A Stone Creek Collection, Volume 2

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Papa would be so pleased,” Millie remarked. “That we haven’t lost everything he worked so hard to build, I mean. He wouldn’t be pleased that the Fitches are dead, of course. Never that—”

  Mittie broke in again then. “According to the lawyer—his card is here somewhere—we’ve inherited our own house,” Mittie informed Lydia, brightening. “And three or four banks, in the bargain.”

  Lydia put a hand to her mouth. Scrambled to set Snippet safely on the floor before she dropped him.

  “We can go home now,” Millie said softly. “But of course we must bring Gideon with us. And dear Snippet.”

  “This is home,” Lydia said, still reeling.

  “But the mine fell in,” Mittie reasoned. “Didn’t it?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Lydia wanted to know. She was strong enough to stand now, to climb the stairs and go to Gideon.

  “Isn’t Gideon—unemployed?” Millie asked. “In Phoenix, he could be a banker.”

  Shaking her head, Lydia started for the staircase.

  Rowdy and Wyatt were just leaving the bedroom when she reached the upper corridor.

  Lydia nodded to them, as though they were acquaintances encountered on the street, and swept right on by, into her and Gideon’s bedroom.

  He was lying crosswise on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “He had a wife, kids,” he said, without looking at her.

  Lydia pulled the rocking chair closer and sat down. “Who?” she asked quietly.

  “Mike O’Hanlon,” Gideon replied.

  “Oh,” Lydia said, and that seemed to be all that was necessary, because Gideon fell silent again.

  Dr. Venable came, with Kitty. Together, in their strange, cooperative way, they examined Gideon. No new stitches would be required, they decided; the scar would be a little worse, that was all. Deftly, Kitty removed the remaining bits of thread from Gideon’s flesh, applied salve and a clean bandage, and offered him laudanum, so he could sleep.

  Gideon refused, and the doctor and his wife took their leave.

  Twilight seeped into the room, but neither Gideon nor Lydia moved.

  Helga brought a supper tray and left again.

  Gideon didn’t eat, and neither did Lydia.

  The streetlamp at the corner came on, and the house quieted.

  “Lydia,” Gideon said.

  “I’m here,” Lydia replied. She rose out of the chair, at last, like a woman moving in a dream. Stripped off her clothes, donned a nightgown—one of the new ones she’d charged to Gideon at Mr. Blanchard’s mercantile that day.

  Since Gideon was lying on top of the covers, she couldn’t pull them back to get into bed. So she curled up beside him, as she had that first night at Ruby’s, after he’d been hurt.

  He rolled onto his side. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he said.

  “Yes, Gideon,” Lydia responded, touching his face. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “I need—”

  Lydia kissed him, traced the outside of his mouth with the tip of one index finger, lightly. “I know.”

  Gideon drew her nightgown up then, with urgency, but with gentleness, too. The garment seemed to dissolve into the ether. Then he somehow got out of his own clothes without leaving the bed, a painful process in its own right. “Do you want—?”

  “I want you,” Lydia told him.

  He eased her legs apart with a motion of one knee, kissed her hungrily.

  Lydia arched her back, gave a small, involuntary moan.

  And Gideon entered her, in a slow, deep thrust, made of sweet fire.

  They moved together, rhythmically, but not frantically, the way they might have done on any other night of their lives. At first, the joining of their two bodies was leisurely, almost like a dance. It was, in its essence, a celebration.

  They were alive.

  They loved each other.

  And they belonged together.

  But as the friction increased, so did their need.

  Gideon drove harder, deeper.

  Lydia received him eagerly, then desperately.

  The bedsprings creaked. The headboard clattered against the wall.

  And when satisfaction consumed them, they shouted each other’s names.

  A long time had passed before either of them spoke.

  “I love you, Lydia,” Gideon said.

  She nestled against him, her face buried in his neck, and she answered in kind.

  They lay in silence for a while, arms and legs entwined, content.

  The darkness deepened, and the old house settled on its foundation, with comfortable, familiar sounds.

  Gideon caressed Lydia’s breast, and her breathing quickened a little, turned to a gasp when he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth, suckled.

  Lydia crooned, ready for him all over again, and deliciously certain that he would make her wait until her desire had reached a fever pitch.

  When at last he was on top of her again, inside her again, he made a sound that was part chuckle, part groan. “Lydia?” he rasped.

  “What?” she moaned, nearly lost.

