Christmas In the Snow: Taming Natasha / Considering Kate

by Nora Roberts

  Her hands were fisted against his back. Gradually they relaxed as he kept her close. The hot tears slowed, and the pain, now shared, eased.

  “I’m all right,” she managed at length. Pulling away, she began to fumble in her bag for a tissue. Spence took it from her to dry her cheeks himself. “The doctor called it crib death. No reason,” she said as she closed her eyes once more. “That was somehow worse. Not knowing why, not being sure if I could have stopped it.”

  “No.” He took both her hands and she opened her eyes. “Don’t do that. Listen to me. I can only imagine what it would be like to go through what you went through, but I know that when truly horrible things happen, it’s usually out of our control.”

  “It took me a long time to accept what I can never understand.” She turned over her hands in his. “A long time to start living again, going back to work, finally moving here, starting my business. I think I would have died without my family.” She gave herself a moment, sipping the water to cool her dry throat. “I didn’t want to love anyone again. Then there was you. And Freddie.”

  “We need you, Natasha. And you need us.”

  “Yes.” She took his hand to press it to her lips. “I want you to understand. Spence, when I learned I was pregnant, it all came flying back at me. I tell you, I don’t think I could survive going through that again. I’m so afraid to love this child. And I already do.”

  “Come here.” He lifted her to her feet, keeping her hands locked tight in his. “I know that you loved Lily, and that you’ll always love her and grieve for her. So will I now. What happened before can’t be changed, but this is a different place, a different time. A different child. I want you to understand that we’re going to go through this pregnancy, the birth and the rearing together. Whether you want me or not.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Then we’ll be afraid together. And when this baby is eight and rides a two-wheeler for the first time, we’ll be afraid together.”

  Her lips trembled into a smile. “When you say it, I can almost believe it.”

  “Believe it.” He bent to kiss her. “Because it’s a promise.”

  “Yes, it’s time for promises.” Her smile grew. “I love you.” It was so easy to say it now. So easy to feel it. “Will you hold me?”

  “On one condition.” He rubbed away a drying tear with his thumb. “I want to tell Freddie she’s expecting a baby brother or sister. I think it would make a great Christmas present for her.”

  “Yes.” She felt stronger, surer. “I want us to tell her.”

  “All right, you’ve got five days.”

  “Five days for what?”

  “To make whatever plans you want to make, to arrange to have your family come down, buy a dress, whatever you need to do to get ready for the wedding.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” He framed her face with his hands and silenced her. “I love you, I want you. You’re the best thing to come into my life since Freddie, and I don’t intend to lose you. We’ve made a child, Natasha.” Watching her, he laid a hand on her stomach, gently possessive. “A child I want. A child I already love.”

  In a gesture of trust, she placed her hand on his. “I won’t be afraid if you’re with me.”

  “We have a date here Christmas Eve. I’m going to wake up Christmas morning with my wife.”

  She steadied herself by putting her hands on his forearms. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  With a laugh, she threw her arms around his neck and said one word. “Yes.”

  EPILOGUE

  Christmas Eve was the most beautiful day in the year as far as Natasha was concerned. It was a time to celebrate life and love and family.

  The house was quiet when she came in. She was drawn to the tree and the light. She sent an angel spinning on one branch, then turned to study the room.

  On the table there was a papier-mâché reindeer with only one ear. Compliments of Freddie’s second-grade art class. Beside it stood a pudgy snowman holding a lantern. An exquisite porcelain crèche was displayed on the mantel. Beneath it hung four stockings. A fire crackled in the grate.

  A year before she had stood before the fire and promised to love, honor and cherish. They had been the easiest promises she had ever had to keep. Now this was her home.

  Home. She took a deep breath to draw in the scents of pine and candles. It was so good to be home. Last-minute shoppers had crowded The Fun House until late in the afternoon. Now there was only family.

  “Mama.” Freddie raced in, trailing a bright red ribbon. “You’re home.”

  “I’m home.” Laughing, Natasha scooped her up to spin her around.

  “We took Vera to the airport so she can spend Christmas with her sister, then we watched the planes. Daddy said when you got home we’d have dinner, then sing Christmas carols.”

  “Daddy’s absolutely right.” Natasha draped the ribbon over Freddie’s shoulder. “What’s this?”

  “I’m wrapping a present, all by myself. It’s for you.”

  “For me? What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Yes, you can. Watch.” She dropped onto the couch to run her fingers along Freddie’s ribs. “It’ll be easy,” she said as Freddie squealed and squirmed.

  “Torturing the child again,” Spence commented from the doorway.

  “Daddy!” Springing up, Freddie raced to him. “I didn’t tell.”

  “I knew I could count on you, funny face. Look who woke up.” He bounced a baby on his hip.

  “Here, Brandon.” Madly in love, Freddie passed up the ribbon so that he could play with it. “It’s pretty, just like you.”

  At six months, young Brandon Kimball was chubby, rosy-cheeked and delighted with the world in general. He clutched the ribbon in one hand and reached for Freddie’s hair with the other.

