by Piper Stone
“That’s why it’s my business,” he said softly. “You know what really makes me mad, though? I see you throwing away your talent, and maybe your life. You’re too smart, and too talented to sell yourself short that way – as a trophy wife.”
“That’s a rotten thing to say!”
“What didn’t you like, the part about being talented and smart, or about being beautiful and sexy?
“You didn’t say anything about me being beautiful – or sexy.”
He grinned. “I didn’t?”
“No, you certainly didn’t.”
“Okay, so that was an oversight.” With that, he pulled me against his chest and kissed me again, harder, deeper, and longer. And then, since we were still stuck in a snow bank, with nowhere to go, he did it again.
“If I agree to… well, to see you,” I stammered. “Will you promise not to… not to do that again?”
“I’ll make you a deal, a contract. You accomplish three things, and your backside doesn’t get paddled. No more lies, about trucks or anything else. Write your first book. You don’t have to sell it, just write it. And stop using the F word more than… let’s say twice a day, except for literary purposes. How’s that?”
“I can write the damned book,” I said glumly. “But the other, the F word, I’m not so sure. It’s like an old friend, but I’ll give it a shot. Now, what’s the third thing, again? I forgot.”
Jeff shook his head, and smiled. “Looks like we may need to go over that list again, while the windshield is clearing. I’m going to need that plastic scraper though. My hand’s had it for one day.”
The End
April Hill
April Hill is a best-selling author of women’s romance, known for her wry humor, sensitive character development and of course, the love.
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How Does Your Garden Grow?
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But Honey, I Can Explain!
Falconer’s Prey
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Emerald Christmas
12 Naughty Days of Christmas 2017
Pippa Greathouse
©2017 by Blushing Books® and Pippa Greathouse
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Valley Spring, 1880
Cassandra Fairfax’s eyes were as stormy as the outside sky as she ordered herself to stop letting her father’s accusations echo repeatedly in her brain. The argument they’d had before she left home had left her angry enough to spit fireballs at him. She’d left him standing on the front porch hurling insults at her as she climbed into the carriage that took her to the stage. Ungrateful? Definitely not. Recalcitrant? Perhaps a little. Insolent? She chewed her lip thoughtfully. Perhaps she’d been guilty on that one. She laughed out loud at the last one. Contumacious?
“What in hell does that mean, anyway?” she muttered under her breath. But the “ungrateful” had gotten to her the most. How dared he say that! She’d been through a lot in the past six months. A husband’s death wasn’t something to be completely disregarded, surely.
She would always love Daniel. What Papa had said was true. She didn’t know him well before they married. But she cared deeply for him.
It was only Daniel’s insistence that made her stay home in Leesburg, while he went back to the North Carolina mountains to build them a home. As soon as it was finished, he’d come for her. Until then, he wanted her safe. She’d begged to come, demanded to come; she’d even let her temper get the best of her and hurled a piece of her mother’s beloved china at him, but he’d staunchly refused to let her. Later, when she’d apologized, he’d held her, but he still wouldn’t agree to let her come.
Then, six months ago, he’d sent a letter. Their home was nearly complete. “Make plans, my darling,” he’d said. “I’ll come for you within a few weeks.”
That’s when her world had seemed to come apart at the seams. Another letter had followed his, almost immediately. There’d been an accident. Just like that, Daniel was gone. Suddenly, their future together was gone.
The letter had been written by a friend named Matthew, who had helped him build the house. He encouraged her to stay at home with her family, but he did tell her that the house was finished, and hers to claim if she desired.
She bit her lip. That was six months ago. During that time, life at home had become more difficult. Arguments were more frequent, and Cassandra frequently dreamed of what it would be like to live in her own little home nestled in the mountains.
After the last argument with Papa, she’d finally done it. She’d packed her belongings, bought a stagecoach ticket, kissed her mother goodbye, and left home, determined to spend her first Christmas in the house Daniel had built. Her father had been utterly furious at her decision to leave, calling her a multitude of unflattering names and raving about her ‘ungratefulness.’
“Pull up your knickers and stand strong, Cass,” she said to herself. “You’re twenty-three now. It’s high time you were on your own, anyway.”
The coach hit a bump, tossing her into the air, and she groused at the hard seat under her. In response, it threw her upward again. This time she laughed.
