“ARE YOU sure it’s not sacrilegious to decorate the house, Curtis?” Stetson ducked the pillow that went flying past his head.
“It’s just a little tree and some garland, Roper. It’s not like we’re doing Santa’s workshop in the kitchen.”
“Which is a shame.” He did love the way the lights looked, sparkling against the walls.
“Next year we’ll do it up right.” Curtis wrapped a bit of garland over the mantel.
“Yeah? You thinking you’ll be hanging your hat next to mine, still?”
“Hell, yes.” Curtis glanced over at him, biting his lower lip. “I figure if I have to ride, I’ll do the Cowboy Christmas this summer and maybe Rodeo de Santa Fe. I can miss the stock show season now. I might have to go a couple of places to sign at the sponsor booths, but you could come with.”
A pang of hope hit him, right in the breadbasket. “Yeah? You think?”
“Yeah. I worked my ass off last year so I could win that buckle before I got too old. I—I like having a place to be home.”
I’ll do my best to keep it here for you. “You know you always have a place with me.”
“I do now.” Curtis hung this crazy little felt reindeer on the garland. Examining the tree, ornaments, and decorations Curtis had bought on the way home had made Stetson laugh until his belly hurt. There was a flocked beaver, hand to God.
A flocked beaver, a llama in a rainbow tutu, and a glow-in-the-dark Kokopelli.
He grinned, stringing the weird little fake popcorn doolie around the three-foot tree.
Curtis kept bringing in things—a speaker thing that filled the house with Christmas music, a bunch of new lightbulbs for the lamps, even a new television came in a UPS truck.
Stetson would open his mouth, then close it, not even sure what he would say. He’d told Curtis this was his house too. How could he tell the man not to spend money to make it homey for them?
Especially when he had to admit that big-screen was sort of amazing. You could count the hairs under people’s noses.
Right now the TV was playing crackling log….
It went real nice with the fire in the hearth. The whole thing seemed utterly unreal.
“It’s dueling fires,” Curtis whispered, coming up behind him, one arm snaking around his middle. “Like dueling banjos, but with flame.”
“You’re a nut.” He leaned back, letting Curtis hold him up.
“Nuts! I bought nuts in the shell. Where did I put them? For the stockings.”
“You did? I picked up candy canes.”
“Oh, we’re rocking it.” Curtis kissed his neck.
He’d traded for a tooled wallet for Curtis’s stocking and a three-year-old paint that was looking to be broke. Stetson grinned a little, hoping Curtis was gonna be tickled.
They stood there, Christmas music sliding through the air around them, and he said a little prayer of thanks for what he had right now. Right here.
It was the best he could hope for. He’d worry about the rest of it tomorrow.
“You want hot chocolate?” Curtis asked, sliding around to hold him.
“I do. We’ll make some up, huh? Together?”
“Totally.” They held hands and wandered to the kitchen. The dogs all thumped tails on the floor, because Curtis had brought them in. It was supposed to get down to eight degrees tonight. He thought Curtis didn’t approve of them being out at night, especially with them housebroken.
Curtis hummed along with the music, always moving, always making noise. Stetson adored that, and he found them dancing, two-stepping back into the front room, nice and easy.
Who needed hot chocolate? Curtis kept him plenty warm.
The house phone started ringing, and he sighed, shook his head. “Let me grab that.”
Curtis let him go. “Okay, baby.”
He grabbed the phone in the kitchen. “Hello?”
He needed to pull out milk, cocoa mix.
“Is Mrs. Betty Major available?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know when she’ll become available? We have questions about some medical bills.”
How the hell did he answer that?
“I’m her son,” he finally settled on. “I have her power of attorney.” He had no idea if it was okay to tell them she was dead until he knew who this was.
“She’s late on a number of bills. She’s been sent to collections.”
Could you send a dead woman to collections? “I see. Are you a collections agency?”
“We are, and any information we gather will be used by—”
He hung up the phone. He couldn’t deal with this shit right now.
Curtis was frowning. “Who was that, baby?”
“No one.” He handed Curtis the milk.
“You hung up on them. Salesman?” One eyebrow rose to Curtis’s hairline.
“Something like that, yeah. Bill collectors are unwelcome folks, for sure.” The phone started ringing again.
“So we’ll unplug. It’s unnatural to call anyone this close to Christmas.” Curtis walked over to turn off the ringer.
“Yes.” That was a good idea. Anyone who needed it had his cell number. He ought to just turn the damn thing off altogether.
“What were we doing?” Curtis grabbed his hand.
“Dancing. We were dancing and making hot chocolate.” Good things. Not worrying.
“We were.” Curtis pulled him close, then stepped him in a fast swing to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Lord, he hadn’t known he’d remembered how to do that. Curtis could cut a rug.
They ended up laughing and breathless on the couch, the fire burning low. That was the Christmas spirit. Not some stupid bill collector.
This was real. This was love.