Cowboy Christmas

by Carol Finch, Elizabeth Lane

  God knew it was important to him, too. Allethaire had her father’s respected name to live up to, but Mick had Trey’s. And in the territory, there wasn’t a finer cattleman than his half brother. Mick had had his hands full with getting folks to accept him. Being part-Basque, a sheepherder and a jailbird all rolled into one hadn’t made the job easy, but most days, Mick figured he’d done well enough. Took some time, but folks had come around, and in the past couple of years, he’d made plenty of friends. Good friends.

  “This whole thing is bigger than you think it is,” Mick said grimly. In light of her fragile mental state, he refused to use the term “conspiracy,” but it was there. In the back of his mind. “Don’t forget Reggie’s involved somehow, which means it’s gone beyond your plans for a library.”

  A mournful moan spilled into his shirt. “Oh, God. Reggie.”

  Mick guessed the outlaw’s part in stealing her money had yet to sink into her thinking. He had to admit she had plenty to comprehend as it was, and none of it easy.

  Gently he eased her back. Her tears had thickened her lashes and streaked her face, but her wide, mournful eyes had never been more clear, more beautiful, than they were now, peering up at him.

  Gone was the distrust and fear. Instead an unexpected kinship had sprung between them. A warmth. With the baring of her troubles came a tenuous trust, one that Mick valued beyond measure.

  A trust he never expected to get.

  Longings he’d banked for too many months, for long hopeless years, surfaced in his blood. An ages-old yearning that a man felt for a woman who meant something to him.

  Yearnings he couldn’t have. At least, not yet, but he had now, this moment, and he wasn’t going to let it go without making the most of what it could be.

  He eased the pins from her hair and relished the luxury of that glorious mane falling over his hands and onto her shoulders. Taken aback by his boldness, she drew back slightly with a hushed inhalation of surprise, but he cupped his hand behind her neck, keeping her close, with her face only inches from his.

  “I’m going with you when you talk to Paris,” he said quietly.

  That surprised her, too. “It’s not necessary, Mikolas. I—I feel better about all of this now, and—”

  “Call me ‘Mick.’”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Everyone calls me ‘Mick.’”

  The WCC cowboys had been quick to shorten his name when he joined the outfit. It’d been like a rite of passage, stepping from the sheepherder’s life into a cattleman’s, but Mick hadn’t really minded. Acceptance by them had been too important. Besides, deep in his heart, where it really mattered, he was still Mikolas, Gabirel Vasco’s son.

  “All right,” she said, soft and careful.

  “If you don’t mind, from now on, I’m going to call you ‘Allie.’”

  She cocked her head, and a little smile touched her lips. “Why?”

  He didn’t explain that he felt like it was a rite of passage for them, too. A new beginning. And he sure as hell didn’t explain that ‘Allethaire’ smacked of high-society and formality and big city ways—or that here in Montana Territory, folks lived simpler, less pretentious lives.

  “Because I like it,” he said instead.

  Slowly she nodded. “My father used to call me that quite often.”

  “There. You see?” He smiled, too.

  She’d yet to pull away, he noticed, and the air changed. Hummed along his skin. Crackled, almost, with an awareness that warmed his blood and stirred his loins. She wasn’t moving, but her breathing quickened, and he knew she felt it, too.

  The deepening firelight brushed her cheeks with a sultry glow. Accented her hair with lustrous gold. Painted her lips with a delectable ruby fullness, and how could any man keep from helping himself to a long, leisurely taste?

  Yearning fired up in him, but good. A yearning too long banked.

  His head lowered. He expected her to move away and shatter the moment, but instead, her lashes drifted downward. Her head tilted slightly to better fit her mouth to his, and when their lips touched, when he experienced the intoxicating softness, he tasted lust, and an incredible sensation rocked through him.

  A hunger.

  A need he could no more deny than his own lifeblood, and his embrace tightened on a groan. Her arms circled his neck. He crushed her to him, his enfolding embrace pressing her breasts into his chest, inciting a whole new kind of sensation. A whole new hunger and aching need.

