Longing for a Cowboy Christmas

by Leigh Greenwood

  George whistled his admiration.

  She didn’t even glance his way. Her steady gaze remained trained on Perry.

  “You idiot,” Perry shouted to Turnbull, fumbling to maintain his modesty. “Do something.”

  Turnbull reached for his gun but didn’t get it halfway clear of the holster before George had his own gun drawn. “I wouldn’t,” he said with a grin.

  Turnbull immediately put his hands up in surrender.

  “Coward,” Perry accused before he turned his attention back to the woman. “You’re gonna regret trying to make a fool of me.”

  George couldn’t resist commenting. “A fool? You managed that all on your own, Perry. And I wouldn’t be tossing threats around so freely. Someone might take exception.”

  Perry sneered. “You? A man who talks all fancy and proper and calls himself Gentleman George?”

  George grinned. “If we’re listing my finer qualities, please don’t forget to include my impeccable manners and irresistible charm.”

  Perry’s florid expression hardened. “You’d best watch your back,” he threatened. “And you,” Perry added, looking back to the woman who hadn’t lowered her blade or shifted her gaze. “Someday, I’ll find you without that knife in easy reach.”

  George had hit his limit.

  He reached Perry in two long strides to shove him back against a post supporting the short roof that extended over the general store doorway. Keeping his gun pointed at Turnbull, in case the man decided to show some balls, George pressed his forearm to Perry’s throat. “You know something, Perry?” George noted conversationally. “You’re as ignorant a fool as everyone says you are.”

  Fury burned in Perry’s eyes as his face flushed red with rising temper and lack of air.

  “If I hear of you threatening this woman by word or action ever again, I’m gonna come calling.” George smiled with a flash of teeth. “I promise… You don’t want me to come calling. Are we clear?”

  Perry looked at him as if he wanted shove a knife up beneath George’s ribs, but after a moment, he gave a short nod. George released the pressure of his arm and took a step back, keeping himself between the two men and the woman who stood still and silent behind him.

  Perry stumbled, grasping his throat and coughing between sharp inhales. Turnbull stepped toward him, but Perry shrugged him off. He cast a rage-filled glance at George before his shifty gaze started jumping around to notice the little crowd that had gathered to watch the show.

  His flesh grew more livid in color. It appeared he didn’t like being the center of attention unless he was the one in control. After sending a sneering glare at the curious onlookers, he turned back to George and spit a disgusting glob to the snow at his feet. “This ain’t over,” he declared. Casting a fury-filled glance toward the woman, he added, “You can count on that.”

  Holding his pants up with a tight fist and cursing at Turnbull under his breath, Perry made a face of disgust, then turned and walked away.

  A sudden gust of wind swept down the road, causing a murmur of discomfort among the curious townsfolk still hovering about. One by one, they turned to continue about their day, anxious to finish their errands and get out of the cold.

  George waited to be sure the two wastrels were truly gone before he turned back to see that the woman in furs had already leaped up onto the seat of her wagon. She gave a flick of her wrists and the horses started off, leaving George standing in the road feeling rather bemused and disappointed.

  Most damsels in distress George had been fortunate enough to assist over the years offered up a sweet little thank-you or a smile or a flutter of lashes…something.

  But then, this one hadn’t really been in much distress and probably would have handled the situation just fine without George’s interference.

  If what had just happened was an example of what she experienced whenever she came to town, it was no wonder she preferred to keep to the mountains.

  Still, he figured as he watched her ride away, it would’ve been nice to discover her name.

  Then another gust of wind swept past him—this one even fiercer than the last. He tugged his coat close against the blast of frigid air and glanced up at the darkening sky, hoping it wasn’t a forewarning of more extreme weather to come.

  Two

  Snow swirled with blinding force as George huddled atop his buckskin mustang, head bowed and hands tucked inside his sheepskin coat.

  He cursed his boredom for luring him into town for a diverting game of cards.

  He cursed Tad Perry for being an arse and delaying his departure.

  And he cursed the whiteout conditions for getting him so lost.

  If he’d been smart, he’d have stayed in Chester Springs to wait out the storm. Instead, he’d been distracted by thoughts of brown eyes and the loveliest mouth he’d ever seen.

  He lifted his face and peered through the worsening deluge of snow. Surely, he should have gotten to the pass that would take him to the hidden valley by now.

  Or perhaps the wind and deepening snow had slowed his progress enough that he hadn’t yet reached the concealed trail. The trouble was that he couldn’t see a foot or two in front of him to identify any landmarks to get his bearings. And the turnoff was difficult to spot in clear weather.

  He imagined his mates were probably sitting all toasty and warm in front of the bunkhouse hearth. What he wouldn’t give to be there with them right now!

  He lowered his head against a fierce gust of wind that cut like ice through his winter layers. He tried to wriggle his toes, but he couldn’t feel them. They had gone completely numb in his boots despite the woolen stockings he wore.

