A Cowboy Under The Mistletoe

Chapter Four

An hour and a half later, Hank was in the mudroom, checking on Duchess, when he heard Ally come back into the kitchen. The sound of cabinets opening and closing followed.

Curious, he stood and ambled in to join her. Ally did not look as if things were going her way. “Need something?”

She rocked back on the heels of her red cowgirl boots. With her honey-blond hair in disarray, she looked prettier than ever. “Coffee. And I can’t even find the coffeemaker.”

Trying not to notice how nicely the crisp white shirt and gold tapestry vest cloaked the soft swell of her breasts, Hank admitted, “It bit the dust a while back.” Briefly, he let his gaze drop to the fancy belt encircling her slender waist, and the jeans molding her hips and long, luscious legs. Just that quickly, he wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her again.

Knowing that would be a very unwise idea, if he wanted to keep them out of bed, he pointed to the metal pot on the back of the stove instead. “I’ve been using that.”

Ally blinked in surprise. “You’re kidding.”

So she had forgotten how to rough it, Hank concluded. He quirked a brow. “It works fine.”

Clearly unconvinced, she sighed.

“I’ll make you some,” he offered.

Ally lifted her hands in quick protest. “No-I’ve got it.” She brushed past him in a drift of orange blossom perfume, and checked the freezer. “If I could only find the coffee.”

“It’s in the brown canister next to the stove.”

“Okay. Thanks.” All business now, Ally reached for the pot and peered inside. Frowning, because it still contained the remnants of the morning brew, she carried it to the sink, rinsed it thoroughly, then filled it with two pints of cold water. She swung back to him, a self-conscious blush pinkening her high, sculpted cheeks. “Where do I put the coffee?”

“In the bottom of the pot.”

Before he could explain further, a quietly grumbling Ally had opened the canister and dumped six tablespoons of ground coffee into the water. She snapped on the lid, put the pot back on the stove, then turned the burner to high.

Aware she still looked frustrated and upset, after a string of phone calls in the other room, Hank asked, “Any luck finding someone to paint the interior for you?”

Ally paced back and forth. “None whatsoever! And I called all ten names on the list. No one will take on a job this big so close to Christmas. In fact, almost all the crews are taking time off from now till after New Year’s.” She whirled. “Can you believe it?”

“Bummer.” He pinned her with a taunting gaze. “Or should I say bah, humbug?”

The corners of her lips slanted downward and she narrowed her green eyes. “You’re a laugh a minute, you know that, McCabe?”

Hank shrugged, glad to have her full attention once again. “I like to think so.”

Ally huffed dramatically. “So it’s on to plan B.”

Curious, he moved closer. “Which is?”

The fragrance of brewing “cowboy coffee” filled the kitchen.

“Stage the house to the best of my ability, without changing the way the walls look, and put a painting allowance into the contract, for anyone interested in purchasing the property.”

Hank eyed the faded chuck wagon wallpaper in the kitchen. It was as bad as the horse-and-hound motif in the rest of the downstairs. Luckily, the rooms upstairs had just been painted many, many moons ago. “You really think that will work?” he asked.

“I’ll make it work.” Ally flounced back to the stove. Noting that the dark liquid had come to a rolling boil, she grabbed an oven mitt and removed the pot from the flame.

“You may want to-”

Ally cut him off with a withering look and plucked a mug from the cupboard. Lips set stubbornly, she told him, “I think I know how to pour a cup of coffee.”

“I’m sure you do.” That wasn’t the point. But if she insisted on doing things her own way…

Ally filled the mug, then topped it off liberally with milk from the fridge. She lifted it to her mouth.

He watched her take a sip, pause, then walk back to the sink, where it took everything she had, he supposed, for her to swallow instead of spit.

Hank carried the pot to the sink and set it down on a folded towel. Now that she was listening, he said, “The secret to making it this way is to let it steep for a good four minutes or so after boiling.”

“Really,” Ally echoed dryly, dumping the contents of her mug down the drain.

