The long braid she’d always worn was gone, replaced by a breezy, shoulder-length cut, layered and highlighted with faint streaks of copper.

  In short, she was more beautiful than ever.

  And he loved her so much.

  He rolled down his window and took her in in one long visual draft. “Hey,” he called.

  “Hey,” she called back, approaching the truck. “Why are you sitting there? Come inside.”

  “Can’t,” J.P. said. He wanted to get out of that truck, gather her into his arms and kiss her senseless, in front of the whole damn neighborhood, but he didn’t. “Tyler’s waiting for me, over at the Sanfords’. Today’s the day he comes home for good.”

  Her face lit up. “J.P., that’s wonderful!”

  You’re wonderful, he thought. For the past couple of weeks, he’d only caught an occasional glance at Sara, always from a distance.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to go along for the ride,” he ventured, feeling young and shy and very, very awkward all of a sudden.

  Her lovely face lit up. “I’d love that!” she said.

  “Good,” he said, himself again. And full of joy.

  He got out of the truck, planted a noisy kiss on Sara’s forehead and rounded the front of the vehicle to open the passenger’s-side door for her. “Get in.”

  “Wait,” she said. “I need to get my phone.”

  J.P. grinned. These days, smartphones were practically part of everybody’s anatomy. “I’ll be right here.”

  She went back inside the house, leaving the door open, and soon reappeared, phone in one hand, small purse in the other. She juggled both to lock up behind herself.

  When they were standing face-to-face, J.P. smiled at her. “I like the haircut,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she replied pertly. “Now, let’s get going. Like you said, Tyler’s waiting.”

  Minutes later, they were at the Sanfords’ front door.

  Rayleen answered their knock, her eyes full of happy tears, toting the child on one generous hip. “It’s hard to let them go,” she whispered. “I never seem to get the hang of that part.”

  Sara touched the other woman’s arm. “I don’t think I could, either,” she said sympathetically.

  “Anytime you want to see Tyler,” J.P. put in, addressing Rayleen, “just call or shoot me a text. I’ll bring him here, or you and Bob can stop by the ranch. You’ll always be welcome.”

  Rayleen blinked rapidly, and one tear spilled over and trickled down her cheek. “Thank you, J.P.,” she said. She’d joined them on the porch by then, and he noticed the small suitcase waiting beside the mat. “You’re a good man, and you’ll make a wonderful father.”

  “I agree,” Sara said, with another smile.

  For his part, J.P. was too choked up to say anything at all. He reached out, ruffled Tyler’s thick crop of fair hair and then picked up the suitcase.

  “I’m Sara,” said the love of his life, opening her arms to the child.

  “Sa!” Tyler crowed, leaning toward her.

  She laughed, though her eyes were full of tears now, too, and took the boy from Rayleen, simultaneously planting a kiss on top of his head.

  J.P. was downright stricken by the sight of them together, Sara and his son.

  She met his gaze, and something sweet passed between them.

  They said their goodbyes and see-you-soons to Rayleen, and returned to the truck.

  Tyler studied Sara’s hair and stroked her cheek once.

  “Sa,” he repeated.

  Practically the moment Tyler was securely strapped into his space-age car seat, he fell asleep. His cheeks had plumped up some, in the last month, and they were pink with good health.

  Silently, J.P. blessed Bob and Rayleen Sanford and everybody like them.

  In the wider world, there were many foster-care horror stories, but here, in Painted Pony Creek, Montana, there were only happy ones.

  Thank God.

  “I’ve missed you,” J.P. told Sara once they were settled and rolling back toward the main highway.

  “No more than I’ve missed you,” Sara countered. “I love you to distraction, J.P. McCall, and if you don’t propose marriage to me in the next five seconds, I’m going to propose to you!”

  He laughed quietly, not wanting to wake up the little wrangler snoozing in the back seat. “I come with baggage,” he said. “I have a son now. You’d be signing on for more than just a husband.”

