A Cowboy for Christmas (25 page)

Recipes

When things go wrong, Lissy takes control of her life by getting in her kitchen and baking her heart out. She feels there is nothing like creating delicious cakes and cookies and pies to take your mind off your troubles. When she's feeling especially down, she loves to whip up her famous Mockingbird Cake. One delicious bite will put a smile on your face and have you singing like the state bird of Texas.

Mockingbird Cake

1 plain yellow cake mix

1 can (8 ounces) crushed pineapple, undrained

2 medium ripe bananas, peeled and mashed

½ cup shredded coconut

½ cup water

½ cup vegetable oil

3 large eggs

1 teaspoon almond extract

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease and flour two 9-inch cake pans. Place cake mix, pineapple with juice, bananas, coconut, water, oil, eggs, and almond extract in large bowl. Blend with mixer on low for 1 minute. Increase mixer speed and beat for 2 minutes. Blend until fruit is well incorporated. Pour batter evenly into pans.

Bake until golden brown (30–32 minutes). Cool before icing with your favorite frosting recipe. (Tip: Lissy believes cream cheese frosting works best with Mockingbird Cake.)

Rafferty Jones loves Lissy and everything she bakes, but he thinks these Cowboy Brownies are absolutely addicting.

Cowboy Brownies

½ cup butter

1 cup white sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

¹/³ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

½ cup all-purpose flour

¼ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon baking powder

Frosting

3 tablespoons butter, softened

3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 cup confectioners' sugar

½ cup chopped pecans

½ cup Texas wild red plum jam (may substitute jam of your choice)

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease and flour an 8-inch square pan. In a large saucepan, melt ½ cup butter. Remove from heat, and stir in sugar, eggs, and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Beat in ¹/³ cup cocoa, ½ cup flour, salt, and baking powder. Spread batter into prepared pan.

Bake in preheated oven for 25 to 30 minutes. Do not overcook.

To Make Frosting
: Combine 3 tablespoons butter, 3 tablespoons cocoa, 1 teaspoon vanilla, and 1 cup confectioners' sugar. Frost brownies while they are still warm. Garnish with pecans. Heat jam in the microwave for 10 seconds. Drizzle over brownies.

 

Sometimes Lissy's mother-in-law, Claudia, can be pretty prickly, but Lissy understands her, and when Claudia is in a blue mood, Lissy whips up her favorite—Cactus Cake.

Cactus Cake

¹/³ cup soft butter

1¾ cup flour

1¹/³ cup brown sugar

3 teaspoons baking powder

2 eggs

½ teaspoon cinnamon

½ cup milk

½ teaspoon grated nutmeg

½ cup peeled and chopped prickly pear cactus

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Mix all ingredients in a bowl and beat for 3 minutes. Grease and flour a 9-inch square baking pan. Pour into pan and bake for 40 minutes.

 

Lissy's two-year-old son likes to help in the kitchen. He loves baking with his mama and he has lots of fun molding these tasty delights into the shape of armadillos in Lissy's tangy Texas take on the popcorn ball.

Tangadillos

2 cups white sugar

1 cup light corn syrup

½ cup butter

¼ cup water

salt to taste

1 tablespoon barbecue sauce, original flavor (add 2 tablespoons for a stronger flavor)

5 quarts popped popcorn

Directions

In a saucepan over medium heat, combine the sugar, corn syrup, butter, and water. Stir and heat to hard-crack stage or 300 degrees F (150 degrees C). Remove from heat, add barbecue sauce; mix well. Add salt to corn before popping. Pour mixture slowly over popped popcorn while stirring. Wait 5 minutes and shape into armadillos. Form the best you can. Makes one dozen.

Announcement

If you missed the two other books

set in Jubilee, Texas

THE COWBOY TAKES A BRIDE

THE COWBOY AND THE PRINCESS

 

by
New York Times
bestselling author

Lori Wilde,

then take a look right here!

