They watched the movie, the three of them, until the end when bureaucracy overtook and stultified adventure and scientific pursuit.
"That part," Deke said, stretching his arms over his head, "is only a joke if you haven't lived it." His smile was wry and sad.
And Erin knew that however welcome the respite of losing himself in the film had been, the ending had brought back the conflict with his father. "Come along now," she said to Gabriel. "Bedtime."
"I've got the stunt video," Gabriel said eagerly to Deke, "where they show you how they did stuff. My dad and I used to watch it all the time. It's cool. If you want we could—"
"Gabriel!" Erin arched her brows at him.
"But—"
She tapped her watch. "You've seen the movie. It's time for bed. Now."
His shoulders slumped, and Erin felt the tiniest bit guilty because she sensed that his eagerness was not feigned merely to get to stay up longer, but because he'd found a kindred spirit in Deke Malone.
"Another time, perhaps," she said firmly, though she knew there wouldn't be any other times. Deke would be heading back to New Mexico tomorrow.
"Uh-huh." Gabriel's tone told her he knew that, too. He rewound the tape, then put it in the box and kissed her good-night, then glanced at Deke. "Good night."
As soon as he'd gone upstairs and they were alone, Erin felt pricklings of awareness that made her want to call him back. "Coffee? A glass of wine? A beer?" she asked.
Deke raised a brow. "Wine? In Elmer, Montana?" As if it were unheard of.
Erin laughed. "Well, I snuck some in. Too many years in Paris. Forgive me."
"Actually," Deke said, "I wouldn't mind a glass of wine." And at her lifted brow he grinned and added a little wryly. "Too many years in Santa Fe."
Erin led the way into the kitchen. She offered him a choice of the bottles she'd brought with her from France. He looked them over, nodded appreciatively and chose the cabernet. When she got out a corkscrew, Deke took it and opened the bottle with practiced ease while she fetched glasses.
"Times change," she said, watching him. "You couldn't have done that fifteen years ago."
"I couldn't have afforded wine that came in a bottle with a cork in those days, anyway."
"Or been old enough to drink it—legally."
"That, too." He handed her one of the glasses and raised the other in a toast. "To the years."
"And the miles," Erin added, echoing Indiana Jones.
"And the friends," Deke added.
Their glasses clinked. Their eyes locked. And Erin, in danger of drowning in the deep blue of his gaze, took a hasty gulp and nearly choked on it.
"All those years in France," Deke murmured, shaking his head as, eyes watering, Erin coughed and cleared her throat.
Embarrassed, Erin could do nothing but laugh at herself.
"So tell me," she said, when she could manage to speak again, "about those years in Santa Fe. Come in, sit down and tell me about your life." Carrying her glass and the bottle, she led the way into the living room.
"Want a fire?" Deke nodded toward the living room fireplace.
"Oh, yes." She didn't take the time to build one often herself, but she loved them. A fire in the fireplace always made a house seem cozier, homier. Having a fireplace was one of the things she'd missed in their flat in Paris.
Now she watched as Deke built the fire with the same efficiency he'd shown with the bottle of wine. Then, when he had it going to his satisfaction, he stepped back, picked up his glass and came to join her on the sofa.
"Your life," Erin prompted, swallowing carefully as he sat down. He'd turned sideways to face her and his knee very nearly brushed her own. Unbidden, the traitorous pounding of her heart kicked up a notch.
"All fifteen years in a nutshell?" Deke said a little wryly. But at her nod, he thought a moment, then began. "I left a little while after you did. Had a bust-up with my dad that you weren't here to help me think my way out of. So I figured it was time to get out. But I couldn't afford to go to Paris, so I just went west." He swirled the wine in his glass reflectively, then stared into the fire and went on. "I worked on half a dozen ranches, earned enough to buy film and get it developed, and when I could afford to send photos out to magazines, that's what I did. I sold a few. Barely enough to keep the wolf from the door of my truck, which is what I was living in at the time."
