Coming Down Christmas

Coming Down Christmas

Karen L. Abrahamson

Writing as Karen L. McKee

Tara Yule gave up everything to help her sister hold onto their parent’s Christmas tree farm… and it wasn’t enough. When a cowboy in a snowstorm forces Tara off the road, it brings her face to face with Rick Spader—tall, Stetson-wearing, and supremely confident. Rick has everything in the world Tara could ever want. He could be a perfect match for her sister, if Tara can just get them to fall for each other.

Of course, that’s when things get complicated.

Karen L. Abrahamson provides a heartwarming tale of Christmas trees, hayrides and horses in the snow. A charming story of family and dreams that come true.

Copyright

Electronic edition published by Twisted Root Publishing November 2014. Coming Down Christmas Copyright © 2014 by Karen L. Abrahamson.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Twisted Root Publishing

Cover images: © Philcold|Dreamstime.com – Arriving Home Photo,

©Syda Productions|Shutterstock.com,

For more information about Twisted Root Publishing, please visit our website at http://www.twistedrootpublishing.com.

Includes a sneak preview of

Second Spring.

Chapter 1

Four p.m. and Tara Yule was exactly five and three-quarter miles from the home she was currently sharing with her sister, Sue. She knew because she’d measured it using the vehicle’s odometer on other trips to town, just like she knew that the snow accumulating on the roads was exactly deep enough to stop anyone with a lick of sense from venturing out—except her. The snow came down in fat white flakes that would have been beautiful if they weren’t slapping against her windshield and turning into a gloppy mess that clogged her wipers like a poorly erased accounting ledger. The mess of ice around each wand left aggravating slushy streaks across the glass that obscured everything even more than the flat white light of the lowering clouded sky. The red Explorer churned through the drifts, the road not much more than a flat space between barbed wire fences and, in places, snow-clotted pine trees.

Tara shook her head. It was a road she could follow because she knew where the road led and she had the vehicle designed to get there. City people, though. That was another matter, and right now, the end of November was a critical time for city people to be driving out to the Yule Christmas Tree Farm. Not going to happen in this weather. It was ten degrees too cold and the wind was going to worsen, according to the weatherman’s prognostications. She believed in bad weather like she believed in the concept of risk management—bad things inevitably happen—you just need to plan for them. And right now she had that tight feeling in her chest like she was coming down with a cold, or in this case, Christmas.

The Explorer’s wheels lost their traction for a moment and the vehicle’s rear end drifted a little to the side. She corrected precisely and slowed, and the wheels bit in again. Relaxing her grip on the wheel, she leaned back against the seat. The heater/defroster chugged overtime combating the frost forming at the edge of the windshield and which was permanently etched on her side window. In the dry heat, the car smelled of old coffee, and pine from the load of sample Christmas wreaths she’d just taken into town to show the buyers at the local grocery and hardware stores. There was also the bouquet of wet dog from Katy, her black and tan border collie, quietly panting beside her.

If it kept snowing like this the money from the wreaths might be the best part of any income Sue would make over the holidays. Even that wasn’t going to help much to put food on the table or clothes on the backs of a couple of growing-like-weeds kids, or to pay the back taxes on the farm their father had been so proud of. At this rate, she and Sue would have to make some tough decisions come January. The account books for the farm were bleeding red—not that she hadn’t already warned Sue. But then, when had Sue ever had a head for business? She was the clichéd younger sister, always needing to be rescued.

Pumping the brakes lightly, she slowed for Standish Hill, a treacherous slope that led two miles down to the bottomland near Prudholme Lake. Mature pine and spruce guarded the road, their branches laden to capacity with snow. The afternoon light fell too quickly toward evening at this time of year and already the low light was placing distance-distorting shadows across the limited vision she already had through the windscreen.

The Explorer dipped downhill and she squinted against the plague of flakes coming down. She should stop and clean her wiper blades, but the thought of stepping out into the cold kept her inside the car and she wasn’t that far from Sue’s place. This wasn’t exactly her neck of the woods anymore. It was Sue’s, and it was Sue’s determination that kept her family here and Tara on the hook trying to save them with her accounting skills.Not that it had done any good so far.

Damn place could benefit from a good snow plough, couldn’t it, girl? She reached over to ruffle Katy’s soft fur, just as something huge and dark red leapt out of the woods in front of her.

What the—!

She slammed her foot on the brake and the Explorer’s tires locked under her.

Moose? Horse! A flipping horse had leapt out of the woods right into the road.

The loose snow gave under her tires and the SUV started to slew sideways, the steep hill working against any attempt to stop.

The horse kept going, bounding into the snow on the other side of the road, but like an apparition out of an old western, a figure on horseback broke through the trees in hot pursuit. Rider and horse bounded onto the road immediately in front of the SUV. An image of dark horse and dark rider hunched against the snow and they were right there. She was going to hit… She spun the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes and the Explorer rocketed off the road into the mega drift at the side, a whiteout of snow blocking all view of the world.

The truck stopped, the engine roaring, until she remembered to take her foot off the gas. The SUV stalled and the cab filled with the sound of her grocery bags toppling off the rear seat. She winced. She’d just bought eggs.

Chapter 2

Swirling fat flakes slapped Rick Spader’s face and half blinded him under the brim of his Stetson. He leaned lower over Chevron’s neck, the bay gelding’s black mane pluming in his face as he bounded after the damn chestnut mare. The forest of tall pine and spruce and cedar flashed past on all sides, like so many columns in a Grecian temple.The idiot mare twisted and turned through the trees and Chevron somehow kept his footing as he barreled after her in the barely visible footing. It was license to break a good horse’s leg and he wanted to just haul back on the reins and abandon the whole chase, but this was Pepe’s Star Anise he was chasing, the chestnut horse a fading slash of copper in the dying light.

