It's a Christmas Thing

Book 2: Christmas Tree Ranch

by Janet Dailey

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The best gifts last a lifetime....

Veterinarian J.T. "Rush" Rushford isn't looking forward to Christmas. It'll be his first without his beloved four-year-old daughter, Claire. A year ago, Rush's wife divorced him for another man - then broke his heart further by revealing that Claire was her lover's child. The final blow was Rush losing all parental rights. Now he's in Branding Iron, Texas, with his mobile vet practice, just hoping to get through the season - until something like a Christmas miracle happens....

Turns out Claire's parents are going on an extended cruise, leaving Rush to take her for the holidays. It's bittersweet, knowing that he and Claire will have to part again, maybe forever.... Until a smart, not to mention beautiful, lady judge with a pregnant cat and an aging mutt takes a liking to the vet and his little girl and gets involved. With her on their side, and love in their hearts, this Christmas just might be the most joyous of all....

Release date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 176

Sample

Dr. J. T. Rushford yawned as he took the south highway out of Branding Iron. A light autumn rain peppered the windshield. He switched on the wipers and punched the radio up to full volume. Tammy Wynette’s Mississippi twang blared out of the speakers. “Stand by Your Man” had never been Rush’s favorite song, especially since his divorce last year. But what the hell, at least it might help keep him awake.

He’d been up since 2:00 AM, tending a colicky mare. Now it was almost 7:00. The mare was doing fine, but Rush felt like warmed-over roadkill. He could only hope to get a few hours of sleep before the next call.

Running a mobile veterinary service out of his black Hummer H1 Alpha had turned out to be a great business idea. But it had its drawbacks—no operating room or X-ray machine, and only a limited space in the Hummer for lab work. No hired help, and no downtime. He was answering calls on his cell phone at all hours.

He’d hoped to build a clinic on the Christmas Tree Ranch, which he ran with his partners, Travis Morgan and Conner Branch. But building a clinic took time and money. Between his practice and the need to shore up the ranch’s budget, he was short on both.

Switching off the radio, he made a left turn onto the narrow lane that led to the ranch. As he neared the weather-beaten frame house, he glimpsed Travis and Conner outside doing chores—tending to the two huge Percheron horses they’d rescued and the four cows, each with a half-grown calf, that the partners had bought as an investment last spring.

They’d probably left coffee on the stove for him, maybe breakfast, too. But all Rush wanted this morning was to stumble into the house and crawl into bed.

He parked the Hummer next to the shed where the sleigh was kept under a canvas tarp. During the Christmas season it would be hitched behind the big draft horses, to be used for family sleigh rides and to carry Santa Claus in Branding Iron’s annual Christmas parade.

But now, with Christmas still two months away, the partners were busy with another project.

It was Conner who’d come up with the idea of having a Halloween celebration, with pumpkins for sale, a marshmallow roast, hot apple cider, and rides on the old hay wagon that Travis had inherited with the ranch. The pumpkins, planted last spring, were ripe for harvest, the orange and black decorations going up, and the wagon being readied for hayrides.

Conner would drive the team. He was pushing for Rush to go along on the hayrides to play his guitar and sing while Travis took care of things at the house. Rush had agreed on the condition that he might need to leave for an animal emergency. He almost hoped he’d be called away. Singing, especially on Halloween, brought back too many bittersweet memories.

Claire, the little girl he’d left behind in Phoenix, had loved hearing him play and sing. He remembered how she used to laugh and dance, holding out her little skirt as she twirled like a mini-ballerina. Last year, when she was three, he’d taken her out trick-or-treating on Halloween. Dressed as a little black cat, she’d charmed the whole neighborhood. If he’d had a movie star on his arm, Rush couldn’t have been prouder.

A week later, Sonya, his wife, had given him the news that had shattered his world.

The little girl he’d adored from the first moment he’d held her in the hospital was another man’s child.

This year Claire would be four. He tried not to think about her too much. But he couldn’t help wondering what kind of costume she’d be wearing and whether Andre—her father—would care enough to walk her around their affluent Phoenix neighborhood.

And with Christmas coming up . . . But he wasn’t even going to think about Christmas. Without Claire’s childish excitement, Christmas would be just another day—another bad day.

Rush had climbed out of the vehicle and had almost reached the front steps when a furry black-and-white streak came hurtling around the house like a missile aimed at his legs.

