The Rancher's Christmas Princess Page 8

  Charlotte put Ben in the high chair. She sent Belle a questioning glance. “Anything important?”

  “Preston says he and Silas will be back in by early afternoon. And if we go into town this morning, could we stop at Colson’s Feed and Seed and pick up an order that should be waiting there.”

  Charlotte filled Ben’s sippy cup and gave it to him. Then she grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. She got a paring knife from a drawer. Already, she seemed to know her way around the McCade kitchen. “Shopping, hmm? What do you think? I know you have plans for Ben’s room.”

  “Yes,” Belle agreed, holding the note that Preston had written, trying not to imagine what it might be like, to get notes like that from him all the time, to have a day-to-day life with a good man like him—and Charlotte was watching her, a funny, knowing look in her eyes. Belle quickly folded up the note and stuck it in her pocket. “We, ah, might as well get started. Ben’s room is not going to paint itself.” She went to the coffeepot, which was half-full, and poured herself a cup. “Also, I spoke to Preston about church. We’ll all be going on Sunday. They’re of the Catholic faith.” Both she and Charlotte had been raised Catholic.

  “Lovely,” said Charlotte.

  “And as for the holidays, Preston has said there are decorations in the attic, which he will bring down. And they have plenty of trees to choose from right here at the ranch.”

  “You have it all in order, I see,” Charlotte remarked as she set apple slices on Ben’s high chair tray. “I do like him,” she added in a thoughtful tone. “He’s honest and kind. And very handsome, your Preston.”

  Belle stiffened. “Charlotte, he’s not mine. Not in any way.”

  Charlotte wore the most innocent expression. “Excuse me, dearest. I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course, he’s not yours.”

  Belle felt ridiculously defensive—which was probably why she asked, “And by the way, is there something going on between you and Silas?”

  Charlotte chuckled. It was a very knowing chuckle, an almost sensual chuckle, which meant it was a completely un-Charlottelike chuckle. Charlotte, after all, had spent her life eradicating all things daring, bold, sensual and dangerous from her personality. She came from a disgraced branch of Belle’s mother’s family. Charlotte’s father had been French, a penniless count, a complete wastrel, and her mother an American showgirl known to have had tempestuous affairs with any number of notorious playboys before marrying the count. Poor Charlotte had spent her life living on the fringes of the aristocracy, working as a governess and companion. She was forever upright and serious in an ongoing effort to live down her parents’ awful reputations.

  But she didn’t seem so very serious now. “What could possibly be going on between Silas McCade and me?” she asked in a voice that came across as both teasing and a little bit naughty.

  “Charlotte, what’s got into you?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, dear.”

  “Well, last night, you seemed downright flirtatious with him.”

  “Was I?” She sliced a banana onto Ben’s tray.

  “Yum,” he said, “‘nana...” And shoved a slice into his mouth.

  “Yes,” Belle said strongly. “And now, well, Charlotte, I think you are teasing me.”

  “I? Teasing you?” Her cheeks were pink. And her slight smile was completely charming.

  Belle knew for a certainty then. There was something going on between Charlotte and Ben’s grandfather.

  And really, was there anything the least wrong with that? Not that Belle could see. If Charlotte was finding a little romance in her life at last, Belle couldn’t find it in her heart to be anything but happy for her.

  She gave her dear friend an approving nod. “Well, whatever you’re not doing with Silas, enjoy every moment of it.”

  “I assure you, I shall.”

  Doris came in a few minutes later. Marcus joined them. The housekeeper whipped them all up a quick breakfast of blueberry griddle cakes and eggs. When she learned they were driving into town, she had a few staples she wanted them to pick up.

  At a little after nine, with Marcus behind the wheel of the SUV, Belle, Charlotte and Ben went into town.

  They stopped at Colson’s Feed and Seed first. The narrow-eyed strawberry-blonde behind the counter had the animal supplements Preston had ordered.

  She was also completely lacking in tact or discretion. “Your Highness,” she said with a gap-toothed smile. “I am Betsy Colson and I hear you have moved out to Pres McCade’s ranch and that Pres is that little boy’s daddy.”

