My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #1)(9)

From under the porch rose a foul, musky, nauseating cloud of stink. Travis choked and gagged. His eyes burned. The dog was rolling on the ground, rubbing his face and muzzle in the dirt. It was hard to tell if Bucket had gotten the full force of the skunk’s blast, but hopefully he’d at least learned his lesson.

Now what?

Travis pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully wiped his face and hands. Unless the skunk cleared out on its own, he’d have to shoot the animal and bury it. He’d probably have to bury his clothes, too, or burn them. Even then, he wouldn’t be fit company in town for a week. And if the old wooden porch had soaked up the skunk spray, it would stink all winter. As for the fool dog . . .

Travis glared down at Bucket. Crouched with his tail between his legs, the dog gazed up at him. The look in his molasses-colored eyes would have melted granite.

Travis swore. The blasted dog would have to be bathed, but he couldn’t do it in the house because of the stink, and it was too cold to do the job outside. He would have to set up a tub in the barn and haul warm water. Between the skunk, his clothes, and the dog, he would have his work cut out for the rest of the day—and that godawful smell would likely hang around for weeks.

So far, saying yes to Abner Jenkins had been one of the worst decisions of his life.

*

Maggie was reviewing tomorrow’s agenda when the receptionist peeked around her office door. “You’ve got a visitor, Maggie,” she said. “I know you wanted to get away early. Shall I tell him to come back?”

Maggie sighed. She’d been nursing a headache and had hoped for the chance to go home and lie down. But now that wasn’t going to happen.

She glanced up at her father’s framed photograph, which hung on the wall next to the American flag. Sam Delaney had been mayor of Branding Iron for fifteen years. After he’d suffered a stroke, Maggie, who’d left her management job in Austin to come home and look after her widowed father, had shouldered the duties of his office. Last November, after his death, she’d been elected to serve in her own right.

But Sam’s shoes weren’t easy to fill. He’d been the consummate public servant, always cheerful and willing to help anyone who needed him, no matter who it was or how inconvenient the time might be.

Her eyes lingered on the affable square-jawed face. All right, Dad, I know what you’d say. If somebody needs help, the mayor has no right to leave early.

“It’s Abner,” the receptionist said.

“That’s fine, Angela,” Maggie replied. “Send him in.”

Abner Jenkins walked through the door, his battered old cowboy hat in his hands. His expression would have suited a mourner at a funeral.

“Sit down, Abner.” Maggie was genuinely glad to see the old man. His visit would save her the trouble of tracking him down later. “I went looking for you this morning when you didn’t answer your phone. But you weren’t home.”

“You should’ve checked Buckaroo’s. I was out of coffee at home, so I drove into town for a cup. Got me a free piece of pie in the bargain.”

“Well, anyway, I’m glad to see you.”

Abner remained standing, as if he didn’t expect to stay long. “You might not be so glad when I tell you my news. My farm’s sold. I’ll be leavin’ Branding Iron tomorrow to go and live with my daughter.”

“Oh.” Maggie took a breath, waiting for the news to sink in. “I hope it’ll be a happy move for you, being with family.”

“Can’t say it will be, but my kids didn’t give me much choice.”

“So you won’t be here for the Christmas parade?” Maggie spoke the dreaded words. Abner had been playing Santa in the parade since she was a young girl. But he was getting old. She should have known this would happen.

“That’s right, I won’t be here. That’s what I came to tell you. My neighbor down the road was kind enough to take the horses and sleigh, and the costume. I’m sure you can use ’em in the parade—in fact, he’d probably be glad for somebody to take ’em off his hands. But you’ll have to find somebody else to play Santa.”

“Your neighbor?” A memory tugged at her—angry slate gray eyes and a cold manner. Abner must be talking about a different neighbor, Maggie reasoned.

“Young feller,” Abner said. “Moved into that old abandoned ranch last year. He keeps to himself, so you might not know him. But it was him treated me to pie this morning. And when I asked him to take my animals, even old Bucket, he said yes. He doesn’t talk much, but you can tell his heart’s in the right place.”

Maggie remembered what Ben had told her about Travis Morgan. An embittered ex-convict didn’t strike her as a candidate for playing Santa, even if he managed to fit the suit. But right now, he was all she had.

“Thank you for coming to tell me, Abner,” she said. “Branding Iron is really going to miss you. You’ve been a wonderful Santa and a great friend. I hope you’ll leave me your daughter’s contact information so we can keep in touch.”

“Sure. I don’t have the address with me, but I’ll send you a note from Denver.” He shuffled awkwardly. “Well, that’s about it. I’ll be goin’ now.”

Maggie came around the desk to shake his hand. She might have hugged the old man, but this was a professional meeting, and she didn’t want to embarrass him. “Good luck, Abner,” she said. “I hope this move works out well for you.”