by Cindy Gerard
Hadn't she badgered and bristled and sniped at him exactly the way he'd badgered and bristled and sniped at her all these years? All these years that he'd loved her and just hadn't wanted to admit it? All these years that they'd both hidden their true feelings behind metaphorical barbwire fences, too stubborn and too afraid that the other one would find out? Just like him, she'd been hiding her vulnerability behind bristles because she'd been afraid she'd get hurt.
Lord what a pair.
A pair. He liked the sound of that. Suddenly he liked a lot of things that he hadn't been liking much of late. Like the sunrise. The sunsets. The prospect of a future with the wildest little bundle of sass and dazzle that a man could ever hope for. His heart swelled with pride at the thought of a son, then melted like chocolate at the image of a daughter who would have her mother's beautiful flashing eyes and sensitive artist's soul.
The trick was going to be convincing Maddie that he wanted not only her but the baby that came with the package.
In the Old West, a man could take what he wanted and the devil with anything else. He could ride into the night, steal his woman and make her his, whether she liked it or not.
But this wasn't the Old West. And Maddie Brannigan wasn't a woman who'd let even a semirespectable outlaw like him take her unless she wanted to be taken.
Nope. This wasn't the Old West. That didn't mean though, that he couldn't borrow a little from the past to get what he wanted.
By morning he had it all planned. He'd figured out exactly how he was going to make her see what it had taken him too many years and too many sleepless nights to see for himself.
* * *
Wildflowers. Hundreds of them. They'd been arriving since ten o'clock Monday morning and they just kept coming. Maddie had filled vases and glasses and buckets and still they came.
Even as she scowled at the outrageous splashes of color and scents, her heart turned as mushy as an overripe peach. The man played dirty. He played on secret fantasies that she'd been stupid enough to share.
Committed to being angry instead of swayed by his extravagant gesture, she grabbed the phone and dialed.
When she finally connected with Clay, she practically barked into the mouthpiece. "I want this to stop."
"You don't like the flowers?" he asked, as sweet as a pecan pie at a Christmas potluck.
She loved the flowers. She loved the smile in his voice, the charm of the gesture. But she refused to be fooled, just like she refused to marry him for the wrong reasons. He didn't love her. He was just doing the honorable thing.
"I know what you're doing and it's not going to work," she informed him, standing in the middle of her gallery, surrounded by color and springtime and hounded by a niggling, romantic little voice that whispered ridiculous notions in her ear. Notions like, maybe he cares about you after all. Maybe you should stop and think this over.
Then there was his voice to contend with. The one that whispered across the line and made her knees go as mushy as her heart. "Marry me, Maddie."
His words warmed her like the tummy-tingling burn of rich brandy. Made her think of midnight kisses and slow, sensual hands.
"It's not going to happen," she informed him shakily, and wished she sounded more convincing. "So you can just take your misguided notions of obligation and responsibility and peddle them somewhere else. I do not need you to marry me, so don't bother trying to convince me that it's what you want to do." While she still had the strength of will to do it, she slammed down the receiver and disconnected him from her life.
Hugging an arm around her slightly expanding waistline, she wrapped her fingers tighter around the gold coin that she carried with her everywhere she went and tried to remember why this was the hill she'd chosen to die on.
* * *
The boxes arrived the next day. Dozens of them.
"What is this? I didn't order this," she insisted as the UPS man diligently unloaded carton after carton of glazing compound from her favorite supplier in Missouri.
"Just sign here," he said, pushing a clipboard and a shipping slip under her nose.
"But I didn't order this. And I can't pay for it. Not this much."
He thumbed back his cap and checked the slip. "It's all paid for, so I guess there's no problem. Please, lady, just sign. I've got a bizillion more packages to deliver yet today, and the wife's having her sister for dinner. Do I have to tell you how much heat I'll take if I'm late?"
In a bit of a daze she signed the receipt.
And then a small smile won the battle with her scowl and crept like a mountain sunrise across her face.
She turned a circle around the boxes, slowly made her way to the phone when it began to ring.
"Necessities," she answered, mentally tallying up the phenomenal cost of the precious glazes that were fundamental to her Raku.
"Marry me," drifted over the line like a golden, glorious caress.