  Before she could answer, Ben, in Charlotte’s arms, chortled in delight. “Dada, Dada. Hi, Dada....”

  Belle granted the woman a regal nod. “Information certainly flows freely in Elk Creek.”

  “Yes, it does,” Betsy Colson agreed. “I have known Pres McCade since he was knee-high to a bug’s butt. And it’s kind of a surprise, is all. One minute he’s about to marry Lucy Saunders. Then Lucy dumps him for Monty Polk—now what Lucy could have been thinking to dump Pres for Monty...well, I’m not even going to dignify that with wonderin’ about it. But after Lucy leaves him at the altar, so to speak, Pres acts like he’ll never have anything to do with a woman again. But somehow, all these months later, here comes a real, live princess, a princess with a little boy who looks a whole lot like Pres.”

  Lucy, Belle thought. Preston had mentioned a fiancée who broke it off with him, hadn’t he? That must be Lucy.

  And apparently, Betsy Colson was assuming that Ben was Belle’s child. Belle considered disabusing her.

  But Charlotte caught her eye and gave her the slightest negative shake of her neatly coifed head.

  Belle took the hint. Charlotte was absolutely right. There was little to be gained by denying that Ben was hers. And if she did deny it, what next? Was she going to stand there in the feed store and explain to this stranger how Preston and her dear, deceased friend Anne had spent a drunken night together a few Septembers ago and Ben was the result?

  Absolutely not. “Betsy, how much do we owe you?”

  “Not a thing. It’s on Pres’s tab—so tell me, when did you first meet Pres? Everyone in town would really love to know.”

  “I first met Preston on Monday morning in the Sweet Stop Diner.”

  Betsy frowned. “This Monday morning?”

  “Yes.” Belle picked up the package Betsy had plunked on the counter. “And thank you. Have a wonderful day.” Before Betsy could frame her next question, Belle turned for the door, Charlotte and Ben right behind her. Marcus pulled the door open just as she reached it.

  They went to the local paint store next and bought yellow, blue and green paint for Ben’s room, along with all the equipment necessary to do the job. There was a bulletin board at the store where local house painters posted their phone numbers. Belle took down three numbers. She also found a Winnie-the-Pooh mural kit. She and Charlotte agreed that Pooh would be good for Ben’s room for the next three or four years. Then he would probably insist on changing it. For now, though, Christopher Robin and friends seemed quite appropriate.

  Finally, they stopped in at the grocery store and bought the items on Doris’s list. They were back at the ranch for lunch, where Doris told them which of the painters whose numbers Belle had collected would do the best job.

  Belle called Doris’s man. He promised to be there at eight Thursday morning.

  Preston came in at two, went right up and had his shower. Belle was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs when he came down.

  He stopped in the middle of the staircase, his hand on the railing, and gazed down at her. To her, he seemed pure American cowboy in clean jeans, a belt with a whole lot of buckle, rawhide boots and a heavy corduroy shirt the color of coffee with extra cream. He said, “I met you, what, two days ago?”

  Had it been only two days? “That’s right.”

  “So why is it I already know that look in your eye?”

  Her eye
lashes seemed to be fluttering of their own accord. “What look?”

  “That ‘I have plans for you’ look.”

  She waved her list of things to do. “Well, yes. There are a few little things....”

  “Oh, I’ll just bet.” But at least his eyes were gleaming and his only slightly swollen mouth almost smiled. “I took a peek into Ben’s room just now.”

  “And?”

  “Sound asleep.”

  She nodded. “It was a busy morning. He went right down when I put him to bed after lunch. I wouldn’t be surprised if he slept for another hour.”

  He descended the rest of the way and stopped on the bottom stair. “Dad should be over from his house in a minute.” His voice was rough and soft, both at once. So strange, how they could speak of the most mundane things and yet, beneath the ordinary words, so much more was going on. “We’ll call a powwow in the kitchen.”