  Walking over, Natasha held out her arms. “Such a big boy,” she murmured as her son reached for her. Gathering him close, she pressed a kiss to his throat. “So beautiful.”

  “He looks just like his mother.” Spence stroked a hand over Brandon’s thick, black curls. As if he approved of the statement, Brandon let out a gurgling laugh. When he wriggled, Natasha set him down to crawl on the rug.

  “It’s his first Christmas.” Natasha watched him scoot over to torment one of the cats and saw Lucy dart under the sofa. She’s no fool, Natasha thought happily.

  “And our second.” He turned Natasha into his arms. “Happy anniversary.”

  Natasha kissed him once, then twice. “Have I told you today that I love you?”

  “Not since I called you this afternoon.”

  “Much too long ago.” She slipped her arms around his waist. “I love you. Thank you for the most wonderful year of my life.”

  “You’re very welcome.” He glanced over her head only long enough to see that Freddie had prevented Brandon from pulling an ornament from a low branch. “But it’s only going to get better.”

  “Do you promise?”

  He smiled and lowered his mouth to hers again. “Absolutely.”

  Freddie stopped crawling with Brandon to watch them. A baby brother had turned out to be nice, after all, but she was still holding out for that baby sister. She smiled as she saw her parents embrace.

  Maybe next Christmas.

  Passionate, proud and hopelessly romantic, the Stanislaskis are a family you won’t soon forget!

  Look for the rest of Nora Roberts’s captivating six-book family saga, available now wherever ebooks are sold:

  The Stanislaskis

  Taming Natasha

  Luring a Lady

  Falling for Rachel

  Convincing Alex

  Waiting for Nick

  Considering Kate

  Don’t miss these other favorite series by Nora Roberts, also available now wherever ebooks are sold!

  Stars of Mithra

  Hidden Star

  Captive Star

  Se
cret Star

  The MacKade Brothers

  The Return of Rafe MacKade

  The Pride of Jared MacKade

  The Heart of Devin MacKade

  The Fall of Shane MacKade

  Considering Kate

  Nora Roberts

  To my guys.

  Chapter One

  It was going to be perfect. She was going to see to it. Every step, every stage, every detail would be done precisely as she wanted, as she envisioned, until her dream became her reality.

  Settling for less than what was exactly right was a waste of time, after all.

  And Kate Kimball was not a woman to waste anything.

  At twenty-five, she had seen and experienced more than a great many people did in a lifetime. When other young girls had been giggling over boys or worrying about fashion, she’d been traveling to Paris or Bonne, wearing glamorous costumes and doing extraordinary things.

  She had danced for queens, and dined with princes.

  She had sipped champagne at the White House, and wept with triumph and fatigue at the Bolshoi.

  She would always be grateful to her parents, to the big, sprawling family who’d given her the opportunities to do so. Everything she had she owed to them.

  Now it was time to start earning it herself.

  Dance had been her dream for as long as she could remember. Her obsession, her brother Brandon would have said. And not, Kate acknowledged, inaccurately. There was nothing wrong with an obsession—as long as it was the right obsession and you worked for it.

  God knew she’d worked for the dance.

  Twenty years of practice, of study, of joy and pain. Of sweat and toe shoes. Of sacrifices, she thought. Hers, and her parents. She understood how difficult it had been for them to let her, the baby of the family, go to New York to study when she’d been only seventeen. But they’d never offered her anything but support and encouragement.

  Of course, they’d known that though she was leaving the pretty little town in West Virginia for the big city, she’d be surrounded—watched over—by family. Just as she knew they had loved and trusted—believed in her enough—to let her go in any case.

  She’d practiced and worked, and had danced, as much for them as for herself. And when she’d joined the Company and had appeared on stage the first time, they’d been there. When she’d earned a spot as principal dancer, they’d been there.

  She’d danced professionally for six years, had known the spotlight, and the thrill of feeling the music inside her body. She’d traveled all over the world, had become Giselle, Aurora, Juliet, dozens of characters both tragic and triumphant. She had prized every moment of it.

  No one was more surprised than Kate herself when she’d decided to step out of that spotlight and walk off that stage. There was only one way to explain it.

  She’d wanted to come home.

  She wanted a life, a real one. As much as she loved the dance, she’d begun to realize it had nearly absorbed and devoured every other aspect of her. Classes, rehearsals, performances, travel, media. The dancer’s career was far more than slipping on toe shoes and gliding into the spotlight—or it certainly had been for Kate.

  So she wanted a life, and she wanted home. And, she’d discovered, she wanted to give something back for all the joy she’d reaped. She could accomplish all of that with her school.

  They would come, she told herself. They would come because her name was Kimball, and that meant something solid in the area. They would come because her name was Kate Kimball, and that meant something in the world of dance.

  Before long, she promised herself, they would come because the school itself meant something.

  Time for a new dream, she reminded herself as she turned around the huge, echoing room. The Kimball School of Dance was her new obsession. She intended it to be just as fulfilling, just as intricate, and just as perfect as her old one.

  And it would, no doubt, entail as much work, effort, skill and determination to bring to life.