She gripped the receiver with both hands, bit back tears that could have been fear, or joy, or glimmers of both. Without a word, she slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle.
Then she sat down in the middle of the floor, tugged a disgruntled Maxwell onto her lap and bawled like a baby.
* * *
Christmas Eve day dawned crisp and cold. Winter sunlight streamed through the windows of Necessities, glancing off intricate pieces of stained glass, dancing across tapestries and setting a selection of Raku glistening.
Business had been brisk all day. Last-minute shoppers had turned out in droves with fat wallets and phenomenal credit limits. Spirits were high. So were Maddie's sales.
It was already dark when she finally closed the doors to the shop at five o'clock. She was exhausted and feeling just a tad melancholy that the holidays were almost over.
Because of Savannah's and Ryan's demanding schedules, the family had decided to celebrate Christmas on the weekend after the actual holiday. While it made sense and was a practical solution for their annual dilemma, Maddie found herself feeling very alone on the eve of this holiday that above all others represented harmony and unity and love for their fellow man.
Oh, well, she thought. She and Maxwell would share a bowl of popcorn, watch "It's a Wonderful Life" and then toddle off to bed.
She'd just placed the Closed sign in the door and had pulled the shade when she heard the jingle of sleigh bells.
She had too much of the child in her to resist a peek outside. A nearby streetlamp spotlighted snow that drifted like diamond dust to the ground and accumulated in fluffy garlands on sidewalk benches draped with evergreen boughs.
The jingling grew louder. Any moment now she expected to see sweet Mr. Ludwig round the corner in his sleigh. Every year he dressed up like Santa and decked out his old sorrel gelding, Topper, with reindeer antlers. Together they would treat the town to the sight of them prancing around the square.
But she didn't see Mr. Ludwig and Topper. What she saw instead had her blinking her eyes then opening her door. Oblivious to the fact that she was dressed only in a lacy white Western-cut dress that was her traditional Christmas Eve day outfit, she stepped outside to get a better look.
In rapt fascination she watched as a midnight-black stallion, trimmed in an ornate harness of tooled leather and polished chrome and pulling a sleek two-seater sleigh, danced down the street in her direction. The sleigh bells draped over the magnificent animal's withers rang into the twilight like delicate chimes as the sleigh, as richly appointed as the harness and lined with tufted crimson velvet, slid to a graceful stop in front of her door.
And the man—the man who uttered a soft "Whoa" then looped the reins over the brake—was watching her face like he expected her to run at the first utterance of the in word.
Dressed in a black, Western-cut suit beneath a heavy herringbone dress coat, he swung gracefully down from the cutter, settled his coal-black Stetson more firmly on his head, then walked unerringly toward her.
She'd seen more beautiful sights. At the moment she co
uldn't remember when—not all that unusual considering she couldn't even remember her name.
His blue eyes glistened in the lamplight. His breath feathered out like crystal fog, melding with the steady fall of snow. And the slightly frosted bouquet of flowers he placed in her trembling hands were as alive with color as the reckless rhythm of her wildly beating heart.
"Fool woman," he said softly as he shrugged out of his coat and bundled it around her shoulders. "You don't have the sense to stay in out of the cold, do you?"
On another day, in another time, she'd have fired an answering volley back at him. But tonight his gentle admonishment didn't feel like a criticism. It felt like a caress. Like a promise that if she didn't have the sense to take care of herself he'd be there to do it for her.
The cold ache of loneliness that had enveloped her heart for too long melted to a warm, tender glow.
"The horse was dirty pool, James. And the sleigh—" Her lower lip quivered and she batted back tears. "I'll never forgive you for that."
Clay had expected resistance. His heart expanded with love for the valiant effort she made. When she went a little pale, he bracketed her shoulders with his hands and bent down so his face was on a level with hers. "You're not going to get sick again, are you?"
She pinched her lips together and gave her head a rebellious little shake.
"You're going to cry, though, aren't you?"
She nodded helplessly as a renegade tear trickled down her cheek.
"Emma warned me that this might happen," he murmured against her hair as he folded her protectively into his warmth and marveled at the depth of his love. "I was hoping maybe you'd hold off until after I asked the question."