“Bucket! You crazy mutt!” Rush did his best to fend off the dog’s yipping, licking welcome. He was fond of the scruffy Border collie mix; but this morning he was too tired for games. Picking up a stick, he threw it as far as he could. As Bucket raced after it, Rush kicked off his dirty boots and, leaving them on the porch, made his escape into the house.

The tempting aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen, but the last thing he needed was something to wake him up. He fished his phone out of his pocket and laid it on the counter. When his partners came inside, they would check his voicemails and wake him if there was an emergency. That done, he dragged himself down the hall to his bedroom, undressed, rolled into bed, and sank into sleep.

The shaking, creaking bed woke him with a start. He opened his eyes to see Conner grinning down at him.

Rush mouthed a curse. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but it wasn’t long enough. “What time is it?” he muttered.

“Coming up on nine o’clock.” Conner, a former champion bull rider, was wiry and quick, a man who never missed a chance to tease or play a joke. “I know you haven’t been asleep long, but I thought you might be interested in hearing this voicemail.”

He held the phone close to Rush’s ear and tapped the message key. Rush’s pulse kick-started him awake as he recognized the cultured female voice.

“Dr. Rushford, this is Tracy Emerson. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time, but I need your help. This stray cat showed up on my back porch last night. I brought her inside and gave her some milk. She drank it like she was starved. But something about her doesn’t seem right. I’m afraid she might be sick. I need to be in court at one thirty today, but if you can get here before then, I’ll be home. Sorry, I’ve never had a cat, and I don’t know what to do for her. Here’s my phone number.”

By now Rush was sitting up. He grabbed the notepad he kept on the nightstand and scribbled down the number. Conner’s grin was almost splitting his face.

“Man, you’ve hit the jackpot! You’ve had a thing for that hot lady judge since last Christmas. And she finally gave you her phone number.”

“Yeah.” Rush swung his feet to the floor and forced his aching body to stand. “All it took was a sick cat.”

Conner shook his head. “You look like hell and you smell like a stable. If you want to impress her, you’re going to need a shower.”

“Butt out, Conner,” Rush said. “I’m not going on a date. This is just a professional call.”

“Sure it is,” Conner said with a knowing wink.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Travis’s rangy frame filled the doorway. A former highway patrolman, Travis had inherited a rundown ranch almost two years ago. Last year the three friends had begun selling the pine trees they’d discovered on the property, which they’d renamed Christmas Tree Ranch.

“Our boy here just got a voicemail from his dream woman.” Conner was enjoying himself.

“You mean the judge?” Travis’s expression brightened. “Wait till I tell Maggie!”

“Take it easy,” Rush growled. “The woman’s got a sick cat, that’s all. Now get the blazes out of here and give me some peace while I call her back.”

After shooing his partners out of the room, Rush closed the door, sat down on the bed, and took a moment to gather his thoughts. He’d met Municipal Court Judge Tracy Emerson last winter, when he’d gone to the city court to clear up a baseless littering charge against the ranch. When the bailiff had called the court to order and the judge had walked in to take her seat on the bench, Rush had sat up and taken notice.

Tracy Emerson was a tall, cool Grace Kelly blonde. Even in somber black robes, with her hair pulled into a no-nonsense twist and black-framed glasses perched on her elegant nose, the judge was a knockout.

Rush had known better than to look for a rebound so soon after his divorce, but by the time the trial was over, ending in reduced charges for the ranch, he’d been intrigued enough to do some checking. He’d noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean she was available.

Maggie Delaney, Branding Iron’s mayor and Travis’s steady girlfriend, knew everybody in town. When Rush had asked her, Maggie had given him the bad news. Tracy Emerson was recently widowed. Her husband, a successful lawyer, had died of a brain tumor eight months earlier. She was still dealing with her grief.

Rush had put his fantasies aside. Her Honor wasn’t ready to date, and neither was he. But his partners had gotten wind of his interest in the lady. Travis and Conner had teased him unmercifully.

Now, ten months after that day in court, she’d given him an excuse to see her again. And if Rush’s reaction to her phone call was any indication, he was, at least, open to possibilities.

Dared he hope she’d moved on past her mourning? Was there a chance this might turn out to be more than a professional call?