  With her hands fisted on her hips, she studied the grime-gray walls that had once been white. They’d be white again. A clean surface for displaying framed posters of the greats. Nuryev, Fontayne, Baryshnikov, Davidov, Bannion.

  And the two long side walls would be mirrored behind their barres. This professional vanity was as necessary as breathing. A dancer must see each tiny movement, each arch, each flex, even as the body felt it, to perfect the positioning.

  It was really more window than mirror, Kate thought. Where the dancer looked through the glass to see the dance.

  The old ceiling would be repaired or replaced—whatever was necessary. The furnace…she rubbed her chilly arms. Definitely replaced. The floors sanded and sealed until they were a smooth and perfect surface. Then there was the lighting, the plumbing, probably some electrical business to see to.

  Well, her grandfather had been a carpenter before he’d retired—or semiretired, she thought with affection. She wasn’t totally ignorant of what went on in a rehab situation. And she’d study more, ask questions, until she understood the process and could direct the contractor she hired appropriately.

  Imagining what would be, she closed her eyes, dipped into a deep plié. Her body, long and wand-slim, simply flowed into the movement until her crotch rested on her heels, rose up again, lowered again.

  She’d bundled her hair up, impatient to get out and take another look at what would soon be hers. With her movements, pins loosened and a few locks of glossy black curls spilled out. Freed, they would fall to her waist—a wildly romantic look that suited her image on stage.

  Smiling, a bit dreamy, her face took on a quiet glow. She had her mother’s dusky skin and high, slashing cheekbones, her father’s smoky eyes and stubborn chin.

  It made an arresting combination, again a romantic one. The gypsy, the mermaid, the faerie queen. There had been men who’d looked at her, taken in the delicacy of her form, and had assumed a romanticism and fragility—and never anticipated the steel.

  It was, always, a mistake.

  “One of these days you’re going to get stuck like that, then you’ll have to hop around like a frog.”

  Kate sprang up, eyes popping open. “Brandon!” With a full-throated war whoop, she leaped across the room and into his arms.

  “What are you doing here? When did you get in? I thought you were playing winter ball in Puerto Rico. How long are you staying?”

  He was barely two years her senior—an accident of birth he’d used to torment her when they’d been children, unlike her half sister, Frederica, who was older than both of them and had never lorded it over them. Despite it, he was the love of her life.

  “Which question do you want me to answer first?” Laughing, he held her away from him, taking a quick study of her out of tawny and amused eyes. “Still scrawny.”

  “And you’re still full of it. Hi.” She kissed him smackingly on the lips. “Mom and Dad didn’t say you were coming home.”

  “They didn’t know. I heard you were settling in and figured I’d better check things out, keep an eye on you.” He glanced around the big, filthy room, rolled his eyes. “I guess I’m too late.”

  “It’s going to be wonderful.”

  “Gonna be. Maybe. Right now it’s a dump.” Still, he slung his arm around her shoulders. “So, the ballet queen’s going to be a teacher.”

  “I’m going to be a wonderful teacher. Why aren’t you in Puerto Rico?”

  “Hey, a guy can’t play ball twelve months a year.”

  “Brandon.” Her eyebrow arched up.

  “Bad slide into second. Pulled a few tendons.”

  “Oh, how bad? Have you seen a doctor? Will you—”

  “Jeez, Katie. It’s no big deal. I’m on the Disabled List for a couple of months. I’ll be back in action for spring training. And it gives me lots of time to hang around here and make your life a living hell.”

  “Well, that’s some compensation. Come on, I’ll show you around.” And get
a look at the way he moved. “My apartment’s upstairs.”

  “From the looks of that ceiling, your apartment may be downstairs any minute.”

  “It’s perfectly sound,” she said with a wave of the hand. “Just ugly at the moment. But I have plans.”

  “You’ve always had plans.”

  But he walked with her, favoring his right leg, through the room and into a nasty little hallway with cracked plaster and exposed brick. Up a creaking set of stairs and into a sprawling space that appeared to be occupied by mice, spiders and assorted vermin he didn’t want to think about.

  “Kate, this place—”

  “Has potential,” she said firmly. “And history. It’s pre-Civil War.”

  “It’s pre-Stone Age.” He was a man who preferred things already ordered, and in an understandable pattern. Like a ballpark. “Have you any clue what it’s going to cost you to make this place livable?”

  “I have a clue. And I’ll firm that up when I talk to the contractor. It’s mine, Brand. Do you remember when we were kids and you and Freddie and I would walk by this old place?”

  “Sure, used to be a bar, then it was a craft shop or something, then—”

  “It used to be a lot of things,” Kate interrupted. “Started out as a tavern in the 1800s. Nobody’s really made a go of it. But I used to look at it when we were kids and think how much I’d like to live here, and look out these tall windows, and rattle around in all the rooms.”

  The faintest flush bloomed on her cheeks, and her eyes went deep and dark. A sure sign, Brandon thought, that she had dug in.

  “Thinking like that when you’re eight’s a lot different than buying a heap of a building when you’re a grown-up.”

  “Yes, it is. It is different. Last spring, when I came home to visit, it was up for sale. Again. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”