The air was grey around him and the snow continued to sift through the tall trees and break the load capacity of the branches so that the occasional huge avalanche of snow fell like a dike had broken in the sky. His Stetson’s brim was full of the stuff and so was the collar of his thick sheepskin jacket, so that the spring thaw from body heat sent freezing water down his back. So not how he’d planned on spending this afternoon. His desk with the architectural plans was waiting and instead he was riding like a madman through late afternoon snow.

The damn mare wasn’t getting any closer, either. The idiot was running head and tail up like some damn high school majorette, but without a rider she was faster than Chevron. A good sign for his father’s breeding program. So was the fact she seemed to float through the snow: good slope of shoulder, nice tight angle of hocks. She was a horse architect’s (if there were such a thing) dream—almost perfect. She was smart, too. Too smart actually, the way she’d Houdini’d her way out of her paddock. Brains and skills that, if she passed them off to her foals could make for solid reining horses in the next generation.

In the meantime he just had to catch her. He was going to have to design a whole new locking system for the barn when he got the little varmint home.

Another tree branch let loose above him and an avalanche of snow cascaded down, momentarily blinding him. When he’d cleared his eyes, there was no sign of Anise, just a line of tracks that were too quickly being filled in.

Come on, Chevron. Where’s she got to, now? He pressed his heels into Chevron’s sides and the horse stretched his stride a little farther over the treacherous ground. One bound. Another. The trees cut away to either side as Chevron leapt out and there was Anise disappearing into the trees ahead and—oh crap—the road.

Big red SUV barreling toward him moving way too fast to stop in time. The SUV’s brakes slammed on, but the vehicle still veered toward him. Broken bones and blood were all he could envision. He whipped his reins on Chevron’s neck. The horse gathered himself and leapt, the vehicle’s bumper sliding miraculously behind, and Chevron was up the slope and into the trees. A half-heard whump behind him made him wince at what might have happened.

A flash of chestnut ahead and flipping Anise was simply taunting him.

Stay and help the driver?

Go after Anise?

The driver probably wouldn’t be going anywhere quickly. He kept going after the mare.

He leaned lower in the saddle to clear a low branch and snow slammed onto his back. Chevron plunged forward and suddenly leapt, clearing a fallen tree trunk. His Stetson almost came off. He grabbed for it and shook the snow out of his eyes as Chevron came to a stop and stood there, sides heaving, steam rising off his sweating coat.

They were in a logged off clearing and the darn red mare was wearing a path in the snow trying to find space to leap through, but her path was blocked by fallen trees, the snow swirling around her and flying up from her hooves.

Rick sat down in his saddle.

Well, well, well, little witchy mare. Seems you’ve got yourself caught, now, doesn’t it? His voice seemed hollow in the hiss of snow. He fished the lariat off his saddle. It had been a long time since he’d used the rope, being a city boy now and all—at least according to his father. But using a rope had been something he learned as a kid growing up in Montana. Having the stiff loops in his hands felt like old home week.

He fed the loop rope and started turning the lariat slowly. The mare was spooky enough after her run through the forest. She sure as hell wasn’t going to stand still to let anyone walk up to her. She’d enjoyed her run too much and right now the look in her eye said her blood was up.

He eased Chevron forward, careful to keep the bay horse between the mare and the opening back through the trees. Ornery thing would try to run home, too, if he was any judge.

The mare snaked past Chevron’s nose, flicking her tail in the patient bay’s face. She trotted down the wall of the clearing, still searching for an escape route. Then neatly rolled back to trot in the other direction. Oh yeah, this mare would produce good reining horse foals.

He fed more rope into the loop as she came toward them, then easy-as-pie lobbed the rope toward her head. She shied, but the loop was large enough to settle over her head and he pulled it tight. There.

Come here you feisty little darling. Another job well done.

Anise tossed her head and pulled back one tug; then she was smart enough to acknowledge her adventure was over. She hung her head and stood there steaming. She’d been caught fair and square.

He rode Chevron up beside her and she stood obediently, like the well-bred mare she was, instead of the ornery little thing that had led him a merry chase. Quickly he slipped a halter over her head and, loosing the lariat, dallied the lead shank to the saddle horn.

There. Now no more tricks today, ya witch. He hauled his cell out of his pocket and dialed home.

On the third ring Pop picked up. Spader Farms.

Pop. It’s me. I got her, but it’s going to be a while getting home. I’ve got some stuff to take care of on the way.

The mare okay? His father’s deep rumble focused, as usual, on what was most important to him, not that his son had just ridden for an hour and half through a blizzard to catch the darn mare.

She’s fine. Just as sweet tempered as ever. I’ll see you in a while. He clicked off, shaking his head, pocketed the phone and led the mare out of the clearing, steam rising off both horses’ coats in the cold air. The light had faded further and the forest was now a wall of gloom. He’d be better off taking the road home than trying to find his way through the woods. He hadn’t lived here long enough to be sure where he was.

A slow, circuitous route through the trees, fighting the mare who seemed to always want to go the far side of the trunks, he finally made it back to the road. The cold had finally weaseled under his collar and cuffs and down into the warmth of his coat. It wasn’t going to be a fun ride home and he hadn’t had lunch because he’d been trying to catch Anise with a bucket of oats until she decided to high tail it into the woods.

You could barely tell it was the road, the snow was falling so thick and fast. The gravel surface was covered by about eight inches of the white stuff, except where four wheels had locked up and dug deep tracks sideways and into a drift.

A red SUV sat hung up in a snow drift on the far side of the road, and walking away down the road were a small figure