At the sound of Erin sucking in her breath, he said quickly, "It wasn't as bad as it sounds. It worked out fine. I didn't have any money, but I didn't feel poor. I bummed around most of the West for a year getting nowhere, and then I decided maybe I'd make my fortune riding broncs."
"You?" Erin was amazed. Deke had never had the rodeo bug.
"Me. And that turned out to be a worse idea. I broke my arm in Salinas about two weeks out, and that ended my rodeo career right there. Worst of all, I couldn't hold a camera for about six weeks. Lucky for me, I'd sent off some slides to Enrique Castillo—"
"The Enrique Castillo?" Enrique Castillo had been a mover and shaker in the art world, in photography and other media, for many years. He was so well-known that even in Paris she'd heard of him.
Deke nodded. "Luck of the Irish, I guess. I was still laid up when he tracked me down. He took one look at me with my arm in plaster and my stomach growling, and said, 'You're an idiot. You do what you're not good at. It will break you in little pieces. Come to Santa Fe.'"
"Just like that?"
Deke smiled reminiscently. "Just like that. And I told him I couldn't afford to. And he said, 'You can't afford not to. If you don't take your work seriously, who will?' And then he walked out. I had a lot of time to think. And I decided he was right. So I went to Santa Fe. It took me two months, but I got there. He found me a place to live, gave me a job in his gallery, taught me the sales angle and the business angle and told me to keep my eyes and ears open and learn. I sold pictures. I swept floors. I did the accounting." He grimaced. "It was like the damn grocery store all over again. But at the same time he taught me how to present my work. I matted and framed photos, and I got to listen to every photographer and artist who came through. It was an education and a half. It was incredible. I learned."
Erin, marveling at his tale, sat back and grinned. "That's fantastic. Truly. And I feel vindicated," she added. "I told you that you had talent."
"Yeah, well, you were the only one who could see it back then."
"You saw it."
"But I didn't really trust it."
"Do we ever completely trust our own instincts?" Erin could think of plenty of times she'd hoped something was true, but it hadn't always worked out. Deke and herself together, for example.
"Probably not." Deke sighed and shifted on the sofa, leaning back and stretching his long jeans-clad legs out in front of him. There was, Erin noted, a hole in the toe of his sock. She let her gaze slide slowly up the denim, then, realizing what she was doing, shifted her gaze quickly away to stare into the fire. It seemed a less dangerous object of contemplation.
"What about you?" he asked.
So she told him about her life in Paris, about what a wonderful opportunity to grow and learn she'd had at the institute, how it had helped her develop as a photographer, how she had discovered her strengths and interests there, how she had met Jean-Yves.
She talked a lot about Jean-Yves. It was as if she needed to remember him right now, needed to call to mind how deep their love had been, how it had made her the woman she was. And to reinforce that, she talked about her children. She didn't know if he wanted to hear it or not. But she needed to say it.
"They're the most important things in the world to me now," she finished finally.
And Deke smiled at her over his wineglass, the fire reflected in his eyes, as he said, "I know what you mean."
And oddly she thought that he did. "Yes," she said, "you would, being a father yourself. I'm a little surprised," she admitted, "since you used to say you never wanted to be."
Deke rubbed the back
of his neck. "You weren't half as surprised as I was."
Erin's brows lifted. "You mean you had to get married?"
"I never got married. Last summer a social worker showed up on my doorstep and told me I was a dad."
Erin stared at him. "What?"
Deke's mouth twisted. "Shock of my life." And then he told her about the woman called Violet who had been Zack's mother.
"She'd always said, No strings. She didn't want any herself. First thing she said to me when I met her in California was, 'I'd like to go to bed with you, but I don't want you getting ideas.'" He made a wry face, looking almost embarrassed to say the words. Was that a flush creeping up above his collar?
Erin was fascinated, and reluctantly impressed by Violet's no-nonsense approach to getting what she wanted. God knew Erin had always been totally unable to make moves like that herself.