The Cowboy Takes a Bride

Chapter One

Good sense comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from actin' like a damn fool.

—Dutch Callahan

T
he naked cowboy in the gold-plated horse trough presented a conundrum.

In the purple-orange light of breaking dawn, Mariah Callahan snared her bottom lip between her teeth, curled her fingernails into her palms, and tried not to panic. It had been a long drive down from Chicago, and jacked up on espresso, she hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. There was a very good chance she was hallucinating.

She reached to ratchet her glasses up higher on her nose for a better look, but then remembered she was wearing contact lenses. She wasn't seeing things. He was for real. No figment of her fertile imagination.

Who was he?

Better question, what was she going to do about him?

His bare forearms, tanned and lean, angled from the edges of the trough; an empty bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold dangled from the fingertips of his right hand. Even in a relaxed pose, his muscular biceps were tightly coiled, making Mariah think of hard, driving piston engines.

Like his arms, his legs lay slung over each side of the trough. He wore expensive eelskin cowboy boots. She canted her head, studying his feet.

Size thirteen at least.

Hmm, was it true what they said about the size of a man's feet?

She raised her palms to her heated cheeks, surprised to find she made herself blush.

Question number three. How had he come to be naked and still have his boots on?

Curiosity bested embarrassment as she tracked her gaze up the length of his honed, sinewy legs that were humorously pale in contrast to his tanned arms. No doubt, like most cowboys, he dressed in blue jeans ninety percent of the time.

She perched on tiptoes to peek over the edge of the horse trough. The murky green water hit him midthigh and camouflaged his other naked bits. Robbed of the view, she didn't know if she was grateful or disappointed.

But nothing could hide that chest.

Washboard abs indeed. Rippled and flat. Not an ounce of fat. Pecs of Atlas.

A rough, jagged scar, gone silvery with age, ambled a staggered path from his left nipple down to his armpit, marring nature's work of art. The scar lent him a wicked air.

Mariah gulped, as captivated as a cat in front of an aquarium.

A black Stetson lay cocked down over his face, hiding all his features, save for his strong, masculine jaw studded with at least a day's worth of ebony beard. His eyes had to be as black as the Stetson and that stubble.

Mesmerized, she felt her body heat up in places she had no business heating up. She didn't know who this man was, or how he'd gotten here, although she supposed that drunken ranch hands came with the territory. If she was going to be a rancher, she'd have to learn to deal with it.

A rancher? Her? Ha! Big cosmic joke and she was the punch line.

Less than twenty-four hours ago she had been standing in line at the downtown Chicago unemployment office—having just come from a job interview where once again, she had
not
gotten the job—her hands chafed from the cold October wind blowing off the lake, when she'd gotten word that Dutch had died and left her a horse ranch in Jubilee, Texas.

She didn't call him Dad, because he hadn't been much of a father. The last time she'd seen Dutch, he'd been hovering outside her ninth grade algebra class, battered Stetson in his hands, his sandy blond hair threaded through with gray, his blue eyes full of nervousness, remorse, and hope. Horse poop clung to his boots and he wore spurs—
yes, spurs
—against the polished maple hardwood floors of her Hyde Park high school. His Wrangler jeans had been stained and tattered, his legs bowed, his belt buckle big. He'd smelled of hay, leather, and horses.

The other students had stared, snickered, pointed.

“Where's the rodeo?”

“Who's the hick?”

“How'd the cowboy pass security?”

“He smells like horseshit.”

“Hillbilly freak.”

Dutch had stretched out a hand nicked with numerous scars, beseeching Mariah to come closer. “Flaxey? It's me. Your pa.”

How many times had she fantasized that he would come back to her? Be a real dad? Love her the way she'd always loved him? But now that he was here, she didn't want him. Not in her high school. Not among her friends. Not dressed like that.

Shame flushed through her. She'd walked right past Dutch as if she hadn't seen him, and when he called her name, she started running in the opposite direction as fast as she could, schoolbooks clutched tight to her chest, heart pounding.

