Her Best Christmas Ever

Her Best Christmas Ever
Judy Duarte

Her Best Christmas Ever

Judy Duarte

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#uf4a1836a-508f-56d9-9f00-7d78530e5a31)

Title Page (#uce08de08-dfb4-52b4-ac63-fd0f5549b2d2)

About the Author (#ub28f9bdc-6c86-5e74-8ab1-67490410c080)

Dedication (#u0f961647-b562-5d72-bb38-d8f64edba6f9)

Chapter One (#u1951f4b8-b663-56b7-a3aa-cef53f922c10)

Chapter Two (#u75f162ef-7192-5d35-bd8d-27b425148869)

Chapter Three (#u50039a27-19bf-50be-9467-ed9ae6375bdf)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Judy Duarte always knew there was a book inside her, but since English was her least favourite subject in school, she never considered herself a writer. An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy couldn’t shake the dream of creating a book of her own.

Her dream became a reality in March of 2002, when Special Edition released her first book. Since then, she has sold twenty-one more novels.

Her stories have touched the hearts of readers around the world. In July of 2005, Judy won the prestigious Readers’ Choice Award.

Judy makes her home near the beach in Southern California. When she’s not cooped up in her writing cave, she’s spending time with her somewhat enormous but delightfully close family.

You can contact her at JudyDuarte@sbcglobal.net (mailto:JudyDuarte@sbcglobal.net) or through her website, www.judyduarte.com (http://www.judyduarte.com).

To Crystal Green and Sheri WhiteFeather,

the best critique partners in the world.

I have no idea where I’d be

or what I’d do without you two in my corner.

Chapter One

Hoping to beat the storm that darkened the vast Texas sky, Greg Clayton stepped harder on the gas pedal, accelerating the rental SUV.

He’d just wrapped up another grueling tour, and the members of his country-western band had scattered, each one going his or her own way for the upcoming holiday season. Greg had boarded a flight, too, and was now heading for the only place he’d ever really called home—the Rocking C.

Fourteen years ago, Granny Clayton had found him hiding in her barn, alone and afraid. Within a month, she’d started adoption proceedings to make him a part of her family.

And now, at twenty-seven, he’d been a Clayton half his life—the best half by far.

A jagged streak of lightning ripped through the clouds, which were growing more ominous by the minute, and it didn’t take long for a groan and rumble of thunder to follow.

Greg swore under his breath. This storm—the first of two, if the weatherman had called it right—was going to be a real gully-washer.

Fortunately, he wasn’t far from the ranch. But there was one particular dip in the county road that was prone to flooding with any significant precipitation, so he needed to get past that low spot before the rain began to fall. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to get through at all.

When his cell phone rang, he grabbed it off the clip on his belt and answered.

“Greg?” his elderly mother asked over the crackling line. “Is that you?”

“Yes. Is everything okay, Granny?”

“Well, yes and no. I’m doing fine, but I’m afraid Lester had a stroke. He was visiting his sister in Houston when it happened.”

“That’s too bad.” Lester was Granny’s foreman, a position he’d stepped in to fill after Clem Bixby died. As far as the ranch went, Lester did a great job. But no one would ever replace Clem when it came to having a positive, paternal influence on three adolescent boys.

“Where are you?” Greg asked, scanning the ominous, charcoal-gray horizon and hoping she was close to her destination. He didn’t like the idea of her being out on the road, especially at her age.

“I’m with Hilda,” she said. “So you don’t need to worry about me.”

Greg rolled his eyes in a silent scoff. That was supposed to make him feel better? While Hilda was only a couple of years younger than Granny, she seemed to be the designated driver these days. And more often than not, the two tended to get into trouble when they were together.

Not that the women drank; they were both churchgoing teetotalers. But together they seemed to get involved in one adventure after another, which gave Greg and his brothers more cause for worry than peace of mind.

“But where are you?” he asked.