He met her gaze. “Really.”

She set her cup down with a thud and pivoted toward him. “And how would you know that?”

“Experience.” Hank studied her right back. “I made campfire coffee over an open flame all the time when I was in the service. Not too many espresso makers where I was.”

“What did you do in the marines?” she asked curiously.

“Flew choppers involved in rescue missions.”

“That sounds…dangerous.”

And fulfilling in a way that countered the loss he had suffered…

But not wanting to talk about Jo-anne, or the years he’d struggled with residual grief and guilt over his fiancée’s death, he filled a cup with icy tap water and finished his tutorial. “Once the coffee has steeped, you add three or four tablespoons of cold water to the pot.”

Ally wrinked her nose in confusion and disbelief. “To cool it off?”

He shook his head as he demonstrated the technique. “This settles the grounds to the bottom. And voilà! Now it’s ready to drink.”

She sniffed and tossed her head. “I can’t imagine those two things make that much of a difference.”

On impulse, Hank reached out to tuck a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

Her eyes flashed. “You’re beginning to sound all Christmasy again,” she accused.

He lifted his shoulders affably. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

She was right-he wasn’t. He liked teasing her, liked seeing the color pour into her cheeks, and the fire of temper glimmer in her dark green eyes. He poured her a fresh mug, got the milk out again. “Give this a try.”

She made a face, but eventually took both from him. With a great deal of attitude, she lightened her coffee, took a sip. Paused to savor the taste on her tongue. Astounded, she met his eyes. “That is better,” she announced in surprise.

At last, he had done something right. Hank lifted a hand. “What’d I tell you?”

Ally beamed. “I could kiss you for this!” She flushed again, as common sense reigned. “But I won’t,” she rushed to assure him.

Hank nodded, aware that he was already hard, had been since she’d walked into the room. “Best you not,” he agreed.

Ally’s cell phone let out a soft chime. She withdrew it from her pocket, looked at the screen. Immediately sobering, she informed him, “I have to take this.” She put it to her ear and walked away.

But not far enough that he couldn’t hear some of what she was saying.

“…Calm down, Porter. It’s not like we didn’t know this was going to happen. We have no choice. Stay busy. You’re usually big on Christmas! Go see the boat parade on Clear Lake, or The Nutcracker or Handel’s Messiah… I promise I’ll call you if I hear anything at all. Yes! Okay. Bye.”

She walked back in to retrieve her coffee.

“Everything okay?”

For a moment, Hank thought Ally wouldn’t answer.

Her slender shoulders slumped dispiritedly. “All the middle managers from my firm were ordered to take the next two weeks off, so that the executives in the firm that took us over can decide who goes and who stays.” She met his eyes and admitted almost too casually. “The general idea is to keep the same number of clients and financial analysts and advisors while cutting costs…and that means a number of the higher salary employees-like myself-are going to be laid off.”

“I’m guessing Porter is a middle manager, too.”

Ally grimaced. “He started the same time I did, right out of college. We’ve worked our way up together. He’s going to be absolutely devastated if he is let go.”

As would Ally, Hank thought.

He studied her crestfallen expression. “Do you think you’re going to make the cut?”

She shrugged. Her expression became emotionally charged. “If life were fair,” she stated, “I would. But…” she swallowed, her expression suddenly remote “…you and I both know it’s not.”

“Hence, the immediate sale of the property,” Hank guessed.

Ally shrugged again. “It needs to be done, in any case. Right now I’ve got the time to get the property listed. After December 26, I may not.”

“Because you’ll either be very busy with the reorg at work…” He refreshed both their coffees.

“Or pounding the pavement, looking for another job.” She added a little more milk to hers. “Obviously, Porter and I both hope it’s the former, not the latter.”

Hank felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Realizing he was more interested in Ally than he’d thought, he stepped closer and asked, “Are you dating Porter?”

She looked surprised, then bemused by the question. “Uh…no. We’re just friends.”

Hank was relieved to hear that. Yet…he still had to ask. “Are you romantically involved with anyone?”

