Over the next hour his breathing steadily improved. The makeshift tent was taken away, the steaming mercifully halted. Sometime after midnight the fever broke. Soaked with perspiration, Buck eased into a healing slumber.
As Clay stood beside the bed, he felt Elise’s arms slide around him from behind. “Merry Christmas,” she said softly.
Turning, he pulled her close. His lips found hers in a kiss that went soul deep. Her mouth was warm and damp and welcoming. Her arms twined around his neck, holding on as if she never wanted to let him go.
Unspeakably weary, they clung to each other, the curves and hollows of their bodies melding in warmth and need. The barriers of blame and doubt had crumbled away. Nothing remained between them but love, trust and perfect peace. For the first time, Clay felt as if he had truly come home.
“We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?” Elise whispered.
Clay nodded, his stubbled chin brushing her temple. “If we weren’t so damned tired, and if we had a bed, I could make love to you here and now.”
She laughed, and the sound was music in his ears. “There’ll be time for that later. For now, we’d better get some rest. Something tells me Toby and that pup will be waking up early.”
Tossing a quilt over the rug, they stretched out in front of the fireplace. As the dawn of Christmas stole over the land they slept in each other’s arms, dreaming of good times to come.
Epilogue
Christmas Morning, 1882
What a difference four years could make.
Elise surveyed the spacious parlor of her new home, with its sunny windows and big stone fireplace. This morning the room was a mess of happy clutter. Toys, empty stockings and bits of wrapping paper littered the rug. Nine-year-old Toby sat by the hearth reading his new storybook. His dog, Brownie, shaggy, lop-eared and devoted, dozed with his muzzle on Toby’s shoe. Three-year-old Maggie squealed with laughter as her kitten pounced on a string. One-year-old Luke, who’d just begun to walk, was having a grand time pulling ribbons and candy canes off the Christmas tree.
“What a beautiful sight!” Clay’s arms slipped around her from behind. Elise leaned back against him, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. His lips nuzzled her ear. “Mmm, you smell good,” he murmured.
“I think what you smell is the turkey. It’s almost done.” She raised her face for his kiss. Their lips met and lingered, rekindling the memory of last night’s love.
The past four years had been far from easy. There’d been times when she and Clay had feared that the ranch might not make it. Clay and Buck had worked from dawn till dark repairing the fences and outbuildings. Clay had sold off his best pasture to buy more cattle. Over the winters, Buck had taken jobs in town to help out with money. Elise had done her part, as well. It had taken all three of them, working together, to make the ranch a success.
They’d started on the new house last summer and finished it after the fall cattle drive. Clay and Elise had moved just in time to turn their old house over to Buck and his bride, Celia, a pretty girl he’d met in town. Today the newlyweds would be arriving to join them for Christmas dinner.
Early that morning, before the children were awake, Elise and Clay had walked hand in hand to the old tree in the orchard. There, on the little grave, they’d laid a sprig of pine and a tiny jingle bell, bound with a thin red ribbon. This had become their yearly custom. Their lives were happy now, but they would never forget their lost angel.
Elise’s musings were cut short by a rap at the front door. Celia and Buck stood on the threshold, their faces flushed with cold and laughter. They made a striking couple—dark-eyed Celia, as delicate and shy as a spring violet, and Buck, tall, handsome, radiating energy and confidence.
Together they would sit down at the dinner table and count their blessings as a family. And perhaps, in a silent moment, they would remember the bittersweet Christmas when they’d received the most precious gift of all.
The gift of forgiveness.
THE CATTLEMAN’S CHRISTMAS BRIDE
Pam Crooks
Dear Reader,
It has been such fun to return to Montana Territory and delve into my characters’ lives. That it’s during Christmas makes it even more fun!
