The Christmas Rose Read online

  Camille blinked. “Sarah?”

  “Yes. Your very best friend in the whole world. Remember?”

  Lashes lowering, Camille fidgeted with the folds of her skirt. “That was before we moved to New York. Sarah has new friends now. I doubt she has time for me anymore.”

  Juliette’s heart squeezed. The move from their comfortable life in Nebraska to the bustling city of Buffalo had been hard on them both. Still reeling from the deaths of their parents, Juliette had found solace in her studies. Camille, however, failed to find a social circle that suited her.

  Yet Sarah had corresponded often, especially of late, and Camille always looked forward to her letters with eager delight.

  “Nonsense. We’ll call on her as soon as we’re finished with Tru,” Juliette said.

  His name slipped from her lips easily, and her stomach did a funny flip at the reminder of what laid ahead. She’d be seeing him again. Talking to him.

  Pleading with him to sell his land.

  As if she, too, suddenly recalled where they were and why, Camille’s gaze hurried toward the window and the cabin that loomed ahead. The sight of it seemed to startle her, and she reached for the crocheted handbag in her lap.

  “Oh, Juliette. We’re almost there.” She opened the bag, withdrew a small mirror, and patted at the dark curls at her nape with fingers, Juliette noted, that weren’t quite steady.

  “Yes. We are.” Odd how Camille appeared flustered all of a sudden, but Juliette had no time to ponder it. She drew in a slow breath and tried to calm her own fluster.

  She’d stayed up until the early hours of the morning studying the construction costs of her hotel yet again. She knew the margin of profit. She knew the potential for loss. She knew exactly how much she could offer Tru before the project dropped into red ink.

  Red ink the bankers could never see. Tru had to accept her best offer. He had to...

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and the driver opened the door.

  “Shall I wait, Miss Blanchard?” he asked.

  “Please.” She took his hand and descended the step. “I won’t be long.”

  “Tru’s a reasonable man,” Camille said, her voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “Try not to worry. And don’t forget it’s Christmas, okay? Christmas.”

  There she was, defending him again. How would she know if Tru was reasonable or not? Besides, it wasn’t Christmas yet, anyway, and it wouldn’t be for another two days. Juliette hid her annoyance and lifted her chin. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll convince him to sell.”

  “But it’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t,” Camille persisted. “It’s his land. He’s entitled to keep it if he wants.”

  Juliette bit back a retort and turned toward the cabin. This wasn’t the time or place to challenge her sister’s stubbornness. Juliette had to concentrate. She had to remain composed.

  She had to succeed.

  “You’re a Blanchard, Julie-girl. Don’t ever forget it.”

  Bracing herself for the confrontation ahead, she went in search of Tru.

  Chapter 2

  It was only a matter of time before she came. Tru knew it. Could feel it.

  He didn’t like it.

  Having Juliette Blanchard in his life again was a distraction he couldn’t afford. The woman had been trouble from the moment she first rested those violet-blue eyes on him more than four years ago, bewitching him, seducing him with her innocent female wiles.

  She was all woman back then, even at seventeen years of age. She could knock the wind out of him with a demure sweep of her lashes or a shy smile and never mind her kisses...

  But that was four years ago. And now was now. He’d grown up plenty since she was in Nebraska last. He had to, considering her old man was responsible for taking just about everything the McCords owned.

  Everything but these three hundred acres.

  Not surprising Juliette wanted those, too. To build a damn fool fancy hotel, and for the love of Pete, wasn’t that just like a Blanchard?

  Well, she wasn’t getting them. Nothing she could do or say would convince him, and he was done ruminating over it. Feeling as cross as a bear, Tru stepped away from the cabin’s window. He refilled his coffee cup, left the kitchen, and strode outside. Wasn’t long, and the crisp cold reminded him he’d forgotten to grab his coat. He blamed Juliette for it. Thinking of her so much had thrown him off his routine. Not surprising his coat was the last thing on his mind.