  Another blast of driving snow set his teeth to chattering. His heart broke at the thought of not reaching the valley and the welcoming hearth, but if he didn’t hunker down and get out of the blizzard, there was a chance he wouldn’t make it through the storm at all.

  Lifting his chin, he squinted against the icy wind that beat his face and scanned for anything that might provide some shelter. Thank God, Gabe had seen fit to show him how to build a makeshift shelter a few winters ago when they’d been traveling through a similar storm.

  George figured he remembered the gist of it.

  Locating a grouping of three trees tucked in close together, he stiffly dismounted and trudged through the snow. With his knife, he cut down saplings and trimmed pine boughs. After about an hour of doing his best to ignore the creeping numbness that had now reached his thighs, he had his mustang tied to a tree behind his shelter where the animal would be protected from the worst of the wind as George took up a spot inside. He sat on pine boughs to keep the snow underneath him from freezing his arse, with his arms wrapped around his bent legs.

  The wind whipped snow in through every little crack, and he still couldn’t feel his fingers or toes, but at least he had a chance of making it until the storm passed. As long as it didn’t last too long. Or get much worse.

  He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there when his mustang snorted. A second later, one carefully constructed wall of his shelter was swept away to reveal a figure dressed in furs, holding a shotgun aimed at his head. “Don’t move.” The voice was female, rich and warm though the words were spoken in a sharp tone.

  Even if he could still move his frozen limbs, he wasn’t going to. Though her face was concealed by the deep hood of her coat, he recognized her as the mountain man’s daughter. He was sure that at any moment, she’d realize he was the man who’d defended her against Perry and would lower her weapon.

  Except, she didn’t. “Why are you following me?”

  Though his jaw was sore from all the chattering his teeth had been doing the last few hours, he managed a somewhat coherent reply. “Since I couldn’t see two feet past my nose, I sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to follow anyone, even if I’d intended to.”r />
  “What’re you doing up here?”

  “I happen to live in these mountains, though I suspect I missed my trail.”

  “The pass to the valley is blocked by a fallen tree.”

  How did she know about the pass?

  It was one of only two ways into the hidden valley he called home. The reason their gang had lasted so long was because no one had ever been able to find their hideout unless they’d wanted to be found.

  “That explains why I missed it,” he replied.

  “So you thought you’d hole up here? In this?” she asked with a suspicious thread of amusement running through her voice.

  George frowned and glanced about the shelter he’d been rather proud of until that moment. “I thought I did a fair job.”

  She shook her head. “You must have a death wish.”

  “Not at all. Hence, the shelter.”

  “This storm is gonna go on through the night and into tomorrow at least. You won’t last more than another couple hours out here.” She sighed, then lowered the gun. “I suppose you’d better come with me.”

  Not waiting for his agreement, she turned and disappeared from sight.

  George scrambled from his hut as quickly as he could, fearing she’d disappear into the swirling whiteout he crawled into. But she had just gone around to untie his horse. Without even sparing a glance over her shoulder to ensure he followed, she started off into the blizzard.

  He trudged after her, and no more than ten minutes later, the dark shape of a small cabin started to emerge out of the white.

  If he hadn’t stopped to make a shelter, he would have ridden right into it. He had been far more lost than he’d imagined. That or the mountain man and his daughter lived a lot closer to the valley than he’d realized.

  “Go inside. I’ll see to your horse.” Not waiting for a reply, she veered to the left, and soon she and his horse both disappeared from sight.

  George considered waiting for her before going inside. It just didn’t seem proper to enter the woman’s home without her. But the cold had gotten to him. He needed to thaw out.

  He stumbled up two shallow steps to a small, uneven porch. Another two steps with his frozen feet, and he reached for the door’s latch. It swung easily inward, and George bustled himself inside.

  Warmth.

  It enveloped him as soon as the door closed behind him. For a moment he noticed nothing about the cabin interior beyond the healthy fire blazing in a stone fireplace that took up half of the wall opposite where he stood. He kicked off his boots near the door, then crossed the small cabin to get nearer to the roaring heat of the fire.

  He’d never been so cold in his life. Even the couple winters he’d spent in northern Scotland couldn’t compare. Back home, he’d preferred to enjoy the colder months tucked safely in the comfort of his Lowland manor with a brandy in his hand or a warm woman in his bed.

  Standing as close to the fire as he could get without crawling into it, he took a look around.

  The cabin was comprised of a single room with a loft built in the rafters above and a ladder for access. The windows had been tightly shuttered, and the only light was created by the fire itself, but it was enough to see that the place was very sparsely furnished with only two overstuffed chairs set before the fire with a small table between. Cupboards lined the wall on either side of the door, and a little, black iron stove nestled in one corner. An enormous bear pelt was nailed to one wall, and the space beneath the loft held a couple trunks and some shelves that were overflowing with books.

  The books surprised him, and he almost wandered over to see what sort of reading material he’d find in this rustic little mountain cabin. Before he could do so, the front door opened. The woman who’d likely saved him from being buried alive in the snow secured the door with a cross board and propped her rifle beside it before turning around and pushing her hood back.