She didn’t need to pull out the drawing Daniel had sent her to know what their house looked like. She had memorized every line and stroke of his pen. The structure rested on the side of the mountain, surrounded by trees. The road from it curved and dipped as it wound down the mountain, called Summer Star. Below it was the town of Valley Spring. He’d explained it was distressed, down to only a little under a hundred people. The railroad had passed them by a year earlier, and the whole town had suffered. For such a lovely name, it sounded sad.
Another drawing he’d sent showed the fluffy white clouds on an early morning that lay in the valley below the house. Daniel’s soul had become one with pen and paper when he drew.
She saw the blinding flash of lightning just before the boom of the thunder hit, and she jumped. Immediately she squinted out the wind
ow. Heavy rain began to pelt the top of the coach.
But it was too loud to be rain. “Hail?”
Another huge bolt of lightning struck above her as the coachman opened the door. She gasped. Up in the sky she saw a dark plume of smoke rolling upward, and followed it down toward the mountain. Flames engulfed the base of it. She gasped. “Hell’s bells, be careful up there!” she shouted, scowling. “That’s my mountain you’re blasting away at!”
The driver was chuckling. “Your mountain?”
“Well, my house is up there,” she replied sheepishly.
“Quick, miss. Into the depot.” He reached up for her and helped her down, and she ran inside, shaking the rain from her pelisse. It was already wet through. She took it off and set it down on a chair inside. The ground was full of the white stuff, but it was rapidly changing over to rain, and it was heavy.
Cass stood in the door, watching as the coachmen took her trunks from the boot and brought them inside. She was about to approach the window and ask for a man named Matthew, when suddenly, she heard a woman’s scream, and walked out under the overhang to see what was happening. An elderly woman was trying to run toward a little tow-headed boy who looked to be about five. He ran between the buildings and toward the mountain behind them.
“Lucas, come back! Someone stop him, please!”
But the child kept going.
Cass looked around. There was no one following, and she began to sprint, ignoring the storm overhead.
Dear God, the child – Lucas? – was fast!
She increased her speed upward toward the hill, which had grown increasingly steep, slipping and sliding on the white ground, calling after him. Twice, she fell on her face, cursing under her breath.
The little boy in front of her kept disappearing into the woods, but occasionally he would look back at her over his shoulder, his eyes wide. His hair was plastered to his head.
Cass’s was, too. Her clothes were wet through and her gown stuck to her skin.
“Halt!” A deep male voice growled from behind her, sounding ominous. She stole a glance backward. He might have been handsome, had he not been so furious.
“Go back down before you get hurt,” he shouted. “It’s too dangerous for you up here!”
“I will not!” she shot back, her own eyes a deep dark blue and blazing backward at him.
“God help us,” he muttered, as he came toward her. “This is all I need.”
Cass could hear his grumbling at her refusal to listen to him, but she kept going. When she turned her attention toward the front, the child had vanished into the woods.
“Lucas!” he shouted again. “Lucas, it’s me – come back!”
This time, the little boy’s head popped up from the bushes, and he looked as though he was trying to make a decision. Cass ran faster.
She was almost even with him, when a loud crack was heard over their heads, and both she and Lucas looked upward to see part of a pine tree sixty or seventy feet in the air, coming down. As if it couldn’t make up its mind which way to fall, it turned first one way, then the other. Cass had no idea which way to run, and she threw her arms toward Lucas.
An arm grabbed both Cass and the boy from behind, jerking them both backward just in time, as the ten-foot log came crashing down and hit the ground two feet away. She was held tightly in the arms of the man who had been chasing her.
Low, growling curses from the owner of those arms sounded in her ear.
“Stop it,” she growled back. “Lucas will hear you.”
“It’s not as if he hasn’t heard me before.”
“Then shame on you. You should know better.”
He was in her face now, his eyes glaring, his face a fierce mask of fury. “Did I not tell you to go down?”
“But the boy—”
“Lucas would probably have come to me if you hadn’t been chasing him. He becomes afraid during storms and takes off. He doesn’t always know where he’s going.”
She looked at the little light blond head. He was holding on tightly to the neck of the man who was lecturing her. “Oh,” she said, frowning.
“Relax, Lucas; I’ve got you,” he said into the ear of the little lad. In a moment, he was kneeling; he removed his vest, wrapping the boy up in it. Then he started tugging at the buttons on his shirt.
“No!” She put up a hand.
He continued. “Where is your cloak? You need to be wrapped in something.”
“I left it in the depot. And I’m already wet. Would you stop? It’s not proper for… for you to…” Her voice faded, as she saw the top of his bare chest.
