A Cowboy Under the Mistletoe by CATHY GILLEN THACKER Page B

humiliating! And depressing, since the messages are all going out simultaneously on the morning of December 23!”
    Good thing I’ve never been much for Christmas, or my holiday would be completely ruined.
    â€œCouldn’t they at least have kept us around until after the holiday?” Porter complained.
    Ally winced as her Audi bumped through a water-filled rut that spanned the width of the gravel lane.
    Was there no place on this ranch not needing repair? she wondered. Then said practically, “For accounting reasons, the company has to wrap this up before December 31. You know that. Anyway, the last I heard, the plan was to keep at least a few of the old middle managers around, to help with the transition. So you could still have a job when the dust settles, as could I.”
    â€œI’m not counting on it, which is why I’m already sending out my résumé as we speak.” Porter paused. “At least you have a substantial financial cushion with the ranch.”
    Not as much as people probably thought, given the size and value of Mesquite Ridge. Unless they had looked at her financials…
    â€œAll you have to do is sell to Corporate Farms or whoever and—”
    Holy cow! Ally blinked in astonishment as she reached the clearing that surrounded the ranch house and barn. If she hadn’t known, she would have sworn it wasn’t her home! She’d been gone only a little over two hours, yet half a dozen pick-up trucks and cars were parked there.
    Inside the 1920s domicile, lights blazed.
    Clearly, a party was going on.
    Why hadn’t she been invited?
    Or at least advised that it was happening?
    â€œâ€¦Whereas I will probably end up having to sell my condo,” her coworker continued. “Unless I end up getting another job right away. If we’re lucky enough to get a little severance, along with our pink slips—”
    â€œPorter,” Ally interrupted, “I’ve really got to go.”
    â€œOkay. Call me.”
    â€œI will.” She turned off her phone and dropped the earpiece into her shoulder bag.
    Gathering up Hank’s mail, she drew a bolstering breath. And emerged from her car just in time to see Hank stride out of the front door and head straight for her.

Chapter Eight
    Grinning, Hank strolled toward her, one hand behind his back. “Ready for a surprise?”
    Was she?
    Before Ally could protest, he produced a red Santa hat and slid it over her head, so the white fur trim obscured her vision. Trying—and failing—to hold on to her pique regarding both his cheerful antics and the party obviously going on in her absence, Ally drawled sarcastically, “Is this necessary?” The furry brim tickled the bridge of her nose.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Hank bantered back. “If you want to get in the holiday spirit…”
    Ignoring the tremor of excitement soaring through her, Ally let him guide her. “I thought I told you I wasn’t big on holidays.”
    Hank’s warm hands closed over her shoulders. Purposefully, he steered her in the direction he wanted her to go. “Yet,” he interjected, as if he expected that attitude to fall by the wayside as quickly and easily as her resistance to him had.
    Talk about a one-track mind! Determined not to let him know how much she hated having to rely on him to get anywhere, Ally scowled as he helped her up the steps, ontothe front porch. Her skin tingled from the contact. “You’re not going to be able to change me, you know.”
    His laughter had a masculine, confident ring to it. “Famous last words,” Hank whispered in her ear. He propelled her through the front door, turned her toward the living room and whipped off her Santa hat.
    â€œMerry Christmas!” everyone said in unison.
    Ally blinked. Thanks to Hank and the twenty or so working guests, the ugly horse-and-hound wallpaper that had dominated most of the first floor was