Zack's eyes lit up. "Pie!"
Felicity laughed. "Want some pie, do you?" she asked him.
Zack stuck his thumb in his mouth and tucked his head against Deke's shoulder in a split second of shyness.
But when she said, "I think we can find you a piece," and continued to smile at him, he smiled back around the thumb in his mouth.
"This is Zack."
"Want some apple pie, Zack?" Felicity asked. "You look like an apple pie sort of boy."
Deke had just handed him over when he heard a voice behind him. "Deke Malone? Is that you?"
He turned to see Will Jones, white-haired now and more bow-legged than ever, but still lean and muscled, beaming at him. "Hey, Will!"
"By gum, if you aren't a sight for sore eyes, boy!" And Will wrapped him in a fierce bear hug—just as if Deke were his long-lost son.
Deke's eyes smarted and his throat tightened at the real welcome he got here. He hugged Will fiercely in return. "Good to see you!"
"By heaven, boy, why didn't you say you were comin'?" Will stepped back and looked him up and down.
"It was spur of the moment," Deke said, which wasn't entirely true. "Milly's idea to get everyone here for Thanksgiving this year. On account of her C.J., and Dori's new baby. And they all wanted to meet Zack."
"Zack?"
Deke nodded just as Felicity returned with Zack and a plate of pie. She handed them both to Deke. "This is Zack."
Will's white brows hiked halfway up his forehead. He looked from Deke to the boy in his arms and back again, then grinned. "Well now, ain't he a chip off the old block." He ruffled the little boy's hair as Zack took a handful of pie and put it in his mouth.
Deke winced at the same time he felt a surge of pride. "I eat a little neater," he said with a rueful look at his son.
"Maybe now," Will allowed. "I do remember someone throwin' a few Rocky Mountain oysters at Taggart however."
He started it, Deke almost said. But instead he just flushed, grinning and shrugging.
Will took Deke's elbow and steered him through the crowded room.
"Look who's here!" he boomed as he hauled Deke into the kitchen. "Must be the year for prodigals!"
Everyone at the table looked up. A dark-haired man, a slew of kids, a gray-haired woman.
"Hey! You old son of a gun!" Taggart, the dark-haired spitting image of his father, stood up, beaming. "Well, I'll be damned. It really must be old-home week!"
"Taggart, watch your language," said the gray-haired woman, whom Deke recognized as Gaye Jones.
The children looked at him blankly, though a pretty dark-haired girl about ten seemed to be grinning at Zack. Deke counted them—one, two, three, four, five, six. Taggart had six kids? Good God.
But suddenly he was distracted by a gasp of astonishment, and he turned to see a woman just turning around from taking a pie out of the oven. She, too, was staring—at him—her face flushed, her mouth open.
And Deke, equally dumbstruck, felt unexpected joy welling inside him as, grinning, he drank in the sight of her.
"Erin!"
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Erin? Here?
He couldn't believe it!
But even when he closed his eyes and opened them again—there she was, steaming pie in hand, staring at him in astonishment.
Grinning, Deke started toward her, eager to sweep her into his arms and give her a solid hug. But after two quick steps he stopped, realizing that with Zack in one arm and the pie plate in the other hugging was downright impossible.
Even so, it didn't stop him feeling a shaft of pure pleasure at the sight of her. She looked marvelous, slender still, but curvier than he remembered. She had breasts now—and hips. But she still had glorious long, dark hair and those gentle, expressive green eyes that he recalled so well.
The mere sight of her, even shell-shocked, made Deke feel much better.
"Better put the pie down before you drop it," Taggart suggested when the pie in Erin's hands wobbled precariously.
For a moment she still didn't move. Then suddenly she came to life, her mouth snapped shut and she turned quickly to set the steaming pie on top of the stove next to the two that were already cooling. She didn't immediately turn around, but instead stood staring down at the pie for so long that Deke had the worrisome thought that she might be trying to remember who he was!