An eyebrow rose. “You pick now to concern yourself with propriety?”
Cassandra lowered her gaze and gasped. Her garments clung to her skin. Under her soaked gown she had on only her shift, also soaked. The outline of her breasts showed clearly, and the corset under them gave her little protection.
He continued peeling off his shirt, leaving his chest bare. A moment later he wrapped it around her and buttoned the top. With one arm, he lifted Lucas, with the other, he ensnared her waist and hauled her toward him.
She raised her head in defiance. “Leave me alone. I can make it—”
“Young lady,” he was growling between his teeth. “I’ve had enough of your sass. You can be quiet, or you can learn what it’s like to be turned upside down and paddled.”
Her chest heaved, but she grew quiet.
“Better,” he said.
He took her down, a few steps at a time, while holding Lucas carefully and whispering words of comfort to him. Lucas seemed to snuggle more tightly into his neck. Cass stumbled once or twice, and he immediately steadied her, glancing down.
When they reached the house Lucas had run from, he was handed over to the elderly woman who came flying out from the front door. She took him into her arms with a prayer of relief, and turned, full of thanks. Pulling the vest off Lucas, she handed it back and went inside the house.
He took it from her and nodded his head. Wrapping it around Cass, he turned.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the sheriff’s office, while I go back up and check to see if the fire’s out. And you’ll damn well stay there. You hear me?”
“No, I don’t hear you. I have no reason on God’s earth to listen to you.”
He stopped in the middle of the street, took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You need a reason? I’ll be quite happy to give you one.”
They locked eyes, glaring.
“What’s your name, young lady?”
“None of your business.”
The look on his face matched the threat of his raised eyebrow, and for a moment she thought she’d crossed the line. “Cassandra,” she said quickly.
The odd look he gave her prompted his next question. “Your surname?”
She jutted out her chin. “Fairfax.”
His eyes narrowed into a blaze, and he led her on down the street and into the sheriff’s office. He took her over to a chair in the corner and sat her down in it, hard.
The sheriff, sitting behind the desk, frowned. “And what am I supposed to do with her? Arrest her?”
“Keep her here until I get back. The lightning has started a fire on the house. Some of the men from town are up there trying to put it out.”
The sheriff cocked his head to one side. “Daniel’s?”
Cass’s eyes widened in alarm. When she forced herself to glance up into the face of the man standing next to her, he was watching her. Finally, he turned back to the sheriff, and moved toward the door. With a nod, he was gone.
Cass looked up toward the sheriff. Her mouth was dry, and her eyes threatening tears. “Sir?” She had to try twice before it came out. “Wh-what is the name of the mountain that’s on fire?”
He stared at her uncertainly. “Summer Star,” he said quietly. “And the man who just left, is Matthew Downing, the one who owns it. And the emerald mine it sits on.”
&nbs
p; Cassandra found herself leaning against the wall, as tears began to stream down her face. She heard him calling her, but his voice seemed to be getting further away.
Then, it died out altogether.
Realizations
Matthew Downing ran up the side of the mountain toward the remaining flames that caused the smoke. The men from town were beginning to disperse, and come back down, drenched to the skin.
It’s almost out,” a voice called to him. “The rain did our work for us.”
Matthew nodded, but kept up his ascent. He approached the four remaining men, who were still watching it.
“Thanks, men. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“Least we can do, Matt. Lord knows you do enough for us.”
He shook his head. “No. I owe you.”
He was still standing there, watching what was left of the house, when it dawned on him. Cassandra. Cassandra Fairfax. “Dear God, Daniel’s wife.”
He should have known. He’d seen the alarm in her eyes when the sheriff had asked if it was Daniel’s house. He’d been the one to write her and tell her of his friend’s death. And he’d been the one who told her the house was hers to claim.
The house that was no longer standing.
This would be a hard Christmas for her. And he knew about hard Christmases. Four years ago, he’d lost his wife. He hadn’t celebrated Christmas since then, and he wasn’t about to start now.
He’d have to insist that she go back home. That was all there was to it.
When the fire finally died, he made his way back down the mountain. It was almost dusk, and the light was disappearing. As he looked over the little village, he saw lanterns being lit through the windows. The sheriff’s office was no different. He took a deep breath and strode toward it.
As soon as he opened the door, however, the sheriff rose from his chair and motioned him outside. He backed up and was joined by the other man. “Matt? You know who she is?”