“The Cattleman’s Christmas Bride” is Allethaire Gibson and Mikolas Vasco’s story, a continuation of The Cattleman’s Unsuitable Wife, released in May 2009. As you will soon see, Allie and Mick’s lives are not perfect—yet!—but when they discover their unexpected love for one another, they find the completion only two lost souls can experience together.
By the story’s end, Allie decides upon the most perfect gift for Christmas. I based that gift on a monument that still stands today in Great Falls, Montana. Originally built as a vision for education and culture, Paris Gibson Square represented great vision and hope for the time. Today, it lives on as a community cultural center and museum and, well, keep reading to learn more about this historical gem.
The mystery of the missing library money will be solved in Jack Hollister’s story, coming in 2010. Until then, I wish you and yours the joy and peace of the Christmas season, now and always!
Pam Crooks
Chapter One
Montana Territory
December 23, 1886
Ever since Allethaire Gibson had been kidnapped and held for ransom three years ago, nothing in her life had gone right.
But this was the worst.
She stared miserably through the train’s frosty window into the darkness outside and wondered how she’d fallen so low. What had she done to deserve such humiliation? And just when she’d begun to pull herself together, hold her head high and prove to everyone she was the same person she’d always been.
She’d tried. So hard.
After her horrific ordeal as a hostage in the wilds of Montana, she’d wasted no time in returning home to blessed civility in Minnesota. She’d gone to the usual parties with her friends, young and wealthy like herself. She’d frequented her favorite shops and restaurants. Had even indulged in a lavish European vacation—all to prove she was the same honest and upright woman as before.
Allethaire Gibson, daughter of Paris Gibson, the respected and forward-thinking industrialist.
Except it wasn’t long before she discovered everything had changed.
She had changed.
Minnesota didn’t feel like home anymore. At least, not like it used to. And Allethaire knew why. What everyone thought. What they said when her back was turned.
That her reputation was ruined. That she’d become a fallen woman while living with a band of outlaws.
It wasn’t true.
It wasn’t fair.
Allethaire thought she’d found her salvation in the Ladies Literary Aid Society. She’d worked tirelessly to promote her idea for a new library to be built in Minneapolis. The design had been breathtaking, exciting, modern. With the city’s growing population, the need for such a fine exhibit of civilization and culture had been clear, and eventually, after more of her hard work raising funds, the money had rolled in by the fistfuls.
She should have succeeded in restoring respectability to herself. But something had gone wrong, and she was too blind, too naive, to see it coming.
Her fingers closed over the slender, brown bottle tucked in her handbag. Now, here she was, fleeing in the middle of the night like a common criminal—back to Montana, of all places.
Her despair begged for solace in the brandy she kept hidden, but she didn’t dare allow herself the privilege of taking a swallow. Not even a little bracing one. No one on this crowded train could see her need to cope. Her abominable weakness.
She had to stay alert, even though she hovered on the edge of exhaustion. She had to appear strong and not the coward she really was.
Her eyes welled on a wave of renewed misery, and she leaned her head back against the thin cushion, letting her body absorb the rocking motion of the wheels hurtling along the tracks. In her haste to leave Minneapolis
, she’d been forced to take one of the few remaining coach fares left on the St. Paul, Minneapolis & Manitoba Railway train headed west, a far cry from the comfort of the Pullman private car in which she was accustomed to traveling. No reclining chairs, no warm berth, no plush and pampered privacy.
But what did it matter?
As far as everyone was concerned, Allethaire was just another ordinary passenger, a woman journeying alone and packed into her seat with other wayfarers, like a sardine in a can.
For the first time in her life, she was glad no one knew who she was. It was easier that way.
Feeling little of the heat from the stove behind the long row of seats, she crossed her arms and huddled deeper inside her wool coat. Snores from the slack-jawed travelers stretched out around her warred with her tired brain. How could anyone get comfortable under such tight quarters? How could anyone sleep?
Amazingly enough, however, her lashes drifted closed, and she did.
She awoke, disoriented and cold, and flooded with a sense that something wasn’t right.
