The Texan's Christmas by Linda Warren

rubbed Jacob’s back, his eyes not too friendly.
    He shrugged. “Lucky didn’t put my name on the baby’s headstone. No matter what I did, my son deserves my name and I’m going to have it put on there even if I have to chisel it myself.”
    “Oh, hell.” He heard Cadde’s words as he walked out.
    Chance followed him all the way to his truck. “Kid, think about this. Don’t do something crazy.”
    “He’s my son,” he snapped, opening his door.
    Chance grabbed the door. “Okay. Take a deep breath and think like a rational person. Can you do that?”
    He did as Chance asked and then leaned against the truck, trying to dislodge the outrage in him. What was he doing? Acting like a man who had a right to issue orders. He had no rights. He’d thrown them away in the same self-centered mindset Chuck Hardin had. Oh, God. The truth was as blinding as the September sun.
    “I take it Lucky said no about the name.”
    For a moment he’d lost track of the conversation. “Yep. No discussion. Nothing. Just no.”
    “Give her time. I know that’s hard for you, but if you do something behind her back and illegal you’ll never find a middle ground with Lucky. For your son, take some time.”
    “I hate it when you do that.”
    “What?”
    “Make me see reason. I don’t like this grown-up crap.” He stared off into the warm afternoon and wondered if his life could get any more complicated. “I’m sorry if Shay’s going to be upset about Aunt Etta.”
    “She’ll be fine. We were talking about telling her, but we never found the right time. Aunt Etta loves her and Shay will be happy that she knows the truth.”
    “Oh, crap.”
    “What?”
    “Here comes Cadde. He’s going to hammer on my poor aching head some more.”
    Cadde stopped beside Chance. “Have you talked some sense into him?”
    “Yeah,” Chance replied.
    “Good.” His older brother looked at him. “Please make better judgment calls than you did in your twenties.”
    Kid climbed into his truck. “I’ll have to look up the description for better .”
    As he started the engine, Cadde asked, “Are you coming in to work tomorrow?”
    “Probably not.”
    “Kid…”
    He backed out staring at his brothers’ expressions—the one that said “God protect the world from Kid Hardin.” He might be a loose cannon, but he did it with a smile. Like Aunt Etta had said, he wasn’t ever going to stop laughing, even if his heart was breaking.
     
    H E HAD NO CLUE WHERE HE was going. Seeing Lucky was out of the question. She was at work anyway and he couldn’t talk to her there. Swiping a hand through his hair, he realized he didn’t have his hat. Where in the hell had he left it? At Lucky’s.
    Turning toward the Littlefield place, he decided to retrieve it. He just hoped Bud was in a friendlier mood. When he drove up, he saw the man sitting on the front porch in one of the rockers. His cane rested against his leg and a shotgun lay across his lap. Great. He had to face another Littlefield with a gun.
    He got out and strolled toward the steps. A black-and-white border collie barked.
    “Boy, you better have a good reason for coming back here.”
    He took the steps slowly. “Bud, I’m not a boy anymore.”
    “Humph.”
    He sat in the other rocker. “I came to get my hat.”
    “What you sitting for then? It’s in the house near the sofa.”
    “Is Lucky okay?”
    “Hell, no. Seeing you is like a slap in the face and if you think you’re getting anywhere near the grave, you’d better think again. I’ll fill you with so many holes we’ll be able to use you as a sprinkler.”
    Old Bud had a dry wit, but Kid didn’t think for a second that he didn’t mean what he’d said. “I get the message.”
    “You sure you don’t have a Magic Marker in your pocket?”
    Kid drew back. “I wouldn’t deface my son’s headstone.”
    “But you want your name on it?”
    “Yes, but I wouldn’t do anything stupid.” Not now. Adult reasoning was testing his