Diana Palmer Christmas Collection: The Rancher / Christmas Cowboy / A Man of Means / True Blue / Carrera's Bride / Will of Steel / Winter Roses

“I know.” He sighed. “Not my finest moment. She’s not a bad person. It’s just she gets these goofy notions about animals. That rooster is going to hurt somebody bad one day, maybe put an eye out, and she thinks it’s funny.”

“She doesn’t realize he’s dangerous,” she replied.

“She doesn’t want to realize it. She’s in over her head with these expansion projects. Cage-free eggs. She hasn’t got the capital to go into that sort of operation, and she’s probably already breaking half a dozen laws by selling them to restaurants.”

“She’s hurting for money,” Shelby reminded somberly. “Most ranchers are, even us. The drought is killing us. But Maddie only has a few head of cattle and she can’t buy feed for them if her corn crop dies. She’ll have to sell at a loss. Her breeding program is already losing money.” She shook her head. “Her father was a fine rancher. He taught your father things about breeding bulls. But Maddie just doesn’t have the experience. She jumped in at the deep end when her father died, but it was by necessity, not choice. I’m sure she’d much rather be drawing pictures than trying to produce calves.”

“Drawing.” He said it with contempt.

She stared at him. “Cort, haven’t you ever noticed that?” She indicated a beautiful rendering in pastels of a fairy in a patch of daisies in an exquisite frame on the wall.

He glanced at it. “Not bad. Didn’t you get that at an art show last year?”

“I got it from Maddie last year. She drew it.”

He frowned. He actually got up and went to look at the piece. “She drew that?” he asked.

“Yes. She was selling two pastel drawings at the art show. This was one of them. She sculpts, too—beautiful little fairies—but she doesn’t like to show those to people. I told her she should draw professionally, perhaps in graphic design or even illustration. She laughed. She doesn’t think she’s good enough.” She sighed. “Maddie is insecure. She has one of the poorest self-images of anyone I know.”

Cort knew that. His lips made a thin line. He felt even worse after what he’d said to her. “I should probably call and apologize,” he murmured.

“That’s not a bad idea, son,” she agreed.

“And then I should drive over there, hide in the grass and shoot that damned red-feathered son of a…!”

“Cort!”

He let out a harsh breath. “Okay. I’ll call her.”

“Roosters don’t live that long,” she called after him. “He’ll die of old age before too much longer.”

“With my luck, he’ll hit fifteen and keep going. Animals that nasty never die!” he called back.

He wanted to apologize to Maddie. But when he turned on his cell phone, he realized that he didn’t even know her phone number. He tried to look it up on the internet, but couldn’t find a listing.

He went back downstairs. His mother was in the kitchen.

“Do you know the Lanes’ phone number?” he asked.

She blinked. “Well, no. I don’t think I’ve ever tried to call them, not since Pierce Lane died last year, anyway.”

“No number listed, anywhere,” he said.

“You might drive by there later in the week,” she suggested gently. “It’s not that far.”

He hesitated. “She’d lock the doors and hide inside when I drove up,” he predicted.

His mother didn’t know what to say. He was probably right.

“I need to get away,” he said after a minute. “I’m wired like a piano. I need to get away from the rooster and Odalie and…everything.”

“Why don’t you go to Wyoming and visit your sister?” she suggested.

He sighed. “She’s not expecting me until Thursday.”

She laughed. “She won’t care. Go early. It would do both of you good.”

“It might at that.”

“It won’t take you long to fly up there,” she added. “You can use the corporate jet. I’m sure your father wouldn’t mind. He misses Morie. So do I.”

“Yeah, I miss her, too,” he said. He hugged his mother. “I’ll go pack a bag. If that rooster shows up looking for me, put him on a plane to France, would you? I hear they love chicken over there. Get him a business-class ticket. If someone can ship a lobster from Maine,” he added with a laugh, referring to a joke that had gone the rounds years before, “I can ship a chicken to France.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” she promised.

His mother was right, Cort thought that evening. He loved being with his sister. He and Morie were a lot alike, from their hot tempers to their very Puritan attitudes. They’d always been friends. When she was just five, she’d followed her big brother around everywhere, to the amusement of his friends. Cort was tolerant and he adored her. He never minded the kidding.

“I’m sorry about your rooster problems,” Morie told him with a gentle laugh. “Believe me, we can understand. My poor sister-in-law has fits with ours.”

“I like Bodie,” he said, smiling. “Cane sure seems different these days.”

“He is. He’s back in therapy, he’s stopped smashing bars and he seems to have settled down for good. Bodie’s wonderful for him. She and Cane have had some problems, but they’re mostly solved now,” she said. She smiled secretly. “Actually, Bodie and I are going to have a lot more in common for the next few months.”

Cort was quick. He glanced at her in the semidarkness of the front porch, with fireflies darting around. “A baby?”

She laughed with pure delight. “A baby,” she said, and her voice was like velvet. “I only found out a little while ago. Bodie found out the day you showed up.” She sighed. “So much happiness. It’s almost too much to bear. Mal’s over the moon.”

“Is it a boy or a girl? Do you know yet?”

She shook her head. “Too early to tell. But we’re not going to ask. We want it to be a surprise, however old-fashioned that might be.”

He chuckled. “I’m going to be an uncle. Wow. That’s super. Have you told Mom and Dad?”

“Not yet. I’ll call Mom tonight, though.”

“She’ll be so excited. Her first grandchild.”

Morie glanced at him. “You ever going to get married?” she asked.

“Sure, if Odalie ever says yes.” He sighed. “She was warming up to me there just for a while. Then that Italian fellow came along and offered her voice training. He’s something of a legend among opera stars. And that’s what she wants, to sing at the Met.” He grimaced. “Just my luck, to fall in love with a woman who only wants a career.”

“I believe her mother was the same way, wasn’t she?” Morie asked gently. “And then she and Cole Everett got really close. She gave up being a professional singer to come home and have kids. Although she still composes. That Wyoming group, Desperado, had a major hit from a song she wrote for them some years ago.”

“I think she still composes. But she likes living on a ranch. Odalie hates it. She says she’s never going to marry a man who smells like cow droppings.” He looked at one of his big boots, where his ankle was resting on his other knee in the rocking chair. “I’m a rancher, damn it,” he muttered. “I can’t learn another trade. Dad’s counting on me to take over when he can’t do the work anymore.”

“Yes, I know,” she said sadly. “What else could you do?”

“Teach, I guess,” he replied. “I have a degree in animal husbandry.” He made a face. “I’d rather be shot. I’d rather let that red-feathered assassin loose on my nose. I hate the whole idea of routine.”