Don’t be an idiot, Rush told himself. The woman had taken in a stray cat. She needed a vet to check the animal. And he was the only vet in Branding Iron.

He glanced at the number he’d written down, then realized that all he needed to do was return her voicemail. He waited while the phone rang once, then again on the other end. What should he call her? Ms. Emerson? Mrs. Emerson? Tracy? Your Honor? Hell, maybe he should just hang up and call her back when he didn’t feel like a high school sophomore asking for his first date.

“Hello. Thanks for calling me back, Dr. Rushford.” Her voice had a breathless quality, as if she’d hurried to answer the phone.

“You say you’ve got a sick cat?” he asked.

“Yes.” She hesitated a moment. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with her. She looks . . . sort of swollen. And she keeps trying to hide. How soon could you come and look at her?”

“I can be there in about forty-five minutes. But I’ll need your address.”

“Oh—of course.” She gave it to him. “Thanks. I’ll be watching for you.”

Rush took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, and put on fresh jeans, a plaid shirt, and the good boots that he avoided wearing in stables and corrals. When he walked out into the kitchen, Conner was frying eggs and Travis was mixing pancake batter.

“How about some breakfast? I know you’re anxious to get to that good-looking judge’s place,” Conner teased, “but you don’t want to go off hungry, do you?”

“Just keep a plate warm for me.” Rush headed for the front door.

“Only if you promise to tell us everything when you get back,” Travis said.

“I’m guessing there won’t be much to tell.”

“You never know.” Conner gave him a roguish wink. “Good luck with the cat—and the lady.”

Rush strode to the door. Bucket was waiting on the porch, the stick at his feet. He picked it up in his jaws, his tail thumping expectantly. “No games this morning, you old rascal.” Rush opened the door to let the dog into the house. “Go on in. Pester somebody else for a change.”

Inside the Hummer, Rush checked the GPS. He recognized the address. The judge lived in the older, nicer part of Branding Iron, an enclave of tall sycamores and paved sidewalks, on the far side of town. Her place wouldn’t be hard to find.

The morning was clear, the sunlight bright enough to make him squint. The fall leaves had begun to fade. A stray breeze sent them fluttering from the trees in showers of muted red, brown, and gold.

Except for rare glimpses in town, he hadn’t seen Tracy Emerson since that day in court. He’d been a different person then, still in shock from the abrupt loss of his marriage, his practice, his home, and the little girl he’d believed to be his daughter. Seeing Tracy for the first time had given him a flash of hope—the chance of better times ahead. But that was all it had been—a flash.

Coming into town, he stopped for the first of Branding Iron’s two traffic lights. The intersection, where the highways crossed, brought back the memory of last year’s late-night storm, when he’d braked too hard on the icy road and slid into Travis’s pickup truck. He’d been lost that night—lost in every possible way. But Travis had brought him home to the ranch and offered him a new life. It had become a good life, with friends, a roof over his head, and the chance to grow a new business. Even being single was something he’d come to accept.

Rush had lived a womanless existence since coming to Branding Iron. Not so his partners. Travis and his spunky red-haired Maggie were all but engaged. Conner had women all over town, and he liked to keep them guessing.

Rush had shrugged off his own situation. He hadn’t been ready to risk the pain of a new relationship. But one phone call had been enough to change his mind. Now he found himself looking forward to being with a beautiful woman.

But what was he thinking? This wasn’t a date, or even a social visit. He was on his way to check on a business client’s cat. That was all. But if he was entertaining a few fantasies, at least it would help take his mind off missing Halloween with the child he still loved.

The judge’s house was smaller than those around it, a Craftsman-style bungalow with a stone front, leaded windows, and English ivy cascading over the broad front porch. A gray Mercedes sedan, old but in good condition, was parked in the driveway. This was just the kind of place where he’d imagined a woman like Tracy might live.

A woman like Tracy. Aside from the fact that she was attractive and well-educated, the truth was that he hardly knew her at all.

He found his medical bag, added a few sample cans of cat food to its contents, climbed out of the Hummer, and crossed the sheltered porch to the door. Reminding himself not to expect anything beyond a professional call, he pressed the doorbell.

There was a beat of silence. Then, muffled by the door, he heard a scrambling sound and a thud, like something heavy falling to the floor.

Rush was about to break his way into the house when the door opened.