"Outspoken, that was Violet," Deke said. "She was as free a spirit as I've ever known, always heading off into the sunset. The Lone Ranger had nothing on her." He studied the fire again, then lifted his glass and drained it. "But she always came back. Every couple of years she'd breeze through Santa Fe and we'd … spend a little time together."
Erin felt a stab of jealousy for this woman who had so easily breezed in and out of Deke's life. She didn't say anything. Just waited. And eventually Deke went on.
"I thought it was what I wanted, too. Consenting adults and all that. I don't expect you to understand. You were always the marriage and kids type. But I figured it would work for me. Violet said she couldn't have kids. Some doc had told her that when she was a teenager. She'd been a horsewoman in those days. Got thrown and stomped. Hurt bad. And a doc said kids weren't going to happen. Obviously he was wrong." Deke poured himself another glass of wine, then topped off Erin's.
"Maybe that was why she decided to see the world," he reflected. "Because she could—and no one would be coming along and slowing her down. But then someone did. Zack."
"And she didn't tell you?"
"Nope. Guess she figured I wouldn't want to know. She knew I wasn't interested in becoming a dad, although I remember once she said the same thing you used to say—" he looked at her then "—that I didn't have to be like my old man."
"And we were right."
"Thank God." He swallowed, stared into his glass, then at the fire.
Erin studied his profile, drank in the sight, wallowed in the moment. "Do you want to talk about it?"
His mouth twisted. "About what happened tonight, you mean? What about last night? Or the night before?"
She hadn't realized they'd all been bad. Impulsively Erin laid a hand on his arm. "Oh, Deke."
She ached for him, always had. Her own parents had been so unstintingly supportive of both her and her brother that she couldn't wholly fathom how awful it would be to have a father who belittled all your efforts to be the best person you could be.
She knew he didn't want her pity. He just wanted someone to talk to. So she was surprised when he laced his fingers through hers. His thumb rubbed absently against the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry," she told him. "I'm so sorry."
He shrugged. "Me, too. But I can't change anything. I thought I had that figured out after Thanksgiving when he cut me dead. And then, damn it, he showed up tonight! Why the hell did he do that?" He looked at her, anguished.
"Maybe he realized he'd hurt you."
Deke snorted. "Why would he care now?"
Why not the hundred other times? And Erin didn't know the answer to that. She squeezed his hand, wishing there was something else she could do.
Deke's jaw was clenched so tightly she saw the muscle pulse. Then he shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I just need to make sure I never do the same thing to Zack."
"You won't."
"I'll do my damnedest not to!" He shifted to face her, bringing one knee up onto the sofa between them. Their still-clasped hands rested on his thigh. "I'll try to do as good a job as you have."
Erin sighed. "I'm not always sure how good a job I'm doing."
"But they're great. And Gabriel likes Raiders of the Lost Ark, so you obviously did something right."
"He owes that to Jean-Yves. They always watched it together."
"I knew he was a good man."
Erin nodded. Now it was her turn to stare into the fire. "I wish he was here. It's so hard alone…"
"But you've got Taggart here and your folks."
"Yes. But they have their own lives. I don't want to impose."
"I doubt they think it's imposing. They love you."
Erin nodded. "I know that. But I'm the ultimate decision maker. It was my decision to move back here."
"A good one, obviously."
"I hope so. The kids wanted to come, too. They like playing cowboys." She shook her head, bemused, but her throat felt tight. "But sometimes I feel like I should have stayed. For Jean-Yves."
"Who wasn't there anymore," Deke reminded her.
"I know. But it's their heritage!"
"You can take them back for visits. They came here to visit, didn't they?"
"Yes. Every year." Erin sighed again. "It's just…"
But she couldn't explain. She'd felt adrift since Jean-Yves's death, as if her anchor was gone, as if she had no purpose anymore. It wasn't true, of course. She had the children to raise. She had her photography—if she ever got back to it. But it wasn't the same.
She and Jean-Yves had shared so much on so many levels. And now … now she just felt alone.