  A need that was fast spiraling out of control. For both of them. But mostly for him, for she was still too fragile, too vulnerable, and if he went too fast, if he went too far, he would only break her in the end.

  He loved her too much not to give her the time she needed. That they both needed. Dredging up all his will, every ounce of his power and strength, he reluctantly drew back.

  And wondered how he was going to get through the night without making very slow, very sweet love to her.

  Chapter Seven

  The morning dawned calm, clear and eye-wateringly cold. The snow had moved on, leaving drifts so white, so incredibly pure that Allethaire could’ve stood on the cabin’s front step and just soaked the sight of them in, for hours on end.

  But of everything, it was the peace that struck her most. The serenity. She’d never felt the beauty of Montana the way she felt it now. Quiet, rustic and proud. And so very different than the constant bustle of Minneapolis.

  Perhaps the serenity had something to do with her own. After sharing her troubles with Mikolas—Mick, she corrected—she didn’t feel as alone anymore. Not nearly as afraid. She’d never expected his loyalty and strength, but he gave both freely, with fierce resolve to make everything right again, using any means within his power.

  And oh, those kisses. Her fingers lifted to her lips, and she relived the feel of his hard mouth on hers. His hunger had been tightly-leashed. Barely under control. Mick Vasco was a breath-stealing specimen of masculinity, corded muscle and darkly rugged looks, and what woman could resist him?

  She almost hadn’t.

  She didn’t want to think of what would have happened if he hadn’t pulled away, giving them the restraint they both needed. She couldn’t let herself be involved with a man like Mick, who was deeply rooted here in Montana. Besides, why would he want a woman with a future as bleak and uncertain as hers? A woman on the run from her problems?

  Big problems.

  “Ready to head out, Allie?”

  Her thoughts scattered, regrouped and centered over him. She had to admit she liked how he’d taken it upon himself to shorten her given name, just because he preferred it. As if he had every right. She liked how he said it, too. Easily. Smoothly. Making her feel less pretentious. Less compelled to put on airs. And funny how “Allie” helped lighten the burden that came with bearing her father’s name—and became more her own.

  Her gaze stayed on Mick while he approached. With his Stetson pulled low against the brilliance of the snow, he led the palomino hitched to a sleigh. Earlier, while she cleaned up after breakfast, he’d swept a path across the small yard, and he halted at the end of it.

  “I’ll get the blankets,” she said.

  She hurried inside toward the woolen pair folded in front of the fireplace. The flames were already banked but still contained enough heat in the embers to warm the coverings for the ride out to the Wells ranch. Bending, she scooped them up and turned to head back outside, but her glance snagged on the bunks lining the wall.

  Her belly fluttered. Last night, she’d taken the bottom one, Mick the top. Both of them had spent their share of time tossing and turning with the memory of their kisses heavy on their minds. Mick had been as aware of her nearness as she’d been of his, and with a certain amount of female satisfaction, it pleased her that she was the reason for his restlessness.

  Aware Mick waited, she hastened outside, taking care to firmly latch the door behind her. In moments, they were both settled on the seat and headed
toward the WCC.

  “Going to be a pretty Christmas if the weather holds,” Mick said, his narrowed eye scanning the mountains on the horizon, then lifting to the blue, blue sky. “Seeing’s tomorrow is Christmas Day, looks like it will.”

  “These past weeks, I’ve hardly thought of the season.”

  In light of her troubles with the library project, neither she nor Jenny had been of a mind to put up a tree or unpack their decorations. Now that Christmas had nearly arrived, the knowledge saddened Allethaire all the more. The festive holiday had always been her favorite.

  “Zurina is looking forward to it.”

  Mick’s younger sister. Trey’s wife. At the time of her kidnapping, Allethaire had been betrothed to Trey. It wasn’t long until they both realized a union between them was never meant to be. Their differences, their wants and needs, were too insurmountable to overcome.

  But as soon as Trey had met Zurina, he’d fallen deeply in love, and she with him. They were destined to be together for the rest of their lives.