"Don't you dare," she demanded in a muffled plea somewhere in the vicinity of his neck. "Don't you dare ask me to marry you."
He hugged her hard and long. "Maddie, Maddie. What am I going to do with you?"
"Just leave me alone."
"Sorry, hotshot. No can do."
She struggled through a shaky sigh.
"Come," he urged gently. "Just come with me."
When she said nothing, he pressed his advantage, tucked her under his arm and walked her toward the cutter. After he'd carefully assisted her onto the velvet seat, he covered her with a lap blanket then climbed up beside her.
A soft slap of reins on the stallion's hind quarters set the sleigh in motion with a shush of snow and a rich jingle of bells.
As they glided along snow-packed streets toward the other end of town, she finally began to suspect what he had in mind. "We'd better not be going where I think we're going."
He only smiled.
* * *
The church. He was taking her to the church! The rapid-fire beat of her heart told her there was more than an early Christmas Eve worship service on the agenda.
And as he eased to a skillful stop in a spot left between a half a dozen cars—cars that she recognized as Garrett and Emma's, Maya and Logan's … cars with California license plates that could only belong to her brother and sister and her parents … and a pickup with Wyoming plates and rodeo gear in the back rounded out the lot—she knew that Reverend Considine was waiting inside, primed and ready to deliver a wedding ceremony.
"This is so like you!" she snapped refusing to step out of the cutter when he raised his hands to lift her down. "You've got everything all figured out, all planned out nice and neat and tidy." Oblivious to her wilting bouquet, she gripped the lap blanket tighter between her fingers when he tried to eased it away. "Well it's not, you know. Life isn't neat and tidy, and it doesn't always go your way, Clayton James."
"Life hasn't gone my way since I left you at your apartment in September," he said, giving up the fight over the blanket and earnestly meeting her eyes.
She refused to look at him. "You couldn't wait to get rid of me."
"Wrong. I couldn't wait to get away from you. There's a difference."
When she slanted him a questioning look, he folded her cold fingers in his. "I couldn't wait to get away from you because I couldn't stand to be around you, loving you the way I do and knowing you didn't love me back."
"Not love you?" she blurted out, then caught her lower lip between her teeth when she realized what she'd just admitted.
He grinned and felt his heart swell. "You're quite a woman, Matilda Brannigan."
"But not your ideal woman," she sputtered with a bite of sarcasm.
"Nope. Definitely not my ideal," he agreed, and touched a hand to her cheek to brush away a fluff of snow. "You're wild and reckless and impulsive. You're militantly independent and just about as soothing to a man's soul as sandpaper on a blister."
When she turned her soulful eyes down to him, he gently pried her fingers from the blanket and lifted her to the ground. "Half the time I don't know whether I want to kiss you or spank you. But all the time," he continued, cupping her cheeks in his hands and with the slight pressure of his thumbs under her chin, tipping her face to his, "all the time, I can't imagine spending the rest of my life without you."
Her eyes glittered, a beautiful competition for the sparkling dance of the falling snow.
"It scares me to death when I think of the havoc you're going to wreak on my nice, ordered life," he said lovingly, "but it scares me more to think of living that life without you."
She closed her eyes, warmed by the caress of his.
"Can I ask you that question now, Maddie?"
Complacent suddenly, and subtly, joyfully coy, she blinked into his eyes. "Which question would that be?"
If his heart beat any harder, he wouldn't be able to hear himself talk. "The one that goes like this. Will you marry me? Will you marry me because I love you, and I can't stand the thought of not arguing or fighting or being irritated with you for the rest of my life? Will you marry me because you love me?"
She sniffed, let out a quivering little breath. "That's three questions."
He shook his head, smiled. "Then you got a bargain, sweetheart, because I only need one answer."
She gave it to him. With her eyes, with her smile, with the one simple word that told him of the love she'd never hide from him again. "Yes."
* * *
Ten minutes later, with their family watching misty-eyed, Mad Dog Brannigan became Mrs. Banana Boy James.
An hour after that he had her tucked naked in his bed where he'd wanted her since what seemed like forever.
And one blissful hour after that, he shut her sweet, sassy mouth with a kiss to stall their first argument as man and wife over what they were going to name the baby.
* * * * *