Not only was she ashamed of him, but also she was still mad because he had disappeared a week before her seventh birthday. He told Mariah's mother, Cassie, he was going to see a man about a horse, and he just never came back.

They'd been living in Ruidoso, New Mexico, at the time, and Cassie waited three months for him to return while she cleaned rooms at the Holiday Inn and cried herself to sleep every night. When one of the wealthy Thoroughbred owners in town for a race offered Cassie a job as his family's live-in housekeeper, her mother snatched the opportunity with desperate hands. They packed up their meager belongings, moved to Illinois, and didn't look back.

Dutch never missed a child support payment and he phoned a few times over the years, usually when he was drunk and feeling maudlin; the conversation generally ended with Cassie hanging up on him. Once in a while he sent Mariah gifts at Christmas or for her birthday, but they were always inappropriate. One year, a lasso. The next year, a lucky horseshoe engraved with the words “Make Your Own Luck.” Another year, a pair of purple Justin boots, two sizes too small, as if he thought she stayed forever seven.

As she waited in line, Mariah's cell phone rang playing Wagner's Bridal Chorus. She fished it from her purse at the unemployment line and checked the caller ID.

Randolph Callahan.

A strange mix of anxiety, hostility, and gratitude lumped up in her throat. Why was Dutch calling her after all these years? If he was broke and looking for money, he'd certainly picked the wrong time to call. On the other hand, it would be good to hear his voice again.

The weary woman in line behind her, holding a runny-nosed kid cocked on her hip, nudged Mariah, and then pointed at the poster on the wall. It was a symbol of a cell phone with a heavy red line drawn through it.

“Hang on a minute,” Mariah said into the phone, and then smiled beseechingly to the woman, “This'll just take a sec.”

The woman shook her head, pointed toward the door.

“Fine.” She sighed, never one to ruffle feathers, and got out of line.

A blast of cold air hit her in the face and sucked her lungs dry as she stepped outside. It was the first of October, but already cold as a Popsicle. She liked Chicago in the spring and summer, but the other six months of the year she could do without.

“Hello?” Head down, hand held over her other ear, she scuttled around the side of the building to escape the relentless wind.

No answer.

“Dutch?”

He must have hung up. Great. She'd gotten out of line for nothing. Huddling deeper into the warmth of her coat, she hit the call back button.

“Hello?” a man answered in a curt Texas accent. It didn't sound like her father.

“Dutch?”

“Who's this?” he asked contentiously.

“Who is this?” she echoed on the defensive.

“You called me.”

“I was calling my father.”

A hostile silence filled the airwaves between them.

“Mariah?” the man asked, an edge of uncertainty creeping in.

“You have the upper hand. You know my name, but I don't know yours. Why are you answering Dutch's cell phone?”

He hauled in a breath so heavy it sounded as if he was standing right beside her. “My name's Joe Daniels.”

“Hello, Joe,” she said, completely devoid of warmth. “May I speak to Dutch please?”

“I wish—” His voice cracked. “I wish I could let you do that.”

A sudden chill that had nothing to do with the wind rushed over her. She leaned hard against the side of the building, the bricks poking into her back. “Has something happened?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“No.”

“Sit down,” Joe commanded.

“Just tell me,” Mariah said, bracing for the worst.

“Dutch is dead,” he blurted.

Mariah blinked, nibbled on her bottom lip, felt . . .
hollow.
Hollow as a chocolate Easter bunny.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

Joe's breathing was harsh in her ear.

So her father was dead. She should feel
something
, shouldn't she? Her heartbeat was steady. A strange calmness settled over her, but she didn't realize that she'd slowly been sliding down the brick wall until her butt hit the cold cement sidewalk.

All she could think of was how she'd cruelly run away from Dutch that afternoon fourteen years ago.

“Mariah?” A whisper of sympathy tinged Joe's voice.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“I'm fine. It's not like my life is going to change,” she said quickly.

