Читать книгу: «The Cowboy's Christmas Proposition»

One

Deacon Tate was a country boy at heart. He loved life on his Oklahoma ranch—driving the tractor, singing to the cows, riding his horse and stopping to watch the setting sun wash a blaze of colors across the red dirt of home. He would sit on his front porch as twilight softened the landscape, strumming his guitar while waiting for the fireflies to come out to play. He was also a free spirit. He loved life on the road, living on the tour bus, appearing in a different city every night. He fed off the energy of the crowd, absorbing their excitement through his skin by osmosis.

Performing live was in his blood, but he was ready for some downtime in his Red, White and Cool tour. The Sons of Nashville’s manager had purposely scheduled this leg of the tour close to home. After tonight’s performance at the Thunder River Casino just outside of Oklahoma City, the band would take off the week before Thanksgiving and Deke would be heading home to his ranch. Then the Friday after, they had a concert at the BOK Center in Tulsa. They were done for a month after that. The break couldn’t come soon enough.

He sang into the microphone, but his eyes were on the female fans lining the front of the stage trying to get his attention. He flirted with them with winks, and by appearing to sing directly to one or another. He loved women. All women. And he’d only been exclusive once.

The lights dimmed, a stool appeared on stage and he picked up his acoustic guitar and sat down. One blue spotlight picked him out. Head down, he strummed a few chords. The cheers and whistles slowly faded as he played. The chords gave way to the melody he plucked on the strings. The band remained silent, unsure of where he was going. Performing this song was totally unplanned. He’d written it for his cousin Cash’s wedding but hadn’t recorded it.

Deke’s little brother, who was also the keyboardist for the Sons, was the first to recognize the song. After Dillon’s piano riff, their guitarists, Bryce and Xander, picked up the tune and Kenji, the drummer, found the rhythm. Ozzie picked up the bass line without missing a beat.

“Are you ready to take a walk?” he crooned into the microphone. “Darlin’, are you ready for me?” The crowd started to sway in time to the music and the groupies lining the stage pressed forward. Deke closed his eyes. “Are you counting the minutes? Can you feel my heart race?” He riffed on the guitar. “From this day forward, you’ll never walk alone. I’ll shelter your heart. I’ll be your home. You are my love song, my forever song, the last song that I’ll sing.”

He poured out the rest of the words, his voice growing husky with emotion. Deke had watched each of his cousins find and fall in love with the women who completed them. Something inside him wanted the same thing, in a vague someday way. But none of his brothers had taken the plunge and there was something wrong with that picture. The Barrons were the wild bunch, the Tates the steady gatekeepers. Well, except for him. His mother said often and loudly that he was more Barron than Tate, but her eyes twinkled when she said it.

Deke sang of finding love, of losing it. He sang of getting it back and when he sang the chorus again, the women in the front row had faces slick with tears. His voice broke a little as he finished the last few lines and added, “You’ll be my home, my love song, my forever song and the last song I ever sing.”

The spotlight went out. Stunned silence filled the theater, where 2,500 fans were jammed in wall-to-wall. Then pandemonium erupted. Strobes flashed and spotlights probed the stage, but Deacon had disappeared. People screamed and whistled. They clapped their hands and stomped their feet. When the band launched into the opening strains of “Native Son,” the noise volume doubled. Normally, this song was the finale but tonight, it was the encore.

When it was over, Deke and the band retreated backstage to the dressing rooms. The party had already started. Local radio personalities filtered in, some with contest winners tagging along. A few VIPs—politicians and business leaders—crowded around, congratulating him before moving along to the free bar and buffet. A low-level headache throbbed behind his eyes, and Deke only wanted to get on his bus and go home.

A loud squeal caught his attention and he looked up just in time to catch an armful of curves and red hair. Lips smacked his cheek. “You sang our song!” Roxanne Barron screamed.

Deke winced and was thankful when his cousin Cash peeled his wife away. He was surrounded now by family. His brothers, Cooper and Bridger, were harassing Dillon, the baby Tate. Cash was doing his best to contain Roxie, while his other cousins and their spouses, Chance and Cassidy, along with Cord and Jolie, laughed.

“You totally have to record that song, Deke,” Cassidy said. “And have Jolie and I mentioned that we’re totally PO’d you didn’t write songs for our weddings?”

He ducked his head, slightly embarrassed. He’d been on the road and missed both Chance’s and Cord’s weddings though he’d played a cover song at their brother Clay’s. Forcing his headache away, he listened to his cousins and their wives chatter and his brothers tease Dillon. This was family and he loved his.

There was life and love here. Sound and confusion. Friendship and flirting. Deke wasn’t quite so ready to go home now, knowing his house was empty. There’d be no lights on, unless someone had gone by. He had a ranch foreman who lived on the property, keeping an eye on things when Deke was on the road or recording in Nashville, but he doubted the man would think of switching on lights.