  “A powwow...” She sounded breathless, which was a little bit ridiculous. A person didn’t get out of breath just standing at the foot of the stairs waiting for a certain man to come down.

  “Yeah, a powwow. You, me, Dad, Charlotte. We’ll take on that list of yours and wrestle it into submission.”

  Five minutes later, all four of them sat around the table, sipping coffee, enjoying a plate of Doris’s chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, discussing what needed to be done. Marcus was there, too. He accepted a cookie and then did what he always did—stood quiet and watchful, out of the way.

  “A little late in the day for a drive to Missoula,” said Silas. “It’ll be dark before you know it. Plus, there’s snow predicted for later in the evening. You don’t want to be stuck out on the highway if the front moves in early.”

  “All right,” Belle agreed. “We’ll see how the weather is tomorrow and if possible, make the drive to Missoula in the morning after I show the painter what I want him to do.”

  Preston swallowed a bite of cookie. “The painter? Of what?”

  “Of Ben’s room, remember? I said it needed paint. You agreed that was all right with you....”

  “Ah,” he said as if maybe he hadn’t, but he didn’t feel like arguing the point.

  She was starting to feel that she’d presumed a bit. So she explained further. “We bought yellow, blue and green paint.”

  Preston considered that information and then remarked, “That’s a lot of colors.”

  “Children like a bright room. And I promise, the colors go well together. They’re not too loud or jarring.”

  “Whew,” interjected Silas, smoothing his mustache and then pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.

  Belle added, “I thought one color for each wall....”

  Preston grunted. “Whatever you say—and at last count, there were four walls in Ben’s room.”

  “Well, yes. And there will be a mural. We bought a kit for it.”

  “A mural of what exactly?” He didn’t look upset or anything. But he didn’t exactly look excited at the idea either.

  “It’s, um, Winnie-the-Pooh sitting under a tree with a jar of honey and bees buzzing around him. There’s Christopher Robin and Eeyore in the background.”

  Preston sipped coffee. “I’m guessing he’ll outgrow that in a flash.”

  “He’s not even two. He won’t outgrow Winnie-the-Pooh for years yet.”

  “You couldn’t have picked dinosaurs or horses or trucks or something?”

  She felt a sizzle of annoyance with him. “What have you got against Winnie-the-Pooh?”

  “I’ve got nothing against Winnie-the-Pooh. I just prefer horses. Or trains.”

  Silas chuckled. Belle shot him a quelling glance. The older man put up both hands. “Hey, no problem. Leave me out of it.”

  Belle glanced at Charlotte for support. Charlotte had her lips pressed together in that way she did when she was trying to be extra dignified but what she really wanted to do was laugh.

  Was this little contretemps with Preston humorous, then?

  She realized that maybe it was, a bit. She’d decided what she thought was right for Ben. And Preston had his own ideas about that. She was, perhaps, more than a little accustomed to having her own way about such things. Due partly to her background and partly to her high-profile position with Nurses Without Boundaries, people tended to defer to her. She made decisions and choices and she followed through on them, having things her way most of the time. She tried her best to be fair, but she knew she had definite opinions as to how things should be.

  However, in this case, she had to remember that the whole idea was to get Preston to feel comfortable taking care of his son. If he had strong opinions about what he wanted in his little boy’s room, well, that was a good thing, wasn’t it?

  She knew that it was. But it was also more proof of all the ways she was...losing him.

  Losing Ben.

  Dear God. Life was cruel. It was her job here, in Montana, to lose Ben. So that Ben could gain his father, so that Preston could have his son.

  Sometimes doing what one had to do was too painful for words.

  And now it was way too quiet in the kitchen. Neither Silas nor Charlotte looked much like they wanted to laugh anymore.

  “Belle...” Preston’s voice was gentle.

  She swallowed hard, and straightened up in the chair, lifting her head proudly, meeting his beautiful blue gaze. “You’re right. I should have considered that you might want to choose something else—or maybe not even have a mural. I could...well, if that’s what you want, I...”

