If the Boots Fit Read online

  If the Boots Fit

  Cooper McKenzie

  S. E. Walker

  Cooper McKenzie, LLC Book

  Fiction

  If the Boots Fit

  Copyright © 2019

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-9982170-6-2

  Cover design by Lesli Richardson

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2019

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Cooper McK, LLC

  Georgetown, Texas

  Dedication: To Lisa Carter, who encouraged me to write this story, who helped name the characters, and who still hopes my own Christmas cowboy to come calling for the boots.

  Chapter One

  Thanksgiving Eve

  “You need a man in your life. Or at least in your bed,” the voice on the speakerphone stated seriously, just before breaking into drunken giggles.

  Mary Beth Evans chuckled, a little tipsy herself, before she replied. “Only if he’s a rich cowboy who can keep up with me, in bed and out. Otherwise, I’ll just stick with my toys, my imagination, and all those books you keep writing for me to edit.”

  “You need to write to Santa. A special Christmas letter telling him exactly what you’re looking for in a man,” Heather Rhodes, her best friend, best-selling author, and instigator of more trouble than Mary Beth could count, instructed as she pulled into her driveway.

  After parking and turning off the engine, Mary Beth picked her phone off the dashboard. “I’ll be sure to do that before I pass out. I’m home safe, so your keeping me company on the five-mile drive from your house to mine duty is done. Goodnight. Sleep well. Happy Thanksgiving. Thanks again for dinner. I love you.”

  Mary Beth hung up as her friend began giggling again. She slid the phone into its assigned side pocket of her purse. After releasing her seatbelt and opening her door, she reached across the center console to the passenger’s seat. She carefully picked up the tray piled high with plastic containers of leftovers Heather had sent home with her. Climbing out of the car, she bumped the door closed with her hip, then walked across the yard and up the steps to the front porch that wrapped around her old stone farmhouse.

  “What the hell?” Mary Beth muttered as she tripped over something at the top of the porch steps.

  It took some fancy stepping to keep from falling on her face, hurting herself, or dropping the tray of food in her hands. Once again, she admitted that she really did need to replace the bulb in the porch light that had blown out a week after she moved in. It had been six months, and she had yet to replace the damn thing.

  She’d put it on the never-ending to do list that hung from the refrigerator door. The list that did not seem to grow any shorter despite her trying to fix at least one item every week.

  But changing the lightbulb would not happen tonight. It was nearly midnight, and she was exhausted. She would put the leftovers Heather had sent home with her into the refrigerator, then fall into bed and sleep for as long as she possibly could. She had another three days off and planned to eat leftovers, read, sleep, and get started baking the hundreds of Christmas cookies she made each year for friends and family.

  Shifting the tray to balance on one arm, Mary Beth managed to unlock and open the front door. Once inside, she closed it and flipped on the light in the front hall. She then carried the food straight to the kitchen, sliding the tray directly into the nearly empty refrigerator. She would worry about repackaging it into individual meals in the morning, for now it was enough to get it put away. From the weight of the tray, she would be eating leftovers all weekend. Once she’d put away the food, Mary Beth headed back to the front door. In moves so long practiced she never thought about them anymore, she clipped the carabiner on her keyring to the handle of her oversized leather purse before setting the bag in its reserved spot on the bench beside the front door.

  Then, instead of toeing off her boots and heading for her bed, Mary Beth grabbed the flashlight she kept in the cubby under the bench and stepped out the front door. Flicking it on, she swept the porch. No animal had howled when she tripped coming inside, and there was no skunk smell, so it had not been a stray cat or other wild critter taking refuge on her porch.

  Stepping slowly across the wide porch, which had been one of the reasons she had bought a house that was too big for just her, Mary Beth picked up the object she had tripped over.

  A pair of boots.

  A pair of cowboy boots.

  A pair of expensive-looking, brown leather, cowboy boots.

  Turning the flashlight to sweep the rest of the porch and the front yard, Mary Beth muttered to herself, “And again I say, what the hell?”

  The front yard was empty. The porch was empty, except for her and the boots. She had been so busy the past few months cleaning, painting, and renovating the inside of the house, she had yet to start on the outside, except to hire the yard guy the previous owner had recommended to rake the leaves and clear the flowerbeds. Hector had come just a few days before, cut the grass one last time before winter, raked up the leaves, and cleared all the dead vegetation from the flowerbeds.

  Carrying the boots inside with her, Mary Beth closed the front door and twisted both the knob and the deadbolt locks. The action was another automatic reflex, learned the hard way after leaving her ex-husband and moving out on her own nearly a dozen years before. It had begun after the day she had gone to the mailbox to check the mail. She returned home and found her ex sitting in the living room, the divorce papers he’d been served with earlier that afternoon crumpled in one fist. He had been pissed and attacked as soon as she entered the apartment.

