Sweet Joymaker (Indigo Bay Christmas Romances #3) - Jean Oram Page 0,35

your new wife. I am on the ranch, right where I’m supposed to be. We are all happy.”

“I shouldn’t feel like a guest on the ranch I was raised on,” he grumbled. “I can’t believe I have to ask for permission to come to my own home.”

“You don’t have to ask for permission, and that ranch was my home for forty years. I have every right—”

“And it was mine for sixty!”

“You don’t turn sixty for another three months.” She said it calmly, realizing that a fight wouldn’t help anything, and would likely please Roy. “I had every right to move back out there when you left. I put blood, sweat and tears and hard work into that ranch, as did you. You’re no longer there, and that place needs me. Our boys need me. Carmichael is my father as much as yours.”

When Roy sputtered a protest, she raised her voice to speak over him. “Do you know he has arthritis in his knees and can barely move when there’s a good storm blowing in? Are you there taking care of him? Making sure he eats his vegetables and goes to the doctor? Are you stepping in to cook meals for our boys when they go down two belt sizes? Are you there showing them they can work together to run that ranch you walked away from? Or helping them through the bumps of figuring out how to love a woman? Have you not noticed our sons are growing up?” She stopped speaking, the lump in her throat too tight to speak past.

“And you’re there mothering them,” Roy said, his tone grumpy.

He sounded like Clint. As if mothering her boys was a terrible thing.

She supposed to them it was. They wanted that attention and energy put into them.

“And I will be there for them until the day I die.”

She almost ended the call, but instead sucked in a deep breath and carried on in a civil tone. “You are always welcome to join us at Christmas, as is Sophia. You don’t need an invitation. But know that I will always be there at Christmas. That is my home. That is my family. And nobody can convince me there is a better place for me to be.”

Then she hit the End Call button with a flourish, but her earlier joy had vanished.

Clint held the door to Katie’s Kitchen, a restaurant on Bayview with a Caribbean-themed decor, and ushered Maria in. Once they were settled with glasses of wine, he took her hand across the table. Maria inhaled, absorbing the ambience. Christmas songs played softly in the background, kettle drums being incorporated into the tunes to give a Caribbean feel.

Clint’s phone rang, and he silenced it. “How was the rest of your day after we played hooky?”

“You can answer that if you’d like.” She pointed toward his cell.

“Nobody’s more important than you are right now.”

“Sweet talker.”

He smiled in agreement. “So? The rest of your day was good?”

Maria thought back. They’d been cramming so much into each day, maximizing their time away. They’d go off to do their own thing for an hour or two before meeting up again.

It had been only that afternoon that Kit had left her outside the craft store. And only a few hours ago that she’d decided that yes, she wanted to date Clint once they returned to Sweetheart Creek.

One more day together. What would it bring?

Maria squeezed Clint’s hand, a sense of anticipation building inside her.

“Did you start painting?”

She shook her head. Not much had happened since they’d seen each other a few hours ago. She grimaced, thinking about Roy’s call, and Clint shifted forward, catching her brief switch in moods. He raised his chin as an invitation to discuss what was on her mind.

“Roy called to ask about Christmas,” she revealed.

“Sharing Christmas isn’t easy.”

“How do you and Kay-Lynn manage the holidays?” Clint had two grown kids of his own. They lived in San Antonio now and had families themselves, Kay-Lynn having moved to the city with their preteens after the divorce.

Clint leaned back in his chair, his hand sliding out of her grip. He looked uncomfortable as he ran his palms down his thighs, exhaling slowly, his eyes on a dancing Santa wearing a Rastafarian hat complete with fake dreadlocks.

“It’s that bad?” Maria asked.

“No, not anymore,” he said quickly, though pain was evident in his eyes. “It was when the kids were younger.”

“So how did you get to where you are now—not so bad?”

He gave a wry