  Ryan stood at the stock pen, one foot propped on a low rail. Inside the fence, a dozen cows lingered at their feed, but one in particular, a black Angus heavy with calf, had separated herself from the rest.

  “Looks like we got trouble coming, Tru,” Ryan said. “She’s acting real anxious. Won’t eat.”

  “I noticed as much last night.” He’d checked her twice after midnight, but she appeared worse now. He studied her swollen abdomen, the extended tail, her listless movements around the pen. Seemed her little critter was complicating matters. “I hoped we’d find her calf bawling his lungs out this morning.”

  “No such luck.”

  “Seen the water bag yet?”

  “It burst not long ago.”

  “Let’s get her in the chute.”

  He tossed aside his coffee cup, his taste for the brew gone. The unborn fetus represented his dream of developing a new breed of cattle, one more suited to the weather extremes common to this part of the West and provide high quality beef at the same time. If he succeeded, stockmen from all over the country would clamor to add the breed to their herds—and pay well for the privilege.

  He couldn’t lose the animal. His future—and Ryan’s—depended on it.

  Once the cow was secured, Tru examined her. Labor was in full swing, and though she strained, she couldn’t expel the calf from the womb.

  “We have to pull it.” If the fetus was already in the birth passage, the risk increased with every minute that ticked by. Concerned, he strode toward the barn, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. “Keep an eye on her. I’ll be right back.”

  He returned in moments, carrying a pair of ropes. He removed his shirt and threw it over the top rail, then oiled his right hand and entire arm with petrolatum. Ryan took one of the ropes and formed a small noose, handed it to Tru, then did the same with the second. The cow tensed with a contraction, and the effort presented one foreleg and a glimpse of the nose.

  “Can’t see the other leg,” Tru said. “It’s in the wrong position.”

  He looped the rope above the fetlock joint to keep the leg from passing back down into the womb. The contractions were a couple of minutes apart. He wouldn’t have much time to find the errant limb.

  He waited until the labor pain ended before he went in for the search. He found what he was looking for, tucked behind the calf’s ears. Working between contractions, he manipulated the foreleg back into place beside the head, then managed to loop the second noose above the leg’s joint like the first.

  He withdrew and tugged on the rope, a gentle test to ensure the nooses held. They did. He braced his feet and Ryan did the same.

  “Next contraction, you pull first, and I’ll alternate with you. Go easy. We can’t lose this little fella,” he ordered.

  Ryan had pulled calves before, but none as important as this one. Tru trusted him implicitly, and Ryan didn’t fail him. They worked in tandem, walking the shoulders out, using their combined strength firmly but cautiously. Several inches at a time, the calf squeezed through the birth passage. Once the head and shoulders were out, they pulled the calf downward, nearly parallel with the rear legs of its mother.

  Tru held his breath. The next maneuver was crucial. The animal was out to its mid-section and should the hip bone become lodged against his mother’s pelvis, they could lose him. He wasn’t yet breathing on his own, and seconds were precious.

  Tru and Ryan kept pulling, and finally, after a great gurgling, sucking sound, the calf dropped to the ground, the navel string broke, a
nd his lungs filled.

  Ryan broke into a grin. “Look at him, will you? He’s a beauty!”

  “That he is,” Tru breathed. “That he is.”

  He hunkered down and stared at the wet, wriggling creature before him. The miracle of nature amazed him.

  A miracle he helped create.

  The knowledge humbled him. Exhilarated him. The calf would look nothing like his Angus mother; instead, he’d be a strong replica of his sire—Tru’s prize Romagnola bull that he had shipped all the way from Italy. The bull he signed his life away to buy.

  The bull that would give the McCord name respectability again.

  His gaze lifted to the other cows in the pen. They’d all been impregnated by the bull and were due to calve at any time. He couldn’t hope or pray hard enough that their offspring arrived healthy and strong. If they did, his herd would increase in size and superiority. There’d be no other stock like them in America. Maybe even the entire world.

  A month from now, if all fell into place, this pen would be crowded with scampering calves and watchful cows. He’d have to move them—

  “We’ve got company, Tru.”

