My Secret Santa Dallas (Silver Ridge Christmas)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Dallas

S tanding there, waiting for my brother to reply, tempted me to turn away, jump into my Jeep, and drive somewhere else— anywhere else.

The problem— I did not have anywhere else to go.

After my life imploded in San Francisco, I had only one way to turn to— my old home in Montana. A home I was not sure would accept me anymore.

Warrick, my brother, stepped closer, and I heard the spurs on his boots jingle, jarring me to the realization that he was no longer the renowned bullrider he’d once been— he was now a cowboy.

He stared at me as if I were a ghost, or possibly a figment of his imagination, but as he came closer, I noticed the slight limp in his left leg.

The accident. The one that had torn his life apart, and I had not been there for him during that time. I braced for his fist to sock me one— or two.

He was owed much more than that.

Warrick stood a foot away from me and stared at me, his eyes flitting from one of my eyes to the other. His hands lifted and came down on my shoulders, his voice cracking. “You’re back? Dallas? You’re back?”

My fear got tighter. “For a while, yes.”

The brother I had not seen for over two decades hugged me tight, and I felt even more like an asshole. I didn’t deserve this welcome. Frankly, I’d have preferred it if he’d punched me.

“I never thought I’d see you again.”

What did I say about that? How could I tell him that I never imagined I’d see this old town again, which would imply that I never wanted to see him again, even while I was on his doorstep?

Looking back, I now realize that sixteen-year-old me was a really desperate, heartless, rootless son-of-a-bitch.

“The town has changed, yet still remains the same,” I murmured.

He snorted. “It’s Silver Springs. No matter how much it changes, it is the same.”

My chest was in knots. If there was one thing I can recall from my time on a ranch, it was that you didn’t get anywhere just by avoiding the issue. You have to grab that sucker by the horns. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m back here… after all this time?”

“No,” Warrick replied.

My head snapped up. “It’s been over fifteen years, Warrick.”

“And not a day too soon,” he replied. “Come on in, Dallas. The questions can wait until tomorrow.”

As he spoke, three people came to the porch, clearly checking on what was keeping my brother. I knew Marie, but the other two, a girl and a guy, I had never seen before .

Warrick turned to the porch and smiled— I knew that smile; I’d seen it on people deeply in love. The girl came forward, her eyes flitting to me and back to him. “Warrick?”

He wrapped an arm around her. “Zoe, Frankie, I want you all to meet my brother, Dallas.”

Her mouth dropped, and I could see she knew about me but didn’t think she’d ever see me in person. “You’re that Dallas?”

“In the flesh,” I replied. “I’m sorry. You are?”

“My girlfriend, Zoe Harrington,” Warrick replied. “But that is enough for tonight. Where did you drive from?”

“San Francisco,” I said. “Straight.”

“ What ?” Warrick exclaimed. “That’s a twenty-hour drive. You must be exhausted.”

“Sixteen and change,” I said to him while rolling my stiff neck. “But you’re right, I’m bushed. I need a bed, a bottle of Jack, and a bath.”

A wild dog howled in the hills, and a stiff wind ruffled my hair. “Come on,” Warrick clapped my back. “Let’s find you a room.”

The house was not the quaint two-story, three-bedroom that I remembered. Warrick had made it three floors, and who knows how many rooms there are now. He opened a room in the attic, which held a double bed with an antique maple wood, a simple pencil post in a honey-brown satin finish, a crisp white duvet cover, and an antique quilt on the bottom.

The only other furniture in the room was a maple dresser opposite the bed, a matching bedside table, and an antique rocking chair piled with pillows.

Warrick looked over at me, obviously waiting to hear what I had to say. “This looks like four days of sleep. Thank you, Warrick. ”

“Do you want to eat something?” he asked. “I can rustle up something. We just had dinner.”

“Slap some meat on bread with the fixings, and I’ll take a beer if you have one,” I nodded to the other door. “Bathroom?”