"Erin?" he said. "It's, er, Deke. Deke Malone. Don't you remember me?"
She turned then, and she was smiling at him as she brushed her long dark hair away from her flushed face. "Of course I remember you. I was just surprised." She shook her head, disbelieving.
He knew how she felt. He couldn't stop grinning. "You and me both. I thought you were in Paris."
"I was. I thought you were in New Mexico."
"I was. I came for Thanksgiving. You, too?" Though even as he said it, he thought it seemed a long way to come for a four-day holiday.
"I live here now."
Deke's brows lifted in surprise. Why had Milly never told him? "At the ranch?"
"No. In Elmer."
"Elmer?" Which seemed almost stranger. "Since when?"
"We came in August and stayed at the ranch. Then when Polly McMaster—you remember Polly O'Meara, who married Lew McMaster, who died…?"
"Yeah. She married Sloan Gallagher." Who didn't know the crazy wonderful story about Polly and Sloan and the cowboy auction that had taken place in Elmer earlier this year? It had hit every major paper and magazine in the world.
"She and her kids moved up to Sloan's ranch, and her sister married Jace Tucker and her mom married Walt Blasingame, so I bought their house."
Deke tried to process all the marriages. Mostly, though, he just smiled at Erin.
"And we moved in November first," she said. "Me and my kids." Her gaze went to the table, where the passel of kids were no longer paying attention to them, but were jabbering away.
"They aren't all Taggart's, then?"
Erin laughed. "He'd die at the thought. The oldest girl, Becky, and the youngest two, the twins, are Taggart's. The others—Gabriel, Sophie and Nicolas—are mine."
Deke looked over at the table and picked them out. The oldest boy, about twelve, he guessed, bore a startling resemblance to his mother—the same fine features, the same dark hair and green eyes that flashed as he argued some point with his cousin Becky. Though lean and wiry, too, the younger boy, who was probably about seven or eight, didn't resemble Erin at all, with his mop of strawberry-blond hair and faceful of freckles.
Sophie, with her long, brown hair and delicate features looked more like her mother. She reminded Deke of Erin in another way, too. She was quiet—listening, watching—while both boys argued and chattered and laughed at the table now.
"I'd like to meet them," he said. He hesitated, then added, "I heard about what happened to your husband. Milly told me. I'm sorry."
Momentary pain flickered in Erin's eyes, and she smiled wistfully. "Thanks. I'm sorry too. He was a wonderful guy."
Deke was surprised by the pang he felt. Probably, he supposed, because he'd never considered Erin having affection for anyone but him. When he'd known her she'd never even had a boyfriend. She'd been his friend—always there whenever he'd wanted to talk or go riding or shoot photos.
Of course, obviously, she'd had a boyfriend later on—at least one: Jean-Yves LaChance. And she'd obviously felt affection for him because she'd married him.
But before he could think more about Erin's marriage, she brought him back to the present. "And who is this?" She was smiling at the little boy in his arms.
Deke felt the familiar swell of pride as he said, "This is Zack. This is my son."
Erin blinked. "Your son."
It wasn't quite a question, but there had certainly been an instant's hesitation in her words. And no wonder. Deke had told her often enough that he wasn't ever having kids. No way, he told her, was he going to put any kid through the misery his
father had wished on him. Erin, ever sensible, had told him he shouldn't say such things, that he was far too young to decide, and that there was nothing that said he had to be the kind of father his own father had been.
Now Deke said, "You were right."
"Right?"
"I don't have to be my dad."
"Are we havin' that pie anytime this evening, Sis?" Taggart interrupted from across the room, raising his brows at her.
"Coming," Erin said hastily. She gave Deke a quick apologetic smile. "Must feed the clamoring hordes. You were lucky to get a piece of the first one." She nodded at the pie Zack had all over his face.
"Your dad gave it to him. Zack was in dire need of a piece of pie." And now he was in dire need of a washcloth. Both of them were becoming a sticky mess.