  Thankfully, her neighbor, a county prison guard, had heard her screams. He came through the unlocked door before her ex could do too much damage. Mary Beth had ended up with a black eye, split lip, and broken arm. Her ex had ended up in jail, and her divorce had been fast-tracked due to the attack. As soon as it had been finalized and filed with the courts, she had packed up and moved to Texas, putting half a country between her and her ex.

  Mary Beth set the cowboy boots on the bench next to her purse. She then pulled the hair band from her braid and dropped it in her purse the combed her fingers through her hair as she used the small boot jack to take off her own boots. She sighed deeply once her bare feet hit the cool wide-pine board floor.

  She hated shoes. Too bad polite society, fire ants, and prickly grass required they be worn. Inside, she always went barefoot inside her home.

  Like dealing the leftovers, Mary Beth decided to deal with the mystery of the cowboy boots in the morning. All she wanted to do now was to crawl into bed and sleep until she couldn’t sleep any longer. She turned off the lights as she walked through the living room and kitchen. As she did, the auto-sensing nightlights she had placed her second night in the house left a dim glow in her wake.

  Darkness was not her friend. Nor were closed doors inside the house. She was never sure what might be hiding behind them. More than once she had opened a door to find a monster lurking on the other side. Which was why, over the past six months, she had taken down every door except the ones on the bathrooms and bedrooms upstairs. The doors would remain stored in the back yard shed until she got ready to sell the house. The bedroom and bathroom doors stood wide open, with covered bricks as doorstops to keep them that way.

  Once in her bedroom, she changed out of the dress she had worn to Heather’s Thanksgiving dinner and pulled
on one of the oversized T-shirts she preferred to sleep in. This one was black and emblazoned with a white outline of Texas and #texasstrong on the front. It had been a fundraiser after Hurricane Harvey that she had been happy to donate to even before she moved to the state.

  After brushing her teeth, Mary Beth climbed into bed with a weary sigh that felt like it started at her toes. Settling into the pile of pillows, she pulled the blankets over her and snuggled into the nest she always made. Closing her eyes, she hoped sleep would roll over her quickly. Her brain, however, refused to shut down. Instead, her thoughts circled the boots like a dog checking out a stray kitten.

  Who did they belong to?

  How did they end up on her front porch?

  What was she to do with them since they were too big for her to wear?

  Frustrated that sleep remained elusive, Mary Beth growled as she threw back the covers. Climbing out of bed, she retraced her steps to the front door. Flipping on the overhead light in the foyer, she blinked against the brightness as she picked up and studied the one of the boots.

  Cowboy boots.

  Brown leather cowboy boots.

  On closer inspection, she found the boots were in excellent condition. The soles and heels were a bit scuffed, though not overly worn. The toe, vamp, and shaft were highly polished and well cared for. These boots belonged to someone who apparently took very good care of them. The fancy stitching on the shaft of the boot combined with her gut instinct, told her these were some man’s dress boots.

  If that were true, why had they been left on her porch?

  Someone had to be missing them. From shopping for her own pair of boots the month before, when cooler weather finally settled in, she knew that nice, leather cowboy boots like these were not cheap.

  Looking into the top, she found a brand burned into the leather along with the size. She did not recognize the brand, but knew they had to be expensive.

  Setting them back on the bench, Mary Beth made a mental note to check with the neighbors to see if any of them had lost a pair of boots. She would also ask her Texas friends if a cowboy leaving his boots on a single woman’s porch was some sort of Texas tradition she had yet to hear about. In the past half year of living in the state, she had learned that Texas was, indeed, a whole other country.

  Turning out the lights, she headed back upstairs. As she settled under the covers for a second time, Mary Beth wondered what kind of man leave a pair of obviously expensive boots on a stranger’s doorstep.

  With a grin, she said a quick prayer that when he showed up to retrieve them, he proved to be single, good-looking, and of an appropriate age to invite to dinner. Heather would be proud of her if she actually had dinner with a man.

  As her eyes drifted closed and sleep rolled over her like ground fog, she continued the tradition her mother had started when Mary Beth had been three. These days though, instead of writing a letter to the big man on Thanksgiving Day to be mailed the next morning, she simply sent her Christmas wish list out to the universe in the form of a whispered prayer.

  “This year I’d like a cowboy for Christmas, please, Santa. A single, sexy, age appropriate, good-looking cowboy who fits those boots that showed up on my porch this evening. But, if you can’t send me the cowboy for Christmas, could I please have a puppy or kitten who likes to snuggle, will fall asleep in my lap while I’m working, and keep me company for the next ten or twelve years so I don’t miss having a man in my life. Thank you very much.”

  Chapter Two

  Thanksgiving Day

  “Where the hell are my boots?”

  Roman McBride stared at the empty bit of hardwood floor in his closet where his dress boots were supposed to be waiting for him to put them on. He’d woken up that morning in his bed with vague memories of his foreman helping him into the house and upstairs to his bedroom.

  Mack had helped him strip to his boxers and then fall into bed. The man had even left a bottle of his favorite sports drink and a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers on the bedside table, for which he was most grateful this morning. After taking the painkillers and emptying the bottle of fluids to rehydrate, he had showered and dressed for a day of hosting the Thanksgiving dinner for the men who worked for him and their families.