  She smiled. “Tyler isn’t baggage,” she said. “He’s a sweet child who needs a mother as well as a father.”

  J.P. looked at her. “Are you saying...?”

  “That I want to help raise Tyler? Yes.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, J.P. McCall,” Sara replied. “I’m no greenhorn when it comes to being a mother, remember?” She paused, tilted her head to one side. “So are we getting married or not?”

  “I’d like nothing better.” He paused. “Well, there’s one thing I’d like better, right about now, but there’s a child present.”

  “That isn’t a proposal.”

  “All right, all right,” J.P. conceded. “Sara Garrett Worth, will you marry me? Immediately, if not sooner?”

  “Yes,” Sara said, beaming, her eyes glistening again.

  “You’re sure. I still get flashbacks sometimes and—”

  “You’ve already told me that, J.P.,” Sara interrupted gently. “And it’s okay. It’s part of who you are, and I love all of you—mind, soul and body.”

  “If it weren’t for a certain sleeping kid, I’d roll down my window and let out a whoop of celebration the whole county would hear.”

  Sara leaned across, straining against her seat belt to do so, kissed his cheek, then took a mischievous little nip at his earlobe.

  Heat rocketed through him, and he hardened instantly.

  She rested a hand on his upper thigh. Teased him a little.

  He groaned. “Stop it, Sara,” he said, wanting her to do anything but stop.

  “No,” she replied, her voice soft and sultry. “I’ve been wearing this weird underwear for days, hoping you’d stop by.”

  “What weird underwear?” J.P. asked.

  “The kind we talked about,” Sara purred.

  “I don’t remember that,” he lied.

  “Fine,” Sara said. “As soon as we’re alone, I’ll show you.”

  J.P. groaned. “You, Sara Garrett-soon-to-be-McCall, are driving me crazy.”

  She giggled. “That’s the idea, cowboy,” she said. “That is definitely the idea.”

  * * *

  #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller delivers a heartfelt and irresistible new novel about Tessa Stafford, a single mom who has recently moved to Painted Pony Creek and will do anything to make the holidays special for her little girl; Jesse McKettrick, who comes to her aid when a man from Tessa’s past threatens her future; and the Christmas that changed their lives forever.

  Enjoy this special preview of Christmas in Painted Pony Creek.

  Christmas in Painted Pony Creek

  by Linda Lael Miller

  Late August

  Five miles outside Painted Pony Creek, Montana

  RED AND BLUE lights splashed against the rear window of the old car, blurred by sheets of rain.

  “Mommy,” chirped five-year-old Isabel from her booster chair in the back seat, “are we arrested?”

  Tessa Stafford sighed, smiling moistly, and lifted her forehead from the steering wheel, turned her head to look back at her daughter. “No, sweetheart,” she replied. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Isabel, a precocious blonde child with bright blue eyes, peered through the steam-fogged windows. “Then why is there a police person out there?”

  Tessa widened her smile—it was an effort—and hoped her eyes didn’t look as puffy and red as they felt. Not only was the car out of gas, but one of the front tires was flat. “I’m sure they’ve stopped to help,” she answered. “Everything’s okay, Buttercup.”

  Was it, though? While she and Isabel certainly weren’t on the run from the law, it was possible that Brent’s mother, a demon of a woman, had managed to trump up some kind of bogus charge against Tessa. She wanted custody of her only grandchild—Isabel—and was willing to go to considerable lengths to achieve her goal.

  Although no less than three judges had ruled against her in family court, Marjory Laughlin was undaunted. She was a wealthy woman, with plenty of friends in high places, and she considered Tessa unfit to raise her only child’s only child.

  A rap sounded at the driver’s-side window, jolting Tessa out of the worry that was always bubbling away inside her, usually just beneath the surface of her normally calm and quiet personality.

  The smeared image of an African American woman in a hooded poncho peered into the car and made a roll-down-the-window motion with her right hand.