She rolled her eyes as if the mere notion was ridiculous. “I don’t have time for that. But what about you?” she asked curiously. “Has there been anyone since that girl you were engaged to when you graduated from college?”

Hank shook his head.

Ally walked over to test the wallpaper. She found it rigidly adhered to the wall in some places, practically falling off in others. She deposited a strip of paper in the trash, then knelt to examine the linoleum floor. The speckled yellow-green-and-brown surface was clean, but very dated and extremely ugly. “What happened to the two of you, anyway?” She ran her palm thoughtfully over the worn surface.

Hank lounged against the counter. “Jo-anne was killed in a terrorist attack overseas.”

Ally stood to face him again. “I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely contrite. “I didn’t know.” She paused and wet her lips. “Is that why…?”

Hank guessed where this was going. “I joined the marines? Yeah.”

Another silence fell, more intimate yet. “And since…?” Ally prodded softly, searching his eyes as if wanting to understand him as much as he suddenly wanted to understand her.

“I’ve dated,” he admitted gruffly. He shrugged and took another long draft of strong coffee. “Nothing…no one’s… come close to what I had with Jo-anne.” He turned and rummaged through the fridge, looking for something to eat. He emerged with a handful of green grapes. “What about you?” He offered her some.

Ally took several. “I was engaged a few years ago, before my mother got sick.”

This was news. Hank watched Ally munch on a grape. “What happened?”

“I brought my fiancé home to the ranch. Dexter was a real city boy and I expected him to share my lack of attachment to the place. Instead, he fell in love with Mesquite Ridge and thought we should both quit our jobs in Houston and settle here permanently.”

Hank polished off the rest of the grapes in his palm. “Your mom and dad must have liked that.”

“Oh, yes.” Ally made a face. “The problem was-” she angled a thumb at her sternum “-I didn’t. I’d spent my whole life trying to get away from here and-” She stopped abruptly and whirled around, staring toward the mudroom in concern. “Did you hear that? It sounded like…”

A low, pain-filled moan reverberated.

“That’s Duchess!” Without a second’s hesitation, Ally hurried toward the sound. “She’s obviously in some sort of distress!”

YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE known this was a woman who didn’t like dogs, Hank thought as Ally knelt in front of the ailing pet. She looked alarmed as she watched Duchess circle around restlessly, paw the heap of blankets, then drop down, only to get up and repeat the procedure. “What’s she doing?” Ally asked.

Hank gave Duchess a wide berth and a reassuring look. “She’s trying to make a bed,” he said in a soft, soothing voice. “Dams do that for up to twenty-four hours before they deliver.”

Ally moved so close to Hank their shoulders almost touched. “How do you know that?”

He resisted the urge to put his arm around her shoulders. “Kurt came by to examine Duchess while you were out. He confirmed she’s within twenty-four to thirty-six hours of delivering her pups.”

The news had Ally looking as if she might faint.

Hank slid a steadying palm beneath her elbow. “Kurt gave me the handout he distributes to the owners of all his patients, as well as a whelping kit and a warming box. I read through the literature before I went out to take care of my cattle.” Figuring Ally would feel better if she was similarly prepared, Hank walked back to the kitchen, with her right behind him. He found the folder and gave it to her to peruse.

She skimmed through the extensive information, troubleshooting instructions and explicit pictures with brisk efficiency. “We can’t handle this!”

It if had been a purely financial matter, Hank bet she would have said otherwise. He cast a glance toward the mudroom, where Duchess was still circling, pawing and preparing. “Sure we can.” Knowing the importance of a positive attitude, he continued confidently, “It’s been about fifteen years, but I’ve done it before. I helped deliver a litter of Labrador retriever puppies on our ranch, when I was a kid.” That had been one of the most exciting and meaningful experiences of his life.

Ally put the pages aside and wrung her hands. “Can’t your cousin do this? He is a vet!”

Annoyed by her lack of faith, Hank frowned. “There’s no reason for Kurt to do this when I can handle it.”