Sunlight stretched in through the dull windows. Allethaire sat bolt-upright and grappled to find her purse, then discovered it was exactly where she’d kept it. Tucked against her chest. A quick check revealed nothing missing—her money, her handkerchief, her hand mirror, a few folded papers. Her brandy. They were all there, and oh, thank God, she hadn’t been robbed while she slept.
“Someone is riding along the tracks.” Sitting next to her, a matronly woman with cheeks pinkened from the chill leaned forward and rubbed at the glass with her coat sleeve. The accent threading her words revealed her German heritage. “Ach! That is strange.”
Allethaire blinked in confusion. She scrambled to focus. “What?”
“See him?” The woman tapped a gloved finger against the pane. She peered closer. “What is he doing out there?”
Allethaire stared like an owl at the man indeed riding close to the train, but in the next moment, he was gone, left behind by the propelling locomotive.
Distracted, she swiveled her glance toward the opposite set of windows. Toward mountains and unforgiving range sprawled beneath somber gray clouds as far as she could see.
Montana Territory, as wild and desolate as ever.
She’d hated this part of the country once. Three years ago. She hated having to come back now.
“Where are we?” she asked to no one in particular.
“Helena, coming up.” A scholarly-looking man in spectacles and a wrinkled tweed suit stared out the window, too.
Allethaire’s heart tripped. They were closer to Great Falls than she thought. One more stop, and her journey would end. A wary desperation from seeing her father again—and telling him all the things he didn’t yet know—fluttered through her, leaving her feeling sick to her stomach.
The woman beside her settled back into her seat.
“My name is Margaret Butterfield,” she said, venturing a smile.
Allethaire endured a stab of guilt. She’d made no attempt to be friendly since boarding the Manitoba; in fact, she made a pointed effort to keep to herself, but to refuse to respond to Margaret’s friendliness now would be blatantly rude.
Still, she chose a careful response. “Mine is Allie.”
She hadn’t been called that since she was a child, but the less anyone knew about her, the better. Especially her name, which had always been much too distinctive.
“Are you coming to Montana to celebrate Christmas with your family?” Margaret asked.
“No.” Allethaire had given little thought to the holiday, though it was only a couple of days away. “I won’t be staying out here long.”
Not any longer than she had to. Besides, her father’s social calendar was likely filled with a wide array of Christmas gatherings. Just as hers would be had she stayed in Minneapolis, and if her life hadn’t taken such a horrifying turn for the worse. Her father wouldn’t have time to be with her anyway. Even if he wanted to.
Which he wouldn’t, once he learned the truth.
A sudden craving for the brandy hidden in her purse gripped her.
“Oh?” The woman nodded, encouraging Allethaire to continue. “Then where will you go?”
“South.” The word dropped from Allethaire’s tongue without her conscious thought. “Somewhere south.”
“Where it is warmer.”
Allethaire shivered. “Much warmer.”
Yes, that’s what she’d do. Go south. Texas, maybe, with its millions of acres. Or really south to South America. No one would find her there, at least not easily, and she could use the time to find the answers she needed. To figure out what she’d done wrong.
But her eyes burned from a sudden sting of tears. And the glaring truth. She didn’t want to go south at all.
“No husband, dear?” Margaret patted Allethaire’s knee in sympathy. “Or children to keep you at home?”
Allethaire knew she meant well and likely interpreted Allethaire’s weepiness for loneliness. Or maybe she only kept up her nosy chatter to pass the time until the train reached Helena.
Whatever her intentions, her query touched a spot inexplicably raw. Allethaire latched onto her composure. “I’m afraid I’m too busy to have need of a husband. I have greater—” she almost choked on the word “—aspirations for my life.”
“Aspirations. Hmm.” Margaret didn’t seem to know what to make of it. “But what better way to share them than with a man who loves you?”
Allethaire blinked fast and fought an overwhelming feeling of loss. Frustration, too, and the unmistakable sensation of her life spiraling out of control.