“Yeah,” Warrick said, peering at me. “Listen, I do want to know what brought you back home out of the blue, but I ain’t gonna push you. You can tell me when you’re ready.”

My throat felt thick, and my chest felt raw.

I didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve this welcome.

Dropping the duffel at the foot of the bed, I sunk to the edge. “There is an explanation.”

“I know.”

“You’re deserving of one.”

He opened the window and shucked the curtains aside. “I know.”

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “How can you be so welcoming to me, Ricko? I left you, Mom, and Dad in the middle of the night. I didn’t even return when they passed. Why— how can you be so welcoming when I have been the most selfish toward you, Mom, and Dad? I left here like a thief in the night. You should be blistering mad. You should have slammed the door in my face. Why— I don’t understand?—”

He was shaking his head. “You forgot that I left this place too? I felt the same way you felt, Dallas. I just didn’t have the balls to leave like you did. I knew if I had stayed here longer, I’d grow to resent it. And look what I got for it—” he kicked out a leg. “—a fuck ton of broken bones, iron plates in my legs, and a permanent limp.”

My jaw went tight. “Did they ever forgive me for it?”

“They did,” he said. “But we can talk about that tomorrow. You’ve been through enough shit for one day. Let me make you that sandwich, you take a bath, and we can talk tomorrow.”

I paused. “Your girl, Zoe, was it? How did that go?”

He laughed. “That is a long story. Another thing for you to learn tomorrow.”

While he left, I tugged a towel, some clean boxers, and some pants from my bag and left for the bathroom. Knowing my brother, if he were anything like Mama was, the vanity would have spare rags and soap in it. I was right. Snagging both, I stripped, stepped into the shower, and turned the heat on high.

When I stepped into the hot shower, I felt more pitiful than I had been in my life. No one knew what had happened to me that night I’d left the ranch, how I’d literally jumped from the frying pan into the goddamn furnace.

Heading to San Fran had tested me. It had sunk me into the worst parts of my life— but I’d thought I’d gotten above it— only to get kicked in the teeth.

And I thought I’d been pathetic then… haha. The joke was on me.

I used the soap to lather my hair and remembered a song I heard on social media lately—when I did check it, that is— all that work and what did it get me.

“Story of my fucking life.”

What did Warrick mean when he said that Mom and Dad actually forgave me for my dick move? Did he mean it, or was it something just to comfort me?

“You remember the hundreds of times you picked up the phone to call them but dropped it…” I reminded myself. “You were too chickenshit, and now it’s too late.”

As I turned around to rinse off my head, I tilted my head up to let the water rain over me. As dim as life felt— I knew I had a lot of hurdles ahead of me with Warrick and with other people when word got around town that I was back home— perhaps this wasn’t a total loss.

Maybe something good could come out of it.

If there was one thing I knew and still know well, it was how to start over and start from the bottom.

Stepping out of the shower, I dried off and dressed, leaving any shirt off, and returned to the bedroom to find that Warrick had left a plate with a heaped sandwich— and as I lifted the top bun, I saw the sprinkles of relish over the tomato— and a beer resting on a coaster.

He’d remembered…

When I was a kid, between 11 and 15, I’d gotten this obsession with relish and had to have it on every sandwich. Taking the roast beef to the window, I cocked an elbow on the sill and began to eat while looking out.

As I stared into the night, a flash streaked through the sky, and I sucked in a breath, following the train of the shooting star hurtling across the inky space. And as much as I wanted to embrace the concept of the shooting star and its symbolism, a shooting star was also a falling star.

“I got the message, Big Man.” I sighed, dusting my fingers off.

While I finished the rest of my meal and nursed my beer, I spotted a notepad on my bedside drawer and lifted it to read Warrick’s messy scrawl.

Dallas. You don’t need to come down until tomorrow. I know you think there is bad blood here, but there isn’t. I understand you; I know how you felt. You don’t have to apologize to me, D. You don’t have to apologize to anyone.