Ally lifted a brow, unconvinced.

Irritated, Hank continued in a flat tone. “Someone needs to be with Duchess during the entire labor and delivery process. Kurt has other patients and responsibilities. He couldn’t leave Duchess at home while he’s off working with other animals. And if he took her to the clinic, she and her litter would be exposed to the viruses other dogs bring in, and that could be lethal to the newborn pups.”

That much, Ally understood. But she was still reluctant to participate. She threw up her hands as if warding off an emotional disaster. “Okay, I get that, but I still can’t do this, Hank! It’s just too far out of my realm of expertise!”

He had thought it was a bummer that Ally Garrett loathed Christmas. With effort, he checked his disappointment about this, too. “Fine. You don’t have to help.” Holiday or not, he couldn’t magically infuse her with the spirit of sacrifice and giving. No matter how much he wished otherwise…

“Good,” she snapped, appearing even more upset. “Because I’m not going to!” After taking one long, last look at Duchess, she handed the folder to Hank, and rushed out of the kitchen.

THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY no reason for her to feel guilty, Ally told herself firmly as she went up to the second floor sewing room and checked out the bolts of upholstery fabric still on the shelves. Not when she heard the canine whimpering coming up through the heating grate.

Or when Hank ran upstairs to raid the linen closet, and hurried back down again.

Or when she heard him rushing back and forth below, his boots echoing on the wood floor.

But twenty minutes later, when a loud whimpering was followed by an unnatural stillness, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

On the pretext of getting the tape measure from the drawer in the kitchen, she went back downstairs to find the table had been pushed to one side.

Duchess was settled in a child’s hard plastic swimming pool in the center of the kitchen. Hank knelt next to her. “Come on, girl,” he was saying softly, as the animal arched and strained. “You can do it.”

Duchess let out a yelp, then looked at her hindquarters with a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. A dark blue water bag had emerged. “Get a couple of the towels. They’re warming in the dryer,” Hank directed.

Figuring that was the least important of the chores, Ally rushed to comply. By the time she returned, Duchess had heaved again, and the pup was out completely.

Duchess reached around, tore and removed the sack with her teeth, and cut the cord. As soon as that was done, she licked her newborn vigorously. The pup let out a cry.

Ally’s eyes welled with tears at the sound of new life.

Duchess turned away from the pup and began to strain again. Hank picked up the whelp, wrapped it in a towel and handed it to Ally. The pup was warm and soft to the touch. The joy she felt as she looked down at the pale gold puppy cradled neatly in the palm of her hand was overwhelming.

Hank set the warming box on the floor, made sure the heating pad was turned to low, positioned it on one side of the plastic incubator, then covered it with a white, terrycloth crate pad. “We’ll give this a moment to warm up,” he said, “before we unwrap the pup and put him in.”

Too overcome to speak, Ally nodded.

Seconds later, Duchess strained yet again, and the second pup was delivered.

Over the next two hours, eight more were born.

Amid the squeaking and the squirming, Duchess cared for them all.

Until finally, she collapsed with a sigh.

“Do you think that’s it?” Ally asked.

“Only one way to tell,” Hank said. He counted the pups. “Kurt said there were definitely ten…”

Duchess strained again, ever so slightly.

A dark blue sack, tinier than the others, fell out.

Only this time, Duchess merely nosed the pup and turned away.

Please don’t let this last one be stillborn, Ally prayed. “What do we do?” she asked frantically.

“Do our best to save it,” Hank muttered. He picked up the sack, quickly figured out which end contained the pup’s head, and tore the protective membrane open with his fingers. Amniotic fluid spilled out as he gave the pup’s nose a squeeze.

There should have been a cry, as with the others.

But there wasn’t.

Knowing there was no time to waste, Hank grabbed the bulb syringe, pressed the air out of it, and then suctioned mucous from the lifeless pup’s throat and nostrils. Nothing happened. Again, he suctioned out the fluids. The puppy still didn’t respond.