She clutched her purse to her chest. Her fingers found the familiar shape of the slender bottle inside.
“Excuse me, Margaret,” she said, rising unsteadily to her feet. “I—I must go to the lavatory.”
But the train unexpectedly lurched and threw her off balance. She yelped in surprise and fell back into her seat.
Scree-eech. Hiss, Hiss, Hiss. Scree-eech.
The bespectacled gentleman across from her jerked his glance to the window and frowned. “We’re slowing down.”
Movement in the glass startled Allethaire. Blurred shapes of men riding alongside the tracks. In a flash, they were gone.
“Why are we stopping?” Margaret asked, bewildered.
“Have we reached Helena already?” Allethaire asked.
But that didn’t seem possible. She could see nothing of the town. Not a hint of civilization. Only mountains and the endless Montana range.
Muffled shouts sounded from outside. Somewhere toward the back. Male voices, their words indecipherable.
Clunk! Something—or someone—landed against the door.
Scree-eech. Hiss, Hiss, Hiss. Scree-eech.
Allethaire gripped her seat. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, for the Manitoba to stop now, in this desolate stretch of territory.
Pop!
A gunshot! Another pop! confirmed it, and oh, God, oh, God, what was happening out there?
Murmurs rippled through the passengers, each of them as alarmed as Allethaire. Heads twisted toward the rear. A few men stood, their stances revealing their intention to march past the row of seats and see for themselves what was transpiring.
But before any of them could, the door burst open.
The train’s conductor stumbled forward with his arm twisted behind his back. Blood trickled down his left temple.
Collective gasps went up.
Allethaire couldn’t breathe.
“What’s the meaning of this?” someone shouted.
A red bandanna covered the face of the man holding the conductor captive. He kept his revolver pressed to the conductor’s head and pushed him forward, past the stove, into the aisle.
“What do you want?” another man yelled.
“A woman,” the outlaw gritted. His gaze raked over each passenger’s face.
Until he found hers.
“Her name is Allethaire Gibson.”
>
Chapter Two
Mick Vasco pounded the last staple into the fence post, gave the barbed wire a testing tug and called it a morning.
He’d been out riding fence since just after dawn, and the Montana cold had seeped into his bones but good. He’d already sent the rest of the fencing crew back to the line camp. By the time he joined them, they’d have the big enamel pot brewing with plenty of blistering hot coffee for all of them.
Mick hooked his hammer onto his saddle, but delayed mounting up. The air carried the smell of impending snow, a crisp scent that slid through his nostrils and reminded him that here in the valley, they’d yet to feel the brunt of a true Montana blizzard. Soon, he knew, they would, and a renewed anticipation to head back to camp swept through him.
Still, caught up in the peace and silence, he lingered beside his horse. His pensive gaze snagged on the Bear Tooth Mountains in the distance, their peaks already tipped with pristine white. At the foothills, thousands of acres of rangeland stretched in every direction. Beside him. Behind him. Around him.
It boggled his mind sometimes. All that rangeland. The fact that it was half his, especially.
The Wells Cattle Company. Split right down the middle with his half brother, Trey Wells. His heritage. His legacy. Hard-won after a lifetime of denial and deceit and hell, why was he thinking of all that now?
Mick’s mouth tightened. Because he still hurt from his father’s betrayal. Likely always would, too. Three years ago, upon finding out Sutton Wells had raped Mick’s mother, a Basque woman, Mick had lashed out and made some stupid decisions. Before everything was said and done, an innocent woman had been kidnapped, a man had been killed and Mick had gone to jail for his sins.
Turning grim from his ruminating, he swung up into the saddle. But the mood dug in and wouldn’t let go.
He’d paid the price for his stupidity, and Mick had no intention of making the same mistakes again. He’d gotten what he wanted. His rightful inheritance. His place in the Wells empire.
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