  Tessa obeyed, but a face full of rain made her roll it back up again, at least two-thirds of the way.

  “Car trouble?” the police officer shouted, to be heard over the downpour.

  “Yes!” Tessa yelled in response. “I’m pretty sure one of my front tires is flat, and we’re out of gas!” Nothing like having to holler out something you were singularly ashamed of.

  The woman nodded, and even though Tessa could barely make out her features, she gave off a friendly vibe. “You and your little girl okay otherwise? I don’t need to send for an ambulance or anything like that?”

  Tessa shook her head, then nodded, and sighed inwardly, annoyed with herself for the contradiction. “We’re fine,” she called out.

  “No, we’re not!” Isabel protested from her perch in back. “It’s scary out here, and I need chicken noodle soup!”

  The officer leaned closer to the partly open window, laughing, and said, “Well, now, suppose we get you someplace safe and dry?”

  Now it was Isabel who nodded, vigorously and with resolve.

  “My name is Melba Summers,” the woman explained loudly, addressing Isabel. “And I’m the chief of police in Painted Pony Creek.” She paused, fumbled inside her rain slicker and revealed a gleaming brass badge. “You can trust me.” Another pause, then, “Now, I’m going to pull my SUV up as close behind you as I can. Once I’ve done that, I want you and your mama to jump right out of this car and run like the dickens for my rig. I’ll be waiting on the passenger side to help you inside and we’ll head on into town and rustle up some chicken noodle soup at a place I know. How does that sound?”

  Isabel pondered a moment, then beamed. “I can run pretty fast,” she boasted. “I won a blue ribbon last year, in preschool.”

  “In that case,” Chief Summers replied, with a flash of a smile, “I’d better be quick about this.” She shifted her gaze back to Tessa. “I guess I should have asked if this plan suits you,” she said.

  Tessa, low on money as always, was wondering about the price of the promised soup, among other things. All her and Isabel’s belongings, humble as they were, were stuffed inside this rust bucket of a car.

  Nothing worth stealing, she supposed, but necessities, just the same.

  “The locks don’t work,” she fretted aloud.

  “I’ll send somebody to fetch your things, don’t you worry about that, and we’ll figure out what to do about your car later.”

  “All right,” Tessa finally agreed, with a mixture of reluctance and relief.

  She, like her daughter, yearned for someplace warm and dry and brightly lit.

  Isabel had already unbuckled herself from her booster seat and was pulling on her pink hoodie, raising the hood, tugging the drawstrings tight and tying them under her chin.

  Tessa smiled. For such a little kid, Isabel was efficient.

  Since it was August, Tessa’s only coat was packed away in one of the garbage bags piled in the trunk. She would have to run the rain gauntlet in a sundress and sandals, carrying Isabel in her arms.

  Chief Summers hurried back to her SUV, climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the vehicle right up to Tessa’s rear bumper.

  Then she honked the horn.

  Resigned, Tessa pulled the keys from the ignition, dropped them into her purse and turned, once again, to face Isabel. “Sit tight until I open your door,” she said. “I mean it, Peanut. Don’t make a run for the police car without me, got it?”

  A car whizzed by, tires spraying water high into the air. The danger was all too obvious, but Isabel was, after all, only five years old.

  Tessa took a deep breath, pulled upward on the door handle and sprang out of the car, gasping as rain spattered in her face. Then, holding her breath, she opened Isabel’s door, gathered the little girl in her arms and ran, after checking as best she could, given the low visibility, for the chief’s waiting vehicle.

  The chief waited, flung open the passenger’s-side door of her rig when Tessa and Isabel reached her, and half boosted, half shoved them inside.

  Soon, Ms. Summers was behind the wheel, ebony face shining with rainwater and triumph. “Buckle up,” she ordered cheerfully.

  “Don’t you have a car seat?” Isabel asked. Tessa was very strict when it came to car seats.

  “Not today,” answered the chief. “Just this once, we’ll go without.”