  —give them room to graze, let them get a feel for the Nebraska winter—

  Ryan nudged him impatiently. “Tru, did you hear me? We’ve got a caller.”

  Tru dropped back into reality with a jolt. He rose. Turned. And drew in a stunned breath.

  Juliette.

  He’d expected her yesterday. Then last night. Today, for sure.

  But to have her arrive now, when he was dirty and smelled like a cow’s birthing...

  Just his luck she came when he looked his worst. She stood outside the pen, watching them in all her high-society perfection. He wasn’t a vain man, but it’d been so long since he’d seen her and—

  If anything, she’d gotten more beautiful. More female. She’d neglected to button her black coat, and the gown she wore absorbed the morning sun, the dark navy fabric looking more expensive than anything he ever paid for in his entire life, except his bull, and maybe not even then. The color leapt to her eyes, making them appear more blue than violet. She held him transfixed and unable to form a coherent string of words to save his pathetic soul.

  “Hello, Tru,” she said quietly.

  His name rolled off her lips in that soft, cultured way of hers and broke the spell she held over him. He turned away, his gaze raking the pen for something—anything—to clean himself with.

  He snatched his shirt from the rail. By the time he faced her again, her chin had hiked up an inch. Evidently, she’d dismissed his lack of response as not worth pursuing. Instead, she lavished his brother with a bright smile.

  “Why, it’s Ryan, isn’t it? You’ve grown up since I saw you last.”

  Ryan whipped off his Stetson and clutched it to his chest with both hands. “Yes, ma’am, I have. It’s been a good while since you’ve been back to these parts.”

  “Three years.” Her blonde head cocked slightly, and the sun took advantage to glint over the upswept strands, perfectly and fashionably pinned. “How old were you then? Twelve? Thirteen?”

  “Sixteen, Juliette,” Tru said, impatient with her line of thinking. She needed to know those days were gone. The McCords could hold their own in life, no matter what she thought. “He’s nineteen now. A man.”

  “Yes.” She swiveled her heavy-lashed gaze on Tru again. “I see that. Could you excuse us, Ryan? There’s a matter I need to discuss with your brother.”

  Ryan’s uncertain glance bounced between them. Tru jerked his chin toward the cabin in silent command to do as she asked. Ryan nodded, still holding his hat in a death grip, and began backing up toward the fence.

  But he halted and cleared his throat. “You come alone in that rig, Miss Blanchard?”

  A slight frown puckered her brows, as if she’d had to re-shuffle her thoughts. She considered the carriage waiting in the yard. “No. My sister, Camille, accompanied me. You remember her, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I do. I sure do.” Ryan’s cheeks flushed, and he threw another quick look in Tru’s direction.

  Tru knew the meaning in that look.

  “Go on,” he murmured.

  Ryan exhaled a breath. Did he think Tru would deny him? He ducked between the fence rails, pushed his hat back onto his head, and headed straight toward the Blanchard rig.

  Juliette faced Tru squarely. “Before we have another word between us, just let me say I hope we can discuss this without resorting to fisticuffs.”

  “Fisticuffs?” The term amused him. “As I recall, the last time we saw each other, a hand fight was the last thing on our minds.”

  Twin dots of color bloomed on her cheeks.

  A corner of Tru’s mouth lifted. Seemed she recalled it, too. “My hands were more intent on pleasuring you than—”

  “That’s enough, Tru,” she snapped.

  He shut the memories down, like he always did when they crept in to haunt him.

  “You’re starting on me already, aren’t you?” she said. “We haven’t even begun to discuss this...obstacle between us before you accost me with your cynical innuendos that are highly improper, not to say downright rude.”

  The memories surged forth all over again. “Nothing rude about what we were doing that night, Juliette. Only thing rude was your father and the way he handled the situation.”

  “My father had every right to act the way he did given the fact that your father—”

  “Leave my father out of this,” Tru snarled.

  “He’s a factor in this discussion.”