  Warm, dark eyes, thick black lashes, broad bone structure, and a lush, generous mouth.

  Though his teeth still chattered and his hands and feet were beginning to ache as they thawed, George was amazed to discover that his blood was still capable of rushing quick and hot through his veins with the right inspiration.

  And the woman wrapped in all those furs was stunning.

  When she caught sight of him standing before the fire, her straight black brows furrowed over her coffee-colored gaze. “Why are you still dressed?”

  The flames inside him leaped in reaction to her husky tone, not to mention the very suggestive words. But he quickly stomped them down. Though a man could surely hope, it was unlikely she’d meant the words in the way his suddenly unruly libido interpreted.

  “Pardon,” he said with lifted brows.

  “Strip down,” she ordered. “Once the snow on your clothes starts melting, you’re not only going to be freezing cold, you’re going to be wet and freezing cold. And I sure as hell am not going to nurse you though an illness.”

  She removed her coat and hung it on a hook next to the door. Underneath it, she wore a flannel button-down shirt tucked into buckskin breeches with a hunting knife strapped high on her thigh. Her thick, black hair was tied back at her nape and brushed the small of her back as she turned to face him.

  Her expression furrowed as she noted that he hadn’t moved to do as she said. Propping her hands on her hips, she repeated sharply, “Clothes off. Now.”

  Three

  Lucy stared the man down until he finally lifted his hands to release the buttons of his coat. Then she turned to lift the bucket she’d filled with snow just before heading out to drag the man from his shelter. Pouring some of the melted snow into an old dented teapot on her stove, she focused on getting her heart rate down and her thoughts back in order.

  Involving herself in other people’s problems was not something she did as a rule, and she wondered why she hadn’t left him to fend for himself.

  Because the storm would have turned his shelter into a scattered pile of branches within hours and the man likely would’ve been dead by morning.

  Just because he’d stepped in on her behalf in town didn’t make him her responsibility. She could have handled those two idiots just fine on her own. If there was one lesson her father had instilled in her, it was that she couldn’t trust anyone, men least of all. At the tender age of eleven, she was assured in a gruff and serious tone that if anyone tried to take something from her she wasn’t willing to give, she had her father’s full permission to gut the bastard.

  That fumbling pig in town hadn’t been the first to mistakenly assume that just because she was alone, she was vulnerable and ripe for the picking. He was lucky the tall, handsome red-haired man had interfered when he did, or he might have lost more than his limited dignity.

  Handsome? Is that why you brought him to the cabin?

  Of course not, she mentally insisted as she mixed some tea leaves with an assortment of dried herbs that were helpful in chasing a chill from the body.

  Maybe you just like the way he talks.

  There is that, she acknowledged. His accent was quite enjoyable to listen to, even when he’d been berating the man who’d accosted her.

  Or maybe your loneliness has gotten the better of you.

  Lucy frowned. Her father had always valued solitude over all else. Lucy, on the other hand, enjoyed a good conversation when she could find it, which was usually only in the spring when she traveled around to the various trading posts she and her father had always done business with. Though she accepted her more social nature, she still didn’t like to admit that she might be in need of anything she couldn’t provide for herself.

  Leaving the water to boil, she turned back to see if the man was removing his wet clothing as she’d instructed. The sight of his progress had her freezing in place as a rush of awareness rolled through her from head to toe.

  He’d m
anaged to strip down much faster than she’d expected and currently stood facing the fire in nothing but his britches, which were damp and plastered to long, thickly muscled legs. His bare arms were roped with more muscle, as were his shoulders and back.

  It had been hard to miss the fact that he stood at least six inches taller than her, but she hadn’t thought he’d be so well formed.

  As his hands went to the fly of his britches, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

  His gaze slammed into hers.

  Russet-colored brows gathered for a brief moment at the sight of her watching him. Then a twinkle entered his gaze, and one corner of his mouth tilted upward into a crooked smile that sparked an odd weakness in her knees. “Shall I turn around and give you something worth ogling?” he asked. Humor thickened his voice.

  She probably should have been embarrassed for having been caught staring, but it wasn’t often—all right, it was never—that she had an opportunity to observe such a fine example of the male form. And she was far too fascinated by what she saw to feel anything but pleasure in the sight of him.

  She lifted her brows. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

  “I’ve never had a woman complain.”

  His arrogance was likely not misplaced. What she could already see of his body was strong and large and well defined. She imagined he was equally impressive everywhere.

  She started across the room, walking toward him with her eyes locked on his.

  As she neared, the half grin slid from his lips and he slowly turned to face her full on. Surprise and something else—something mysterious…and wicked—flickered in his eyes.

  She wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from looking at the wonderfully defined ridges of his muscled chest and abdomen even if she’d tried. When she noticed the lines angling across his hips to disappear beneath the waistband of his britches, her lower belly drew taut with a delicious ache.

  Breathing deeply to clear the sudden haze she’d drifted into, she reached for the blanket that was draped over the back of her reading chair and tossed it to him.