  With that, she checked all her mirrors, lights still flashing, and blasted her siren once, just in case. Then she backed up a little, pulled out onto the highway and left Tessa’s abandoned car rocking a little from the force of her passing.

  “Let’s see about that soup,” she said.

  Less than ten minutes later, they were pulling up in front of a restaurant and bar named Bailey’s, according to the colored neon sign perched on the roof.

  The rain hadn’t let up, so the three of them got out of the SUV and made a dash for the entrance.

  Inside, lights gleamed, pushing back the darkness of the summer storm and some of Tessa’s misgivings.

  A tall, blonde woman, of a certain age but blessed with the finest bone structure Tessa had ever seen, welcomed them warmly. According to the tag on her uniform shirt, her name was Alice.

  “Good heavens,” she spouted. “You’re all drenched to the skin!”

  After that, she turned to one of the waitstaff, a pretty young girl, and said, “Carly, run upstairs to the apartment and get some towels, will you, please?”

  Carly hastened away.

  Melba Summers took off her slicker and hung it on one of the hooks alongside the entrance, careful to keep it away from the light sweaters and windbreakers already there.

  “This is—” The chief paused, frowned prettily. “I guess I didn’t get around to asking your names,” she admitted.

  “I’m Tessa Stafford and this is my daughter—”

  “Isabel!” the little girl interjected, with proud enthusiasm.

  Carly returned with three towels, and once the three wayfarers had been ruffled to a semblance of dryness, Alice led them to a table over by the jukebox.

  “Coffee? Tea?” she asked once they were settled.

  “Do you have chicken noodle soup?” Isabel wanted to know. “I like the kind that comes in a red-and-white can.”

  Mentally, Tessa counted the money in her tattered wallet, tucked away in her equally tattered purse. She wasn’t quite broke—she’d set aside enough cash, after leaving her last job back in South Dakota, for a week or two in a cheap motel room, a dozen packets of ramen noodles and a jug of milk—but she had to be very careful.

  She and Isabel had wound up staying in shelters more than once, when funds ran low, and they’d stood in their share of soup lines, too. While Tessa had been profoundly grateful for the help, she’d been secretly ashamed of needing to accept charity, too. She’d never been able to shake the feeling that other people needed food and a bed far more than she did.

  In point of fact, she would have gone hungry and slept in the car, no matter the weather, if it hadn’t been for Isabel.

  “Chicken noodle soup coming right up, young lady,” Alice told Isabel. “How about a glass of milk, too?”

  “Yes, please,” Isabel replied.

  “Coffee for me,” said Melba Summers, chief of police.

  Alice gave Tessa a sidelong, questioning glance. “Coffee sounds wonderful,” she said with a wavering smile. Her sundress was wet, and she was keeping her arms crossed, in case her bra showed through.

  “On the house,” Alice said gently, and headed for the kitchen.

  It was when Tessa let her gaze follow the older woman that the tall man seated quietly at the counter caught her eye.

  He’d turned on the swiveling stool to watch the scene unfold, evidently.

  Somewhere in his thirties, Tessa guessed, he wore old jeans, scuffed boots and a lightweight flannel shirt, open in front to reveal a T-shirt that had seen its best days long ago. His hair, damp from the storm, like his clothes, was a butternut color, thick and ever-so-slightly too long.

  His eyes were blue—almost turquoise—and a light stubble bristled on his jaw.

  An unaccountable jolt went through Tessa the moment their gazes met, and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks, throbbing there.

  Definitely visible.

  Blood thumped in Tessa’s ears, pushing back sound, muffling it, as though she were underwater.

  WTF? she thought.

  It was Chief Summers who broke the strange silence. “Jesse McKettrick,” she said, with a broad grin. “Just the man I wanted to see. You driving that big old show-off truck of yours today? The one with a winch?”

  Jesse left the stool to amble toward them, moving with a slight and probably subconscious swagger. His grin struck Tessa with an impact, like a gust of warm, hard wind.