Deke's free hand—the one that wasn't holding hers—came up and touched her hair. His fingers trailed down to her jaw, then lingered on her cheek. His touch was gentle, soothing. It offered solace, connection.
Common sense—self-preservation—told Erin she should pull away, that she should pour some more wine, let the dog out, let the cat in. Do anything other than sit there and let her feelings swamp her.
But she couldn't seem to move. She couldn't resist his touch. She had been so lonely. It had been so long. She had been nearly three years without any man's touch. And Deke's fingers on her cheek were something she had dreamed of. She turned her head. Her lips brushed against his palm.
He shifted his weight, moved his leg, and their clasped hands rested against the inseam of his jeans. Erin swallowed. She should turn away, pull back. She stayed. She shut her eyes.
"I wondered sometimes," Deke said, his voice low and a little husky. "I thought about you. Wondered where you were. What you were doing."
Missing you, she thought. Wanting you.
At least at first—before she'd managed to move on, to realize that there was more to life than unrequited love, that there were wonderful men in the world—at least one wonderful man in the world—besides Deke Malone.
"I thought about you, too," she said. If he only knew! Yet how generic she made it sound. How necessary it was to say it that way.
"Did you ever wonder…?" Deke stopped, letting his words trail off. His thumb brushed against her cheek; his fingers grazed her chin. He tipped her head so that she knew if she dared to open her eyes, she would be looking right into his.
She had to. Couldn't resist. And saw that his normally deep-blue eyes had darkened even more now. His gaze was intent.
She held herself steady under the light touch of his fingers, willed her heart to stay calm, her mind to be rational. "Wonder?" she echoed in barely more than a whisper. "Wonder what?"
Deke shook his head wordlessly. His thumb brushed her lips as slowly he moved closer. His face was mere inches from hers; his head blocked out the light from the fire.
But who needed light when she had a gaze full of Deke—of his dark brows, his midnight eyes, his sharp nose and firm lips? He was so close she could feel his breath on her lips. So near she could almost taste them.
And then she did. He kissed her.
It was the kiss that once she'd dreamed of. A gentle, slow tender kiss. Tentative at first. An asking. A tasting. An exploration.
As if he'd wondered … and asked … and liked what he found.
The kiss deepened, became firmer, more sure and more inquisitive at the same time.
And Erin responded. She was helpless not to respond. Her lips parted. She remembered reading once that a person could benefit not only from real weight lifting, but from just thinking about weight lifting. The brain, scientists said, responded not just to what it had done, but to what it merely thought about doing.
Apparently so did her mouth.
She'd always wondered what it would be like to kiss Deke Malone. Really kiss him—and be kissed by him—not those quick little friendly pecks on the cheek that went with friendships like theirs. In fact, she had spent long pleasurable hours imagining how they would kiss. And it seemed that she had a good, accurate imagination.
But reality was even better.
She could have kept on kissing him forever, savoring the feel of his lips on hers, of their hands locked together, of his fingers cupping the nape of her neck, then softly stroking her hair. She felt almost bereft when he drew back far enough so that his eyes looked into hers. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"Well, now," he said, looking a little surprised and extremely pleased. "Who'd have guessed?"
Me, Erin thought. I guessed. Years ago. But she didn't say it.
"Curiosity satisfied?" Erin managed, trying to sound tart and a little jokey, unsure where things were going from here, unsure where she wanted them to go.
Slowly Deke shook his head. "Not even close." The words barely left his mouth before he closed the distance between their lips again and continued his exploration.
There was nothing tentative about this kiss. It was warm and hungry, yet slow and leisurely at the same time. Like a five-course Parisian restaurant meal, Erin thought, where every flavor was to be considered, sampled, nibbled, savored.
And not only his mouth explored, his fingers did, as well. He let go of her hand and tangled both of his in her hair. Then, he stroked her back; he traced the line of her ear. He kissed the line of her jaw and the hollow of her throat, and then he returned to her lips again, parting them once more so that his tongue touched hers. It teased. It tempted.
The Cowboy's Christmas Miracle Page 8