  But his dress boots were missing.

  What was he going to do? He needed those boots if he was going to do a proper job of hosting the ranch’s annual Thanksgiving throwdown. Though after last night, when his men had kept his whisky glass full and he had a few missing pieces to the puzzle that the evening had become, Roman had vowed to abstain from all things alcoholic until at least the Fourth of July….well, maybe New Year’s Eve.

  With a sigh, Roman slipped on the black, fur-lined clogs his men had given him for his fiftieth birthday the year before. These would have to do until he tracked down his dress boots. His every day, work boots were currently being held together with duct tape and smelled of cow dung and other, better left unidentified smells.

  Carrying the empty sports drink bottle with him, he headed down for breakfast. Though it was a national holiday, he knew Stella Rogers, his housekeeper, would be in the kitchen already hard at work on the pies for the late afternoon dinner that had been a ranch tradition for well over a hundred years, since the McBrides had moved to Texas and claimed this piece of land.

  Entering the kitchen, he took a deep breath and smiled. The scent of apples, cinnamon, and other spices filled the air, making his stomach growl. After dropping the plastic bottle into the recycle bin, he poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “You slept late,” Stella said as she pulled out two fry pans and set them on the stove with twin resounding bangs that caused Roman to wince in pain.

  “The boys got me drunk,” he said as he retreated out of the kitchen and took a seat at the bar. He knew better than to go any further until he had eaten enough to satisfy the motherly housekeeper. “Have you seen my good boots down here?”

  “You lost your boots?” She asked as she tossed some bacon into one pan. As it started to sizzle, she broke eggs into the other pan.

  “I’m not sure. Mack helped me upstairs last night, but my boots apparently didn’t make the trip with me.”

  The coffee was just beginning to wake him up when she slid a plate of food on the counter in front of him. A moment later, a fork and knife were dropped on the counter with a clatter, causing another wince which only aggravated his lingering headache.

  “Well, I haven’t seen them down here,” Stella said before turning to the industrial-size oven when a bell sounded.

  Roman inhaled his breakfast, then escaped to his office where he spent an hour doing ranch business before knocking off for the rest of the day. Just because it was a holiday did not mean the work stopped.

  He knew Mack and the boys were spread out across the ranch, busy attending to the animals, and whatever else needed to be done, just as they always did. His crew worked hard, played hard, and were the most loyal men he had ever know. He preferred to hire veterans and homeless men, who he trained in the McBride Ranch way. Though ranch life was hard, his men were grateful for not only their job, but also a roof over their head and three meals a day.

  Everyone would finish up about noon, which would give them plenty of time to clean up and be back with their families. Two men would already be hard at work, barbecuing the side of beef to go with the ham, turkey, and wide variety of side dishes the ranch wives would bring.

  Picking up the phone, Roman called Mack.

  “Morning, boss,” Mack answered on the first ring. “How’s your head?”

  “It hurts. Do you know where my dress boots are?”

  The lengthening silence from the other end of the phone told Roman he wasn’t going to like the answer. Finally, Mack answered with a single grunted, “Aye.”

  “And where might they be?”

  “Well, that’s the thing, boss. I don’t remember, other than they’re safe and not laying by the side of the road somewhere.”


  “Uh, huh,” Roman said. “Well, how about you get them and return them to me so I can wear them to dinner this afternoon.”

  “I’ll try, but I gotta go right now.” The beep that sounded in the next second told Roman that the man had ended the call.

  Roman had a feeling he would need to find alternate footwear if he didn’t want his men laughing at him for wearing his “old man shoes” to the afternoon’s festivities. Everyone knew the man was no clothes horse. He may own ten thousand acres of prime Texas hill country covered with cows, horses, and hay, but he didn’t wear his wealth. He admitted to only owning two pair of boots—one for dress and one for work, a pair of old broken-down sneakers and the clogs the hands had given him as a fiftieth birthday gag gift.

  By the end of the day, his choice of footwear for Thanksgiving had become the talk of the ranch.

  * * * *

  “Where the hell are my boots?” was the first question Roman began asking during his morning meeting with Mack.

  “We’re working on getting them back,” was Mack’s standard answer before turning the conversation to more pressing ranch business.

  * * * *

  “We’ve got to get those boots back,” Mack said to the ranch hands who had been in on the matchmaking fun after dinner in the chow hall.

  It had been a week since Thanksgiving and he was beginning to feel the pressure from the boss about the missing boots. He wasn’t afraid for his job, but knew that paybacks would not be fun when the boots finally did make their reappearance.

  “Jimmy and I are headed into town for supplies in the morning. We can swing by the house where we left them and get them back,” Russ Townsend, the ranch cook offered.

  Mack nodded. “Great. When you get back, leave them with Stella, but don’t tell her where they’ve been.”

  Jimmy and Russ exchanged a glance before nodding.