  “Look, it’s all right. Winnie-the-Pooh is fine.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not. We’ll choose something else—that is, if you’re willing to have a mural in the first place.”

  “A mural is fine.”

  “All right, then. Tomorrow, on the way to Missoula, we’ll stop in town and trade in Winnie-the-Pooh for trains. Or horses.”

  “Or cars.” He said it lightly. Teasingly.

  And she felt better. About everything.

  Charlotte said, “Which means, Preston, that you’re the one who should go with Belle on the shopping trip tomorrow. That way you’ll be there to approve the purchases for Ben’s room.” She turned to Belle. “I’ll keep Ben with me here. It’s so much easier to shop without a little one in tow.”

  Silas said, “Now, that makes sense.”

  Preston asked him, “Can you handle things on your own tomorrow?”

  “I was running this ranch when you were in diapers.”

  “Okay, Dad. I’ll take that as a yes.”

  So it was agreed. Weather permitting, Belle and Preston would go to Missoula as soon as Belle had put the painter to work the next morning.

  The second subject for discussion was Christmas. Specifically, decorating the tree.

  Silas said, “We can make this quick. Pres, you go up and bring the decorations down. As I recall, they’re just about directly over our heads.” He pointed at the ceiling. “You think you can find them? Good. Belle can help you. Right, Belle?”

  “Well, ah, certainly.”

  “And Charlotte and I and the hands will go out and get us a tree. That work for you, Charlotte?”

  Was Charlotte actually blushing? “I would love to go and acquire a tree with you, Silas. Are you sure we need both of your hired men?”

  “When I say a tree, I mean a tree. We’ll find us a tall one to stand proud in the front hall—and what are we waiting for?” He shoved his chair back. “Bundle up and let’s get a move on.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Pres stood under the attic door with Belle. He lowered the ladder and led the way up with Belle right behind him.

  At the top, he turned on the attic lights and paused to glance back at her. “This way,” he said, all too acutely aware of her, in her trim brown pants that looked pretty amazing coming or going, of that snug sweater she wore that was sort of brown and sort of gold and a little bit amber just like her eyes.

  He led the way through the
stacks of boxes and crates and old furniture to the place where the old man had said the Christmas things would be. “Here we go.” There were boxes and more boxes of varying sizes, stacked close together, each one labeled Christmas in his mother’s clear, rounded hand.

  “There are so many.” Belle sounded thrilled.

  “Yeah.” He felt ridiculously proud of himself, as if he was responsible for all this stuff. He explained, “My mom was really big on Christmas. She always had a twelve-foot tree in the front hall. And then she had miles of garland and lights for outside and in. And a manger scene. And little snow scenes and angels with trumpets. I swear she covered every flat surface in this house with some kind of Christmassy thing or other.”

  Belle was watching him, her eyes so dark and deep. “You never said how old you were when she died....”

  “Nine.”

  “So sad.” She watched him kind of hopefully, like she wanted him to say more.

  Why not? “It was a freak riding accident. Her horse got spooked and threw her. She hit her head. Died instantly.” He stared at the stacks of boxes. “My dad never had the heart to get all this stuff down again after that.”

  “Oh, Preston. You haven’t had Christmas since you were nine?”

  He gave her a shrug and a wry smile to show her it wasn’t that bad. “Sure, we did. The old man’s a good dad. He went out the next year and bought a fake tree and some new decorations. We used those until I was eighteen or so. And then it got seeming a little bit silly, him and me and our fake Christmas tree.”

  She gazed out over all the boxes and made a small, worried sound. “Will it be hard for you—and your father—to decorate the house with these things of your mother’s?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. The old man’s pretty up front about what he likes and what he doesn’t, about what bothers him, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  She chuckled. “You’re right. He’s quite direct. I have noticed.”

  “If he didn’t want us to use all this stuff, he would have said so.”

  “And you? How do you feel about it?”

  “Good. It’s different now that there’s Ben. Ben is...” He paused, seeking the right words. “Ben brings it home, what Christmas is all about. And with you and Charlotte here, it makes the whole thing even more special, you know?”