The party finally wrapped up and those who lingered spilled into the parking lot. The band would ride the tour bus to Oklahoma City. Those who lived in Nashville had reservations at the Barron Hotel. They’d sleep during what was left of the night and fly home later in the day.

The roadies would break down the sets, instruments and sound systems, and leave the semitrucks and trailers in the secured storage yard where the local guys stored their vehicles during tours. That was where Deacon had left his pickup. He was ready to get home, even if the place would be dark and silent when he arrived.

“Mr. Tate!” The agitated yell disrupted his reverie; he and his three brothers all looked up. “Deacon!” The tour bus driver, Max, clarified. He was all but jumping up and down, alternating between waving and wringing his hands.

“Maxie? What’s going on?”

“I didn’t know what to do, Mr. T. I called the police and I was gettin’ ready to come inside to get you but I couldn’t leave it.”

“Calm down, Max. Police? Why would you—” Deke’s question was interrupted by a loud wail.

The driver pointed at a basket perched on the curving steps leading into the bus. “That’s why, Mr. T. I found a baby.”

* * *

Quincy Kincaid carefully sipped the hot coffee in her to-go cup. Five more hours until her shift change at 7:00 a.m. Her night had been quiet so far. A few speeders. Backing up a Cleveland County deputy on a domestic. She checked the dash clock on her Highway Patrol cruiser. Four hours, fifty-five minutes. And then she was off for three days before her next set of duty days, putting her that much closer to her vacation. Seventeen days, most of them spent far away from everyone. And one more item marked off her bucket list.

Aspen, Colorado, and Rocky Mountain high country, here she came. She’d saved up vacation time and money for this trip since she’d graduated from the Oklahoma Highway Patrol academy five years before. Five-star hotel. Beautiful scenery. Learning to ski. And Christmas far away from her family. She wasn’t a Scrooge. Christmas was okay. It was her family that drove her batty.

Another sip of coffee, and she discovered it was cool enough to drink without caution but still hot enough to be satisfying. Thunder River Truck Stop always had fresh coffee, no matter the time of day or night. She gazed toward the bright splash of LED lights just over a mile down the road. The casino, like the truck stop, was a 24-7-365 operation. She’d set up here earlier and had caught some speeders leaving the concert. Deacon Tate and the Sons of Nashville. The concert had sold out and she’d been lucky not to get roped into extra security duty at the casino. That had gone to the off-duty guys who wanted to pick up extra money for Christmas.

The only present she was buying this Christmas was for herself—the trip to Aspen, to stay in that five-star hotel through the holidays. No family—not that hers really cared. No responsibilities and woo-hoo for that. Just snow and pine trees and mountains and, if she was lucky, a hot guy to share drinks with while sitting in front of a roaring fire. Quin rolled her head on her neck and eased the tightness in her shoulders. Only four hours and forty—

“Adam-109.” The dispatcher’s voice crackled from her radio.

“Adam-109.”

“Respond to Thunder River Casino. In the parking lot. Report of a found infant.”

She opened her mouth to respond when the import of the message filtered through her brain. “Say again, Dispatch.”

“Report of a found infant, Adam-109. Look for the Sons of Nashville tour bus.”

“Ten-four.”

Seriously? A found baby? Who loses their baby? Oh, wait, she thought sarcastically. She was headed to a casino. People addicted to gambling did dumb things. Like losing their kids. Still, what did the band’s bus have to do with the situation? Good thing she was less than five minutes away. She’d be able to satisfy her curiosity quickly. Unable to resist, she hit her overhead emergency lights but without sirens. Traffic stopped on the highway to let her exit the truck stop and she gunned her engine.

The tour bus wasn’t hard to miss. It was one of those custom motor coaches that cost more than most people’s houses. Why people would call such a lavish vehicle a bus was beyond her comprehension. She’d worked event security a few times. Spoiled musicians and Hollywood people just irritated her.

She rolled up on the scene and notified Dispatch. Settling her Smokey Bear hat on her head, she stepped out of her cruiser, adjusted her weapons belt on her hips and strode toward the knot of people gathered around the open door of the motor coach.

A dark-haired woman was arguing with a tall man dressed like a cowboy holding a bundle in his arms. As Quin walked up, she overheard him say, “Forget it, Jolie. You can’t have her.”

Quin sighed. Was she walking into another domestic, only without backup this time?

“I just want to hold her,” the woman pleaded. “You let Cassie hold her. Besides, I’m a nurse. I should check her, make sure she’s okay.” The woman peered down at the bundle and cooed.