The woman on the threshold was smaller than she’d appeared in the courtroom. She was dressed in ragged jeans and a baggy, faded sweatshirt. Her blond hair, escaping from its loose ponytail, hung in damp strings around a face that was bare of makeup. A small gash above her left eyebrow was oozing blood. There was no cat in sight. But a grizzled tan dog, some kind of pit bull mix, was eyeing Rush as if it wanted to rip his throat out.

Maybe he had the wrong house. Or the wrong woman.

The man staring down at Tracy was drop-dead gorgeous—tall, with dark brown hair and dark eyes set in a George Clooney face. The logo on the Hummer parked out front, along with the medical bag in his hand, reminded her that he must be from the mobile vet service she’d called. But why did he look so familiar? Surely, if she’d met him before, she’d remember him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m . . . fine.” She steadied herself with a hand on the door frame. “Why should you ask?”

“Because you’re bleeding.” His gaze went to the tender spot where her head had struck the drainpipe under the sink. She touched it gingerly. Her fingers came away smeared with blood.

“I’m here about a sick cat,” he said. “But you look like you could use some attention first—you are Judge Emerson, right?”

“Right. Tracy.” How had he known she was a judge? There were some missing pieces to this puzzle. “Come on in,” she said, opening the door wider.

“Will that be all right with him?” He glanced down at the dog, who’d placed his body between his mistress and the stranger in the doorway.

“Don’t worry about Murphy. He looks tough, but he’s really an old softy.” She scratched the dog’s ears. “It’s all right, old boy. Go and lie down.” Murphy thumped his tail and drooled on her bare foot before curling up in his bed by the fireplace.

Tracy stepped aside to let Dr. Gorgeous into the house. For a long time after Steve’s death, she’d had no desire to look at a man in an admiring way. Even now, after eighteen months, the slightest glance jabbed her with guilt.

Especially today.

“Let’s have a look at your head,” the vet said. “Do you mind moving into the light?” Tracy recalled his name now, from the business card she’d picked up at the library. It was Dr. J. T. Rushford. But she still couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before. Heaven save her, how could any woman forget that face?

Standing with her by the window, he examined the oozing lump on her forehead. “That’s a nasty little gash but I don’t think it’s bad enough to need stitches. While I clean it, maybe you can tell me what happened. Not that it’s any of my business, but something tells me it might be an interesting story.”

“You wouldn’t believe it.” Her laugh sounded more like a whimper as he dabbed the wound with an antiseptic pad he’d taken from his bag.

“Try me.”

“Well . . . This is going to sound so stupid.” She took a deep breath. “Just before you returned my call, I’d discovered that the kitchen sink drain was clogged. I tried using a plunger. That didn’t work, but I figured I still had time to fix the problem before you’d show up. I got a wrench and a bucket and crawled under the cabinet to take the trap apart.”

“I’m impressed. You must be a handy lady.” He found a Band-Aid in his bag and tore off the wrapper.

“It doesn’t take a man to unscrew a pipe connection. And doing it myself beats paying a plumber.”

“I hear you.” He laid the Band-Aid over the gash above her eyebrow. Even the light pressure of his fingers made her wince. “Sorry,” he said. “After I leave, you might want to put a cold pack on it—a bag of frozen vegetables works fine for that. Meanwhile, I can’t wait to hear the rest of the story.”

Tracy fingered the Band-Aid, feeling the swollen soreness beneath. “I was under the sink, on my back, with the bucket under the trap, when this mouse came out of nowhere and ran right across my chest.”

“You’re kidding!” He chuckled. “I’ll bet that scared you.”

“Not really. I’m not afraid of mice. But it did startle me. I let out a yelp, sat straight up, and banged my head on the pipe so hard that my ears rang. The bucket tipped over and went rolling across the floor—and then, when I heard the doorbell, I knocked over a stool while getting up. If you heard it fall, you probably thought the place was under attack.”

“That did cross my mind. I was about to charge in and save you when you opened the door.” His gaze narrowed. “Do you feel dizzy? Does your head still hurt?”

“Are you saying I could have a concussion?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to check. Let me have a look at your eyes.” His hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face toward him. As he leaned closer, Tracy felt her pulse kick into overdrive. Everything about the man was attractive.

“I thought you came to see the cat,” she said. “Can’t you get in trouble for practicing on hum. . .