Hand pressed to her chest, Ally watched as Hank lifted the tiny form and made a tight seal by putting his own mouth over the pup’s nose and mouth, gave two gentle puffs, then pulled back and assessed her. Again nothing, Ally noted in mounting despair. No visible sign of life.

Helpless tears streamed from her eyes as Hank repeated the puffing process, then rubbed the puppy’s chest while holding her head down.

Still nothing, Ally noted miserably.

Hank used the bulb syringe again, then lifted the puppy and attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation once more. And this time, to Ally’s overwhelming relief, their prayers were answered.

THE SOUND OF THAT SMALL gasp, followed by a highpitched, rather indignant squeak, was nothing short of a miracle, Ally thought.

With tears of joy rolling down her cheeks, she watched as Hank gently wiped the moisture from the tiny puppy and wrapped her in a cloth.

Ally drew a quavering breath and edged so close to Hank their bodies touched. “That was…incredible,” she breathed, not sure when she had ever been so impressed by a man’s gallantry under pressure.

He nodded, looking as amazed and grateful as she felt. “I didn’t think she was going to make it,” he admitted in a rusty voice.

Ally studied the cute black nose and tightly closed eyes. The pup’s ears were as small and compact and beautiful as the rest of her snugly swaddled form. “You saved her.”

Yet a trace of worry remained in Hank’s blue eyes, Ally noted as he passed her the newborn.

A ribbon of fear slipped through her. She cuddled the tiny pup close to her breast, relieved to feel its soft puffs of breath against the open vee of her shirt. The whelp was breathing nice and rhythmically now, and felt warm to the touch. Yet…Ally searched Hank’s face. “What is it?” she asked quietly. “What aren’t you telling me?”

His glance met hers, then skittered away, as if he didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. “She’s really small,” he said finally.

About a third smaller than the others, Ally noted. She nuzzled the top of the puppy’s head as she followed Hank back to Duchess’s side. “So?” She felt the tiny pup brush its muzzle against her collarbone and snuggle even closer. Unbearable tenderness sifted through her and she stroked the dog gently with her free hand. Was this the connection dog lovers felt? Why many considered canines not just pets but members of their family?

All Ally knew for sure was that she felt fiercely protective of this tiny being. And would do anything to help her thrive. “Isn’t there usually a runt of the litter?”

Hank admitted that was so, then frowned. “But it’s not just that.” He bent down to tend to Duchess.

Ally watched him remove the placenta and gently clean away any remaining afterbirth with the skill of a veteran rancher. “Then what’s wrong?” she pressed. She lowered her head and heard a faint purr emanating from the whelp’s chest. “I mean, she seems to be breathing okay now.” The other ten puppies were okay, too. All snuggled together cozily in the warming box, which had been placed inside the whelping pen, within easy reach of Duchess.

Hank brought a bowl of water to Duchess, and knelt down next to the golden retriever. Shakily, the dam got to her feet and lapped at the water, before sinking down once again. Surveying her with a knowledgeable eye, Hank said reluctantly, “It could just be that the pup you’re holding was the last of the litter to be born. And Duchess was exhausted.”

Another shiver of dread swept through Ally.

She watched Hank take a fistful of kibble and hand feed it to Duchess. Wondering what he still wasn’t telling her, Ally prodded, “I hear an ‘except’ in there.”

Hank’s big body tensed. “Sometimes,” he allowed wearily, deliberately avoiding Ally’s eyes, “when a mother dog shows absolutely no interest in one of her whelps, it’s because the dam knows instinctively there’s something wrong with the pup. That it may not survive…”

Shock quickly turned to anger. How could he even say that, after all they’d already been through? Ally wondered. “But the littlest one did survive,” she protested heatedly, still cradling the puppy to her chest.

Hank nodded. And remained silent.

“She’s going to be fine,” Ally insisted, and to prove it, placed the runt in the warming box with the rest of the litter.

Again, Hank nodded. But he didn’t seem nearly as certain of that as she wanted him to be.