  “How is she, Mick?” she asked.

  His chiseled profile showed his pleasure. “Happy. Very happy.”

  “Good,” she said, meaning it.

  “They have a little girl now.”

  “Do they?” Her smile faltered on a twinge of envy. With the mess her life had become, having a child of her own, a husband, a home, seemed elusive. “That’s wonderful.”

  “A spitfire just learning to walk. She’s named Catalin, and she’s queen of the ranch, let me tell you.”

  Allethaire laughed softly. “I’ll bet.”

  Mick fell silent. She sensed a pensive shift in his mood. After long moments, his dark glance settled over her.

  “Warm enough?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, glad she had his black scarf to wind around her head and neck again. “Today isn’t as cold as yesterday.”

  “Sit closer to me anyway.”

  He slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him, hip to hip. Beneath the blankets on their laps, he sat with his knees spread and feet planted against the sleigh’s jostling. Sharing the heat of his big body, feeling safe and comfortable, she almost purred.

  Yet the brooding silence that had come over him reminded her of the man Mikolas Vasco had been when she’d first known him.

  “What about you, Mick?” she dared to ask. “Are you happy these days?”

  “Most times.”

  “And the others?”

  A muscle moved beneath his cheek. He hadn’t bothered to shave this morning, and the beard shadowed his features, giving him a rugged, primitive look that curled her toes.

  “I feel guilty,” he said.

  Even though the answer surprised her, she understood. She’d known plenty of guilt in her life, too, but none more so than in the past three years.

  “Because of what you’ve been given.”

  “Yes.” He contemplated her. “How did you know?”

  She swiveled her gaze toward the horizon and was struck again by the territory’s breathtaking beauty. Its tranquility. As if the rest of the world was a million miles away.

  If only her troubles could be that far away, too.

  “I’ve always had my father’s wealth, even when his business dealings weren’t successful. But as I’ve grown older, it’s become important to me to make my own successes. Follow my own dreams.”

  The Ladies Literary Aid Society and the Minneapolis library project had been her first real attempt to do both, and yet she’d failed terribly.

  “To rest on your own laurels, and not Paris’,” Mick said.

  “That’s right.” Her gaze lifted to his. “Do you feel that way about Trey?”

  Mick appeared to choose his words carefully. “He’s given me a very different life with him at the WCC. A very privileged one.”

  “Your heritage,” she said quietly, thinking of how hard his father, Sutton, worked to make the Wells Cattle Company as powerful an operation as it was today. Wells blood ran in Mick’s veins. He was entitled.

  “My heritage, yes. But my heritage is Basque, too.” He sighed heavily. Clearly the situation troubled him. “I feel guilty that I have so much. More than I need, for sure, and yet my Basque family has very little.”

  They were simple people, Allethaire knew, guided by the sheep they constantly tended. Most barely survived, and they led difficult, lonely lives.

  “You’re only one man, Mick,” she said. “And sheepherding has been a part of the Basque people for generations.”

  “I know.”

  “What can you do to change that?”

  “Change must begin with the young.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “They must be given hope, and the ability to make their futures more promising than their fathers’ and grandfathers’ had been. With or without the sheep.”

  “Yes,” she said again, marveling. Hadn’t she had a similar vision with her library? Improving lives through books, culture, education? “Of course, you’re exactly right.”

  He grunted. “And what have I done about it, besides nothing?”

  “It’s an honorable dream, Mick, and I have no doubt you’ll achieve it somehow.” Impulsively she leaned toward him and kissed his stubbled cheek. “I admire you for it, you know. Very much.”

  “Yeah?” His gloved hand took her chin, holding her still. “Show me how much, then.”

  His head lowered, and he helped himself to another longer, more languid kiss. The bristle above his lip awakened a new sensation, a primitive and exciting one, and it wasn’t long before their cold mouths warmed in wet, heated pleasure.

  Mick drew back. His black eyes glittered over her, and she held her breath at what he was about to do. What he was about to say—

  A horse blowing nearby jogged the silence. Mick swore and jerked his head toward the sound. Alarm shot through Allethaire, an instant fear that Reggie and his gang, or worse, the police, had finally found her.