"Come sit down, Deke," her father called. "Gabe, shift over. Willy, pull up an extra chair for Deke. Becky, don't we have a high chair around somewhere?"
"In the closet. I'll get it." Taggart's older daughter jumped up.
"There now." Will beamed at Deke as the kids scrambled to do his bidding. "Come sit down and take a load off your feet. Bring that boy over here so we can get acquainted."
Torn, Deke looked from Will to Erin.
"Go on," she said. "Have a good visit. It was nice to see you again."
Nice? As if they'd been nothing more than casual acquaintances! Deke gave his head a quick, disbelieving shake. "What?"
"Dad's waiting," Erin said, sounding impatient.
"Okay. But I want to talk to you, too. To catch up, to find out what you're doing now. Meet your kids. Hell, Erin, it's been years!"
"I know how long it's been." She didn't look at him. She was cutting the pie and putting slices on plates.
"Deke!" Will commanded loudly.
"Coming!" he called over his shoulder, then turned back to Erin. "Later," he promised her. "I'm not leaving until we get a chance to talk." He gave her a wink, a conspiratorial grin and a light tug on a lock of her silky hair. "It'll be just like old times."
Just like old times? Erin devoutly hoped not.
The last thing she wanted these days was to feel the aching desperation of unrequited love that she'd felt for Deke Malone for those five long years.
It didn't even bear thinking about!
It was certainly the last thing she'd been thinking about when she'd come to her brother's for Thanksgiving that afternoon.
Driving over the river and through the hills and trying to teach her French-born children to sing that old song, she'd been thinking to herself that, while the move to Elmer this past summer had been a good idea, it was very true that you "couldn't go home again."
And thank God for that. There was no way on earth Erin would have wanted to go back to being the sappy, passionate, awkward twenty-one-year-old she'd been when she'd last lived here.
She liked herself the way she was now—strong, independent, competent—a devoted mother and respected freelance magazine photographer, a capable adult woman who could manage alone.
Her parents said they understood that. They admired her independence, but recently her mother had taken to saying things like, "You may not always be alone, Erin. There will come a time when you'll be ready to look at men again."
And her sister-in-law, Felicity, Taggart's wife, had agreed. "I did," she said. And Erin, who had forgotten, remembered that Felicity had been a widow when Taggart had met her.
"Maybe," she'd allowed, because she didn't want to argue with them. But she didn't really believe it. As far as she could tell, her hormones had died when Jean-Yves had. Certainly they hadn't shown the least bit of interest in any man since.
Until now.
Deke Malone seemed to have brought them back from the dead.
And realizing it, all Erin could think was, oh, hell. Oh, hell. Oh, hell. Oh, hell. Because if there was one man on the face of the earth she did not want to start thinking about in that way again—if there was one man it was absolutely pointless to feel that way about ever—it was Deke!
She couldn't believe he was actually here!
When she'd considered moving from Paris back to Montana, the knowledge that she wouldn't be tripping over Deke Malone every time she turned around had been a big selling point.
Not, she'd assured herself at the time, because she'd still be in love with him even if he were, but because she didn't want to be constantly reminded of the foolish young girl she'd been.
Thank God Deke had never guessed.
In his eyes she'd always been a friend—his "best friend," he'd often told people. And whenever he'd said it, Deke would loop an arm over her shoulders and give her a squeeze.
Erin had lived for those moments of casual contact. She'd dreamed about them, embroidered them into the world's hottest fantasies—relatively speaking, of course. In those days she'd been pretty innocent in the ways of the world.
But remembering them now could still make her face flush.
She'd even hoped they'd go to Paris together, that they'd each get a fellowship. And that once there, no longer distracted by his long-standing battle with his father and the local girls who seemed all too willing to hop into his bed, Deke would discover how much he really loved her.
The stuff of foolish fantasies! Reality had been far different.
She'd got a fellowship and he hadn't.
"You can come, anyway," Erin had argued desperately. "You don't need a fellowship to go to Paris."
