which was by accidentally overhearing a conversation between Clint and Jackson at John’s funeral. Today, though, Clint’s accusation had shaken her.
Her heart beat faster. She tightened the combs holding the mass of her hair on top of her head and pulled at the tendrils curling along her neck.
John was gone. Nothing could bring him back. He would not want her to be sad and mourn for him when she should be happy. He would want her to help make his family happy, too.
Deliberately she set her mind to that goal.
It would be a storybook Christmas—family and friends, a huge tree with ornaments that had been in the family for years and years, a festive dinner, gifts, traditions and singing. They would have hot chocolate late, right before they went up to bed. After the old family friends and their Christmas guests came and then left after appetizers and drinks and a dance or two, after the family dinner was over and they’d all sat around telling stories and singing carols and after they’d opened one gift apiece. She would be here for all of it because she was one of the family.
Eagerly she turned and went out into the hallway, savoring the spacious, secure feeling of the old stone house around her. Closing the door of her room behind her, she leaned back against it for a moment, just taking in the scents and sounds of the house before she saw anyone else.
This was the most wonderful house she’d ever been in. The center of it was old, a classic, two-story Texas Hill Country farmhouse squarely built of big, rectangular chunks of limestone carved more than a hundred years earlier out of the dusty land itself. It had the typical wooden porches front and back, and wings on either end of the old house, which had been added on fifty years later.
When those wings were built, the once-small oldest rooms in the center had been converted into a couple of huge ones—the great room and the dining room. The part of the kitchen that held the fireplace also had been in the original house. There were nooks and crannies in these rooms and huge rough-cedar posts and beams bearing the weight of the second floor. All the rooms had high ceilings and wide windows and ceiling fans and the solid feel of a home that had its roots deep in the ground.
She looked up and down the hall of this bedroom wing. Old Man Clint, John’s grandfather, had believed every bedroom should have the south breeze or the east breeze or both if possible, so this east wing was family bedrooms and guest rooms, while the west one held a pool room, music room, saddle room, library and spaces for Bobbie Ann’s sewing and other activities.
But what Cait loved most was not the space—although it amazed her every time she walked through it—it was the old, settled, secure atmosphere created by the worn oak floors, the square Mexican tiles of the kitchen, the leather furniture that had been there since the house was built, the Navajo rugs on the floors and the walls, the wood worn smooth by much use and many hands, the gorgeous Western paintings and sculptures that had gradually come into the house over the years and now looked as if they’d been born there.
This family had not moved out in the night when the rent was due. This family had not splintered into pieces and sent its children to live with the first relatives who would grudgingly take them.
The long, deep nap that had erased her tiredness had left her senses all open and vulnerable. She trembled as she breathed in the cedar smell of the greenery Bobbie Ann had wrapped around the banister railing of the stairs. There was a strong scent of spices, too, because every few feet a bundle of cinnamon sticks and oranges studded with whole nutmegs were tied into the cedar with a big red bow.
A marvelous Christmas that she’d never forget. That’s what John had promised her. And that’s what he would want her to have.
She started walking down the hall, and passed Clint’s room. The door stood ajar, the light was out. He was already downstairs.
Fine. Let him be anywhere he wanted. She didn’t have to talk to him. She wasn’t accepting any scorn tonight.
Slowly she walked down the stairs, humming along with the song floating up from below. John had said that his sister Delia’s band always played for the dancing. Right now, though, it was a lone guitar playing “White Christmas.”
Well, there was no chance of snow in the Hill Country tonight, but Cait didn’t care. She didn’t even need it. In fact, she didn’t want it. It would only remind her of the miserable Christmases of her childhood.
Chatter and laughter rose, then, to drown out the guitar and to fill the whole downstairs. The doorbell rang again as Cait reached the first floor. And she could smell chili. Chili and tamales were the McMahan tradition on Christmas Eve.
Company was the other McMahan tradition. There were six or seven families who had all been friends for generations, and they and any Christmas guests of theirs came to the Rocking M for appetizers and drinks before dinner on Christmas Eve. Probably, in the next two hours, at least a hundred people would come and go from this house.
LydaAnn’s trilling laugh sounded above the din of greetings called out by a dozen different voices. Bobbie Ann demanded that all the guests take off their coats and stay awhile.
Christmas had arrived at the Rocking M.
Cait lingered at the bottom of the stairs, kicking out so she could see her new, custom-made-in-Dallas-by-Matteo black boots. Matteo had created the design just for her: red roses and green, twining vines, carved to have layers and layers of petals and stems, plus white butterflies, all of it inlaid and stitched to perfection.
Western boots with the old traditional high, slanted heels and pointed toes. She could have spent less and gotten a great new pair of English riding boots, which she truly needed, but then she wouldn’t feel so much like a Texan, would she?
She grinned at her own silliness and started down the hall toward the huge living room full of people. Maybe no one would notice when she came in and she could just wander around and enjoy the tree and not have to make too much small talk.
“Cait! My goodness! What a gorgeous blouse!”
Bobbie Ann was coming out of the living room with her arms full of wraps and jackets of the guests. Cait went to help her.
“And those boots! Oh! I have to see them. Hold up your skirt!”
“It’s all your fault, Bobbie Ann,” Cait said. “You’ve been telling me to indulge myself, so I did.”
Bobbie Ann’s bright blue eyes looked her over from top to toe.
“You done good, girl,” she said, with an approving smile. “You look wonderful tonight.”
She let Cait take half her load and led the way toward the master suite.
“I bought this blouse, these boots and seven head of horses,” Cait said. “Did I indulge myself enough?”
Bobbie Ann gave her husky chuckle.
“No, but it’s a start,” she said. “I’ll take you shopping after Christmas and we’ll buy you a wardrobe for spring.”
“I don’t want any more clothes,” Cait said quickly, although the very thought made her yearn to do it. “And I won’t have time, anyhow. As soon as I finish working for Roy every day, I’ll have to rush over here and protect my school—Clint is furious at the very idea of it.”
“Clint needs a distraction,” Bobbie Ann said calmly. “He’s trying to work himself to death. Anything new is good for him.”
They dumped the coats on the bed and Bobbie Ann turned to Cait with open arms.
“Oh, Cait, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.
Cait’s heart leapt as they hugged. Clint might not want her here, but his mother truly did.
“I’m glad, too,” she said. “Thanks for asking me for Christmas, Bobbie Ann.”
“Thanks for coming.”
Bobbie Ann stepped back and looked up into her eyes.
“I