  A couple of riders approached, snow billowing in little clouds beneath their mounts’ hooves. Rifles filled their scabbards, but neither man reached for the weapons.

  “That you, Mick?” one of them called out.

  Mick’s hand fell away from Allethaire’s chin, and he turned full toward them. “Jack?”

  “Got Nubby here with me.”

  With their hats pulled low and their knitted scarves high around their necks, Allethaire couldn’t see their shadowed faces well, but as they drew closer, she recognized Nubby Thomas, the WCC’s foreman. Once a longtime friend of Sutton’s, he was, she knew, one of the most loyal cowboys on the ranch’s payroll.

  “That Miss Gibson with you, Mick?” he asked.

  “It is.”

  “Hello, Nubby.” She straightened, discreetly putting distance between herself and Mick. What must the two cowboys think, seeing Mick and her sitting as close as lovers on the sleigh’s seat? And just coming off a kiss, no less? “It’s been a few years, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He touched a finger to his hat brim, though his shrewd, grizzled gaze took her in. “You two all right?”

  “Just fine,” Mick said.

  “Got worried when you didn’t show up at the ranch yesterday,” Jack said.

  “Thought we’d ride out and see if we could figure out why,” Nubby added.

  “Ran into some trouble, that’s all.”

  Somber, Jack nodded. “So we heard.”

  Both fell into step beside the sleigh, a horse on each side. Allethaire took comfort in their presence.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Jack Hollister, Allie,” Mick said.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said and would’ve extended her hand if she could’ve reached him.

  “Likewise, ma’am.” Hair the color of buckskin hung down past his coat collar to his broad shoulders. A scar slashed his cheek, but his smile came easy.

  “He showed up at the ranch about the same time I did,” Mick added.

&
nbsp; “And you two have been double-trouble ever since,” Nubby muttered, but the twinkle in his eye belied the grumble in his tone.

  “Yeah, well, he might be Trey’s kid brother, but I’m better-lookin’,” Jack retorted.

  She laughed, knowing he poked fun at the disfiguring scar on his cheek, and she found herself liking him immediately. “How much farther until we get to the ranch?”

  “Won’t be but a few minutes,” he said.

  “Just ahead, in fact.” Nubby pointed.

  In the distance, rising up out of the snow, a wooden beam inscribed Wells Cattle Company announced to visitors they’d arrived at the most prominent spread for miles around. Beyond that, down a long tree-lined lane, stood the ranch’s headquarters. A stately two-story house trimmed in deep blue and graced with a winding porch. The structure was as fine as any Allethaire had seen in the city.

  “Looks like there’s a hell of a greeting party up there.” Mick frowned.

  Indeed, assorted rigs crowded the expansive yard, and dismay skittered down her spine. She didn’t know who had arrived at the WCC, or why, but she wasn’t of a mind to see anyone.

  Not yet. Maybe never. And what if the police waited inside?

  “Bad news always travels fast, don’t it?” Jack commented.

  Mick sighed his annoyance. “Lightning hangs fire by comparison.”

  Several dogs ran toward them, barking their exuberance. Somewhere beyond the house, a rooster crowed. Cowboys spilled out from the barns and corrals, and by the time the sleigh slid to a stop in front of the house, the front door had already been flung open wide.

  And there stood her father. The almighty Paris Gibson, dressed in his usual expensive dark suit and crisp white shirt, wearing a frown on his face and bearing thunder in his eyes.

  Allethaire swallowed hard. The time to face him had come.

  “Would you like cream or sugar, Allie?”

  Zurina Wells handed her a cup and saucer painted with delicate pink flowers. Fresh coffee steamed above the cup’s rim, and Allethaire accepted the china with a grateful smile.

  “Black is fine, thank you,” she murmured.

  Though she preferred something much more bracing to sip. Like the liberal amount of whiskey Trey poured in Mick’s crystal tumbler, in the spirit of warming his belly after their cold ride in from the line camp.