  The ugly memories cut through him. “Not any more, is he, Juliette? The high and mighty Avery Blanchard saw to it my old man would never be a factor again, in our discussion or anyone else’s. Ever.”

  Moisture sprang to her eyes. “You’re being hateful.”

  “That’s right, I am.”

  Hateful for anything to do with Juliette’s father. Hateful that she abandoned Tru when he needed her most, too. Being that hateful kept him from apologizing for it. Avery Blanchard was responsible for Pa’s death, and a whole lot of heartache besides that, whether Juliette believed it or not.

  The one good thing Blanchard managed to accomplish was his daughters. Camille was as innocent of the feud between their families as Ryan. And Juliette...

  Who was she now? Today?

  A female version of her father? Would she resort to his cold-blooded methods to get the three hundred acres she wanted? She’d always respected Avery Blanchard. Admired his accomplishments. His blood ran in her veins.

  Hell, yes, she would.

  But Tru couldn’t shake the memory of how sweet and vulnerable she’d been in his arms four years ago. Untouched by the harsh ways of the world. And damned if she didn’t look vulnerable now, too, with her face pale and the faintest tremble in her chin, as if he’d hurt her feelings with the slur against her old man.

  Tru didn’t want to hurt her, and unexpected regret shot through him. Maybe he’d hit too fast, too hard. She’d only just arrived. He didn’t know her as well as he did then, and he hadn’t given her a chance. Maybe she’d be nothing like Avery Blanchard...

  Tru turned away. The regret unsettled him, and he focused on the baby he didn’t regret at all. The bull-calf was up on all four legs and making a wobbly attempt at walking. Tru maneuvered the cow from the chute so she could get acquainted with her baby.

  “He’s cute,” Juliette ventured.

  Tru grunted. The calf wasn’t cute, at least not yet when he was just-born scrawny and hadn’t been cleaned yet by his mother, but Tru refrained from disagreeing with her. The little critter rooted eagerly for his first taste at the udder, acting starved for it.

  Tru feasted his eyes on them. An appetite like that was a good sign. Hungry calves grew into swarthy bulls with a healthy sexual drive. In a few years, his herd of prime stock would be increasing in leaps and bounds. Wouldn’t be long, his three hundred acres wouldn’t be big enough to f
eed them all.

  “You can’t ignore me forever, Tru McCord,” Juliette said.

  His jaw set, he faced her again. “Nothing you can say will make me give up my land.”

  “You won’t be giving it up in the strictest sense of the word.” Faint desperation threaded her voice. “You’ll have made a business decision, a very profitable one, I might add, which will allow you a variety of different options.”

  “Such as?”

  He’d thought the situation through inside and out. There wasn’t anything she could offer him he hadn’t thought of first, but she had a right to talk now that she was here.

  “You could lease your stock to another rancher,” she said. “Live in town and conduct your business from there.”

  Let someone else have his prize bull? He nearly choked on the idea.

  “Or you could rent someone’s land,” she went on, talking a little faster. “Live there and take care of your cattle, just like you’re doing here.”

  “No.” He’d have to pay to rent someone else’s land, and what would he do when the money ran out? Right now, he didn’t have a margin of profit to work from. Eventually he would, but not now. He could barely pay his bills as it was.

  “Or you could take your money and—and go back to school.” She hesitated. “I understand you left your studies at Creighton University after your father died.”

  “No thanks to yours,” he growled.

  “You wanted to be a veterinarian back then, didn’t you?” She went on as if he’d never spoken. “Why, you still can, Tru. The money I’m prepared to pay you for this land will easily cover the tuition fees.”

  It had been his dream once, to become a respectable veterinarian. He had a way with animals. Always had. He’d wanted to open his own practice and help the area ranchers care for their stock with the latest techniques and medicines.

  He didn’t think about it much anymore. His dream was gone forever, replaced with the burning desire to develop a new breed of cattle. With the little bull-calf, he succeeded. To keep the dream alive, to build and soar with it, he needed his land.