Yes, I know you might have wished to say your goodbyes to Mom and Pop, but they went knowing you were in a better place and that you’d have slowly died if you were forced to stay here. You’re not a rancher, Dallas; you’re a businessman, and while I hope that staying around these parts might turn you into one, I want you to forgive yourself first.

Then we can talk business.

W.

Dropping the note, I rubbed my face.

As kind as my brother was, he didn’t get it; he didn’t get the weight on my heart. Maybe he could lighten it by paying penance.

“I still don’t know what I am going to do now,” I slipped into bed, slid my hands under my head, and stared at the ceiling. “Maybe shucking out stalls will do it.”

The question was, do I go back to Cali, or do I find somewhere else to go?

Where do I go?

What do I do?

I had no idea. Probably wouldn’t for days.

All I knew is I was more tired than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Turning on my side, I felt myself fall asleep, and for once, it was deep. I didn’t remember turning in my sleep— and I woke up with half of my right side numb.

It was about noon, too, and God, I couldn’t believe that I’d slept this long.

I needed coffee like a parched man needed water.

After another shower and getting dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, I came downstairs but didn’t go to the first floor where the kitchen was. Instead, I heard Warrick’s voice from down the hall. He didn’t sound happy.

Coming closer, I heard him say, “I know Portman said he would send an envoy to see us, but I didn’t think it would be this early. The plant is not even built or operational yet.”

The lady he was speaking to was tall and fair, slim but damn, had curves in the right places and long legs teetering on a five-inch heels. Was that proper business wear? Her platinum blond hair was pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and from what peeked behind her ears, I suspected she was wearing glasses.

Her Dover gray suit looked rich and tailored, stinking rich, like what I’d earn in a year at my old job.

Who was she?

“That’s precisely why I am here, Mr. Donovan,” she said, and her tone had my hackles up instantly. She sounded like a hardass, like a corporate machine that didn’t have any interest in anything other than a million-dollar proposal with billion-dollar zeros behind it.

“Mr. Portman would like a preliminary assessment to see if this venture is worth his investment,” the lady said. “You are a businessman yourself, so you should know that capital like this is not something to throw around.”

“His proposal said seven hundred thousand as the initial investment,” Warrick said.

“And this—” she slid a folder to him. “—is his new numbers. Two point five million, in exchange for majority shares and a six percent return. The plant will cost up to five million, and this is basically half of that sum.”

“Meaning you’d take half of the profits from this town?” I stepped in, my tone harsh. “No.”

“Dallas,” Warrick stood, his face tense, wordlessly telling me to stay out of this fight.

The lady turned, and the front of her matched the back, only better: big blue-gray eyes and high, wide cheekbones; a face that producers in Hollywood would have sold their mamas to have starred in a movie.

She was beautiful. She seemed unearthly, even standing there in the strong light flowing in from Warrick’s window. It shocked me into stillness for a moment, doing nothing but appreciating her face.

Miss Corporate examined me from head to toe, and she took her time. Her eyes are the color of a shark's, and damn if I didn’t feel them all around me.

It didn’t matter; I had a backbone.

“And you are?” she asked.

“Doesn’t matter who I am,” I said. “The answer is not only no, it is hell no . Whoever your boss is, tell him to take a hike.”

Warrick looked like he was on the verge of a stroke.

“I am sorry, sir,” she said. “But you have no authority in this decision.”

“I know when someone is being taken for a ride,” I said, waving, “and this is you taking my brother for not only a ride, but stringing him up like a pi?ata and whacking him with the biggest bat you can get,” I said. “The answer, missy, is no .”

The sharks in her eyes narrowed, as if they had sensed blood and were homing in on it. “The name is Blair Rayne Cullen, junior COO to Mr. Hunter Portman, international mogul of Tender T’s steaks. And you are?”

“Dallas Bran Donovan,” I replied in kind. “BA and MA in business, economics, and accounting, and as far as I see it, I am going to be your worst nightmare if you try to push for this deal.”