already overly decorated. The longhorns looked creepy with their vacant, staring eyes, but it was a décor argument Calen had lost a dozen times in the dozen years he’d been sheriff.
Despite the hardware store being filled with all sorts of ropes and such, the massive cowboy Santa obviously hadn’t been anchored well enough. That was the reason for the fall, the traffic jam, and why he was on the way to see the store owner.
And wouldn’t that be fun?
Not because the owner, Lou “Wheezer” Sommers, was a jerk but because Lou was the polar opposite of Ebenezer Scrooge and would insist on hauling the Santa back up to the roof so that no one missed out on this seasonal delight. Wheezer would also probably forget Calen’s rule about bellowing out something Calen didn’t want to hear.
Merry Christmas or happy holidays.
Because those greetings were reminders of that worst anniversary, Calen had let it get around the gossips that it’d be best if no one uttered anything like that to him, and most people had complied. Wheezer possibly wouldn’t because in his usual holiday gushing, it would be second nature to gush first and think later.
It was Wheezer’s over-the-top enthusiasm that had the man insisting the inflatable Santa go back on top of the store. Since the fall could have seriously hurt someone, Calen would make sure it was done right this time. And he’d have to do that while being bombarded with the music of the season that was being piped through various speakers on Main Street.
Too bad the shop owners hadn’t coordinated the tunes, because as he walked from the sheriff’s office, Calen heard an annoying mix of “Jingle Bells,” “Little Drummer Boy,” and “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”
It was only two blocks from the sheriff’s office to the hardware store, and Calen kept on his serious cop’s face to deter anyone from doling out unwanted greetings, complaints, and sympathetic comments about how miserable he must be over this one-year anniversary deal.
His cop’s face didn’t work, though.
Overly cheerful people, perhaps on eggnog and sugar cookie highs, made giddy entrances and exits from the shops while calling out hellos and “Have a good day” to him. A few informed him of the cowboy Santa—as if he could have missed hearing about the darn thing. And way too many mentioned the anniversary of the “incident.”
Most of those mentions were muttered “Hugs,” “Thinking about you today,” and other such sentiments better reserved for social media posts and greeting cards. Probably because the bulk of residents didn’t want to say aloud what had actually happened.
Well, not aloud to him anyway. And not within hearing distance of any kids. Because the incident wasn’t for little ears.
Calen figured this anniversary was still a tasty side dish served up by gossips, especially since some of them had personally witnessed the X-rated event that’d caused him to end his engagement to his ex, Sasha Peterson. Specifically, many had seen Sasha in the elf costume she’d donned for the dress rehearsal of the annual Christmas play.
Or rather, they’d seen Sasha partly in that costume.
She’d been naked from the waist down, her green tights pooled around her ankles, when all sixteen members of the chorus, Calen, and several others had walked in on her with the mayor, Owen Granger, who’d been in a Santa suit.
Both Sasha and Owen had insisted their encounter was a one-time mistake. One brought on by too much alcohol during a holiday party. They’d begged for forgiveness and had sworn it wouldn’t happen again, but Calen hadn’t been able to erase that image of them together. He also hadn’t been able to shove aside the punch-to-the-gut betrayal by the woman who’d sworn her undying love to him. An equally hard punch from Owen, Calen’s friend since childhood.
Pushing the “poor, pitiful Calen” looks aside, he made his way past the Yuletide Tea Shop, which had opted to pipe out “Silver Bells,” as Gladys Herman, the owner, stepped out.
“Sheriff, you’re looking lower than a fat penguin’s butt,” Gladys announced. “When you’re done fixing that Santa, you ought to come into the shop for a cup of peppermint chai. It’ll perk you right up.”
He made a sound that could have meant anything, but Calen knew tea wouldn’t fix his mood. Nothing could. He just needed to get through this day, and then he’d have the one-year anniversary under his belt. Maybe day 366 would bring an end to the gossip about his crappy personal life.
Calen reached the Santa and squeezed past the inflated cowboy hat and around a couple of the toppled longhorns, too, as he spotted one of his deputies, Mick Webster, who was calling out instructions to Wheezer and his workers. Thankfully, they were already in the process of hauling up the Santa by pulling ropes they’d attached to various parts of the inflatable.
That was the good news. The bad was that the task had drawn gawkers, and somebody could get hurt. Calen was betting the sucker weighed over a hundred pounds. It was a miracle it hadn’t smashed into someone or something other than a few of the plastic longhorns.
“All of you need to back up,” Calen called out to no one in particular before he turned to Mick. “You got here fast.” Mick was on patrol duty, so he could have been anywhere in town or the outlying areas.
“I was in Frosty’s having lunch.” The deputy hiked his thumb at the diner across the street where the bottom of Santa’s sleigh was smashed against the door. “Had to go out through the back.”
Calen could see why Mick had needed to do that. With the darn thing wedged across Main Street, Santa’s sleigh was now a barricade. It blocked the front door and windows, along with smooshing the diner’s Frosty the Snowman mascot against the glass. One of Frosty’s arms stuck out in what looked like a “help me” gesture.
“Happy holidays, Sheriff. We got this,” Wheezer called down to him. “Oops,” he immediately added, obviously remembering the greeting Calen didn’t want to hear.
Wheezer was wearing a Santa suit, and the man was no doubt grinning beneath his fake white beard. “Sure sorry to add this to your downer of a day. When we’re done, come on into the store for some hot cider.”
Calen shrugged, neither accepting or declining, but the man was right a. . .
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