“I know you weren't close. But he
was
your father.” Joe's tone shifted, barely masking anger.

Oh, who was Mr. High-and-Mighty Joe Daniels to judge her? He didn't know her. “How did it happen?” she asked, ignoring her own shove of anger.

“He'd had pneumonia for weeks. We tried to get him—”

Jealousy ambushed her. “We?” she interrupted.

“The cutters in Jubilee.”

Cutters.

She'd almost forgotten the slang term for people involved in the training and raising of cutting horses.

“We tried to get him to go to the doctor, but you know Dutch, mule stubborn and set in his ways,” Joe continued.

No, she didn't know Dutch. Not really.

“He just kept working. Workaholic, your dad.”

That Mariah knew. Dutch lived and breathed horses.

“We were at an event, Dutch swung off his horse, staggered, coughed. I could tell he was suffering. His face was pale and sweaty. He looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Don't call Mariah until after the funeral.' Then he just dropped dead.” Joe's voice cracked again. “He died with his boots on, doin' what he loved.”

A long pause stretched out between them. Chicago and Texas in an uneasy marriage over the airwaves.

“Joe,” she murmured, “are
you
okay?”

“No,” he said. “Dutch was my closest friend.”

Joe's words finally hit her, a hard punch to the gut. Her head throbbed, and she felt as if a full-grown quarter horse had squatted on her chest. Dutch was dead, and the last thing he said was
Don't call Mariah until after the funeral
. Her father hadn't wanted her there.

“You've already buried him?” A soft whimper escaped her lips.

“At Oak Hill Cemetery in Jubilee. It's what he wanted.”

She turned to stone inside. Iced up. Shut down completely. “I see. Well then, thank you for calling to let me know.”

“Wait,” he said. “Don't hang up.”

Her hand tensed around the cell phone. “What is it?”

“Dutch left you his ranch.”

Dutch left you his ranch.

The words echoed in her head, breaking the thin thread of memory and bringing Mariah back to the present.

The morning sun pushed free of the horizon, bathing the ranch in a butter-and-egg-yolk glow. The joyous twitter of birds greeting the dawn, filling the air with song. How long had it been since she actually paid attention to birds singing? She blinked, seeing Stone Creek Ranch clearly for the first time in full daylight.

It was a country-and-western palace.

The main house sprawled over acres and acres of rolling grassland. On the drive up in the predawn, it had looked like a fat dragon sleeping peacefully after a heavy meal of virgins and villagers. In the daylight, it appeared more like a lazy but handsome king lounging on his throne. Not unlike the lazy cowboy draped insouciantly over the horse trough.

Constructed from limestone and accented with wood finishes, the cowboy mansion boasted a Ludowici clay tile roof, an elevated stone porch, and an accepting veranda. It had to have at least five bedrooms, but probably more like six or seven. A circular flagstone driveway swept impulsively up to the house.

Mariah had parked just short of the main entrance, pulling her rental sedan to a stop by a planter box filled with rusty red chrysanthemums. Numerous other buildings flanked the house. Horse barns, sheds, garages, all well maintained.

Dutch owned this?

She now owned this?

All these years her father had been living in luxury while she and her mother scrimped every penny. The emotions she kept dammed up flooded her—hurt, anger, sorrow, regret, frustration.

Yes, frustration. She had no idea how to run a ranch. She was a wedding planner's assistant, for crying out loud.

Correction. She used to be a wedding planner's assistant. “Used to” being the operative phrase.

What was she going to do with the place? And on a more immediate note, what was she going to do with the man in the horse trough?

Tentatively, she inched closer.

He didn't move.

The shy part of her held back, but the part of her that had learned how to slip into the role of whatever she needed to be in order to get the job done—and right now that was assertive—cleared her throat. “Hey, mister.”

No response. Clearly, it was going to take cannon fire to get through his stupor.

You've got to do something more to get his attention. Hanging back and being shy has always put you in hot water. Take the bull by the horns and—