"Yeah, sure. Like I can afford to just pack up and move to Paris."
"You could," she'd insisted. "If you—"
"If I what?" Deke had challenged her.
But she couldn't say it, couldn't say anything, couldn't force him to dream her dreams. "Nothing," she'd said, trying to find a smile, to be his friend. "Never mind."
She'd blinked back tears and run out of the store. It was the last time she ever saw him. She'd been too busy, getting ready to leave to go down to Livingston, to say goodbye. He could have come to the ranch, she'd told herself. He could have changed his mind.
She'd dared hope that by leaving him alone he might just do that.
One more bit of foolishness.
"Aren't you going to call Deke and say goodbye?" her mother had asked her.
Erin had just shaken her head. "He's busy. I've got too much to do. I'll write him," she'd said.
She never had. She'd checked the post every day in hopes of finding a letter from him. But he didn't write, either.
I'll see him at Christmas, she'd assured herself
But when she had come at Christmas, Deke was already gone.
"He and Dad had a big battle," Milly told her, "and Deke packed up and left. We don't know where he is."
She'd gone back to Paris, disappointed but determined to get over him. There was only so long even the most steadfast unrequited lover could hold out hope.
The following spring she'd begun dating a bit. She'd gone out a few times with a wildlife photographer named Nathan Wolfe and with a journalist, Trace Kennedy. But neither had made her heart beat faster the way Deke had.
She knew what he must have been feeling about her—Nathan and Trace had been friends, nothing more.
Then, several months later, it had happened. She'd met a young, intense photojournalist, Jean-Yves LaChance, who'd had the same intensity Deke had had.
Jean-Yves had asked her out. They had a wonderful time. They talked for hours over a bottle of wine.
They walked the streets of Paris and ended up back at her place, talking all night. But there had been more than talking between them. Jean-Yves made it quite clear from the first that he didn't think of her as a "friend."
"I'll call you," he promised, even though he was leaving the next day for Morocco.
Erin hadn't expected to hear from him. But that night he rang. From Morocco. They'd talked for an hour. He'd called her every night while he was gone. When he came home, she met him at the airport. They spent every waking hour that she wasn't in school or he
wasn't at work being together. And when he left for Lebanon and said, "I'll call," she believed him.
When he returned, Jean-Yves said, "Why are we spending money renting two flats?"
And Erin, unsure about living with someone—even the man she knew she loved, felt a nervous flutter. "Share one?" she said. "Live together?"
"Get married."
It had been perfect. "A marriage made in a darkroom," Jean-Yves jokingly said. But it was true—they understood and supported each other's work. He was delighted with her "human interest" pieces, and relieved that she was happy to be home with the family they soon started.
And she understood that the world's trouble spots were Jean-Yves LaChance's bread and butter. His need for adventure, for excitement, for shooting late-breaking news was simply part of who he was. And she knew it was risky. But it was a risk he needed to take.
"I'll be fine," he always reassured her, grinning that wonderful lopsided grin of his. "They don't call me LaChance for nothing." The Lucky One, he meant.
But then, on one fateful February evening, Jean-Yves LaChance's luck ran out.
He'd died instantly in cross fire between soldiers and snipers. He hadn't been the only journalist hit. Coincidentally, three days earlier Charlie Seeks Elk, who was now married to Cait Blasingame, whose family ranched a few miles away, had been shot as well. Charlie had survived.
Jean-Yves had not.
He'd been gone nearly three years. And while she could—and did—get by on her own, she still missed him. She didn't expect she'd ever look at another man, no matter what her mother or her sister-in-law had said.
She didn't want to look at Deke!
Her fingers gripping the knife trembled as she continued to cut the pie. Over the noise of laughter and chatter Erin could easily pick out his voice as he answered her father's questions. She couldn't tell what he was saying. She refused to strain to hear. She didn't want to hear. Didn't want to know.
The Cowboy's Christmas Miracle Page 4