Someone dramatically cleared his throat and the entire group turned to look at Quin. She inhaled, set a stern expression on her face and trudged toward them. “I’m Trooper Kincaid,” she announced. “What’s going on here?”

Everyone started talking at once. Quin’s piercing whistle silenced them—all except the baby, who was now crying. The guy holding the infant shifted positions, patting its back as he sort of did this dip-and-sway thing with the kid on his shoulder. The wails turned to little sobs and after a hiccup, the baby cooed, settling its head against the cowboy’s chest.

“I’m Deacon Tate,” the cowboy explained.

Of course he was. Quin would have banged her head against the side of the bus if she’d been standing close enough. “Is that your baby, Mr. Tate?”

“Not exactly.”

“Care to explain?”

“Someone left her on my bus.”

“There was a note,” a beautiful blonde added helpfully.

“And Max found her,” a redhead explained.

An older man wearing a plaid flannel shirt covering a paunch that hung over his belt buckle offered a little wave. “I drive the bus,” he explained.

Quin closed her eyes. She hadn’t had enough caffeine to deal with groupies and good-ol’-boy bus drivers, much less stars too handsome for her taste. When she opened her eyes, no one had moved. She pointed at the driver as she pulled out a notebook and pen. “You. Tell me your full name and what happened?”

“Max, ma’am. Max Padilla. After the concerts, I hang around backstage until the after-party starts to break up. Then I come out and warm up the bus. It’s a diesel so it runs rough on cold nights if I don’t. Plus, I like to get the heat goin’ in the back so the guys are warm, you know?”

Holding on to her patience, Quin prompted, “The baby?”

“Well, yeah. I was gettin’ to that. So anyway, I came out to start the bus and there was the usual stuff stacked up around the door.”

“The usual stuff?”

“Yeah. Flowers and...” The man stared at his boots. Was he blushing? “And stuff that girls—fans—leave for Deacon and the boys.”

“Stuff. What kind of stuff?”

A guy who looked Asian leaned forward. “We get love notes and T-shirts and—”

“Bras and panties,” a younger version of Deacon Tate explained.

Why her? She was so close to end of shift. Quin made a pointed notation in her book: Stuff! She looked up, pretending Deacon didn’t steal her breath. “And?”

When Deacon’s younger clone opened his mouth, Deacon himself cut him off. “Shut up, Dillon. There was a basket tucked in with all the stuff.” He glanced through the bus doors, and Quin noticed a wicker basket for the first time. “Little Noelle here was inside all bundled up in blankets with her diaper bag.”

“You know her name?”

Another man, just as handsome as Deacon but with darker hair and eyes—because she’d just realized Deacon’s were blue—stepped closer, an envelope in his hand, and introduced himself. “I’m Chance Barron.”

That was a name she was familiar with. The Barron family attorney. Just jolly. Her night kept getting better and better. “And you are here why, Mr. Barron?”

“Deacon is my cousin. My wife, Cassie, and I were here for the concert.”

“I’m Jolie Barron,” the brunette added. “I’m an RN and I can check her over if my big goof of a cousin-in-law will give me a chance to hold her.”

So these were not groupies. Quin studied everyone in the group of people standing around. Tates and Barrons were easy to categorize. That left the motley crew likely making up Deacon’s band the Sons of Nashville. Yippee. She wondered if she could call this in and let Cleveland County handle it. As she mulled over that idea, another police vehicle rolled to a stop next to her cruiser. Chickasaw Tribal Police. The casino and surrounding area were technically tribal land. Maybe she’d just let them have it.

“The note that came in the basket states the child’s name is Noelle and that she belongs to Deacon,” Chance continued as the tribal cops approached.

She took the proffered piece of paper and read it before handing it to the nearest tribal officer. Quin arched a brow at the country music superstar. “How often does your...” She didn’t want to say “baby momma.” Considering who she was dealing with, she had to proceed cautiously. “Has this happened before? Your child being dropped off like this?”

“No.” Deacon’s voice was one step above a growl. The baby fussed and he automatically soothed her. “I’m not irresponsible, Trooper Kincaid. I don’t have any children.” He paused, then added, “That I know of.”

Quin glanced at the Chickasaw officers and one shrugged. “Unless she’s Indian, we don’t have jurisdiction. You’re state. Up to you to place her with DHS.”

The Department of Human Services—the foster care system. Quin knew what that was like. She’d been in the system as a kid. She was reluctant to sentence a baby to Child Protective Services but she didn’t have much choice. She keyed the portable radio mic clipped to her shoulder. “Adam-109, Dispatch. Notify DHS of an emergency pickup notice for an infant, my location.”

Dispatch’s response was drowned out by loud objections from the Tates and Barrons. One voice rose above all the rest.

“DHS can’t have her. According to the note, she’s mine.”