Page 41 of My Secret Santa Dallas

A headache was beginning to bloom at my temples, and any fear of being struck by lightning evaporated. “For the last goddamned time, what do you want?”

“Fine, fine, Father wants you back home for Thanksgiving,” he said. “You know we have a round of social engagements at this time: the hospital gift-giving, the soup kitchen plug-in, and the estate dinner.”

I ground my teeth; he knew how repulsive I found those corporate publicity stunts; they made us look good for the public when we all knew it was simply to get a tax write-off. “No.”

He was silent. “I’m sorry, I misheard. When did you say your flight was coming in?”

“I said no, Wentworth. I am not returning to the estate for that dog and pony show,” I said. “I am sureyou can handle the glitz and glamour by yourself. I have no interest in battling with your ego for four days.”

“How about two?” he asked blithely.

“Not even that,” I said while looking out the window. Dallas had his hand on one grave. He whispered something before he got to his feet and spoke to the reverend. “Enjoy the holidays. I’ve got to go.”

Without a by-your-leave, I hung up on Wentworth just as Dallas stepped back into the church. He looked troubled. “You okay?” he asked.

“Ah, yeah,” I said. How could I complain about family trouble when Dallas was the sudden poster boy for family trouble? “How are you?”

“I— I don’t know what to feel,” he said, taking the box from the pew. “I’m more confused than a blind fox in a fucking henhouse.” His eyes flickered up. “Er, sorry, big man.”

I laughed. “It caught me too.”

“The diner?” he asked. “And we must take another trip to the construction site.”

We rode in silence for a while. Every so often, Dallas would glance over at me, sitting there quietly, watching the snow fall out the window. Bulbous dark clouds hung in the sky, and when we got to the diner, a chilly wind threatened to freeze off our fingertips.

After a tasty dinner, we headed to the Silver Spur for a nightcap. Dallas was slamming back a dirty whiskey while I nursed another Irish coffee. I didn’t want to break the silence before he did.

“It's funny,” Dallas said quietly. “Dad wrote so many letters to me but never sent them. While I cannot count the hundreds of times I picked up the phone to call them, Inever pressed the last digit. I suppose Dad and I were stubborn alike.”

“Maybe he thought he was at fault for holding you back when you wanted to go,” I offered. “And you thought he’d hate you for absconding on them. That is a zero-sum game if I have ever seen one.”

He did that annoyingly stimulating thing with his middle finger circling the rim of his glass, and I squirmed in my seat. “I don’t know if I can read those letters,” he admitted.

“Maybe not at once,” I suggested again. “One at a time, maybe? It looks like they are arranged in chronological order.”

Cocking an elbow on the table, he rubbed his forehead. “I just cannot believe I fucked up this badly.”

“If it is any consolation, my family is a bag of showboating hypocrites,” I said. “Well, my brother is. He’s like one of those mythical snakes, you know, you cut one head off and he grows three in its place, and all his fangs are venomous.”

“Is that why you distance yourself from them?” he asked.

“That and the fact that he was chosen to run the business instead,” I admitted. “Yes, I am salty about it, but you know what, I realize I’d have gone stir-crazy working with the family company. You know what they say, familiarity breeds contempt.”

He shook his head. “We’d better get back to the ranch. I want to sleep for a week.”

I eyed his drink. “Are you okay to drive?”

“I only had two,” he said dryly. “I’m six foot three and two hundred and seventy-five pounds. Do you think two four-ounce drinks will tank me? Frankly, I am astoundedyou’re coherent. You’ve been sucking down those Irish coffees like they’re gonna disappear tomorrow while you’re a buck twenty soaking wet.”

I did not want to tell him about the buzz I had going on.

“Well, I am not the one driving,” I shrugged.

Snorting, he dropped a couple of dollars on the table for a tip, and we left. The snow was coming down hard now, and as we passed by the general store, we spotted Hank shoveling the snow into heaps.

We went to the ranch to find the snow that had piled up near the front walk, almost half a foot high, and I couldn’t resist. While Dallas locked the truck, I grabbed a handful and packed it tight. The moment he turned around, I smacked it in his face.

I stood still while the snow slowly slipped down his nose and dripped off his face before he collected his wits and wiped the rest away.

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