  “Remind me—” he paused, with a hoarse gasp, as she raised herself to take him deeper “—to move this—damn bed—away from the wall—”

  Lydia laughed.

  And then, in the very next moment, she climaxed in a series of violent spasms, and this time, though the bedsprings still creaked, and the headboard still banged against the wall, Gideon covered her mouth with his and absorbed her cries, meeting them with his own.

  There were challenges ahead, both of them knew that.

  Together, they would beat them all.

  EPILOGUE

  December 24, 1915

  THE HOUSE—REFERRED TO as Yarbro house now—was ready.

  Proudly, Lydia surveyed the fragrant pine tree standing in front of the parlor window, glittering with ornaments and pretty ribbons, and arched her back to stretch the muscles there. She was in the family way, six months along now and already showing, and both Lark and Sarah insisted she was carrying twins.

  Gideon was exhaustively attentive, treated her as though she were made of spun sugar, and that was why he’d gone to the train station alone to meet Ruby and Helga and the aunts, all arriving to spend Christmas. With a heavy snowfall drifting down, and the streets sheeted in ice, he’d insisted that Lydia stay home.

  Snippet nuzzled her hand, as if to say he approved of the decorating she’d done, and the baking and the package-wrapping. His name was something of a family joke now; he was huge—the size of a burro, Gideon claimed, exaggerating only slightly—and still growing.

  He was also the most faithful of companions. After Helga and the aunts had gone back to Phoenix in the early fall to take up residence in the Fairmont mansion, and with Gideon busy learning to be a banker, Snippet had filled a number of lonely hours for Lydia.

  Sarah, a banker’s daughter with considerabe business experience of her own, had been invaluable to Gideon, helping him to consolidate several banks into one, set up an office in Stone Creek, sort through all the complicated paperwork, and choose reliable employees.

  Standing close to the tree, Lydia looked out the window, watching the fat flakes of snow wafting through the wintry darkness, gleaming in the light of the nearby streetlamp.

  She’d been surprised when Gideon, after some resistance and considerable strong-arm tactics by his brothers, swallowed his stubborn Yarbro pride and agreed to manage her holdings, all inadvertently left to her by Jacob Fitch. Gideon had said, with a crooked grin, that he supposed it was better than working for Wyatt as a ranch hand, or serving as Rowdy’s deputy, and he might as well take hold.

  He’d hired one or two of the miners, th
ough most of them had moved on with their families, when the owners of the Copper Crown didn’t seem to be in any hurry to reopen the enterprise, and Mary O’Hanlon worked for Lark and Rowdy now, as their housekeeper. Though she clearly mourned her husband, Mary was a cheerful sort, grateful to have a home for herself and her children, and to earn steady wages.

  Lark, taking an immediate liking to the woman, and of course relieved to have the help, had had a small but cozy cottage built for Mary and her family, behind the main house.

  The baby—or babies—kicked inside Lydia, and she smiled, purely happy. In time, she would probably help Gideon run the bank and oversee their other interests, but for now, she was more than content to keep their home and bear and raise children. Since Mary O’Hanlon’s eldest daughter, Colleen, did the heavy cleaning after school and on Saturdays, Lydia had time to read, to paint, to dream.

  And since she and Gideon were still newlyweds—sometimes, she thought they always would be, because their passion for each other never lessened but only increased—they almost invariably made love as soon as he got home from the bank in the evenings. It was a gentle, careful communion now, Gideon being so protective, but nonetheless soul-satisfying for that.

  Seeing a closed carriage pull up out front, Lydia smiled and patted Snippet’s massive head. “They’re here,” she told the giant dog, and made her way to the front door, caught the heady scent of the evergreen wreath hanging there as she moved past it onto the porch.

  Two buckboards drew in behind the carriage right away, one carrying Rowdy and Lark and their children, the second practically spilling over with Wyatt and Sarah and their brood. Owen and Shannie and the new baby, little Wyatt, would be along later, Lydia knew, after the chores were done at the ranch. She’d hold supper for them.

  Gideon climbed down from the box of the carriage—officially, it belonged to the bank, and the driver was one of his former mining colleagues—and lowered the hinged metal step so the passengers could alight.

  Ruby alighted first, resplendent in red velvet, with a white fur muff to warm her hands, and a hat to match.

  Stalwart Helga came next. She’d gone back to Phoenix, albeit with some reluctance, when the aunts moved home, saying she couldn’t trust a stranger to look after them properly. Besides, she’d finally admitted, she’d miss them beyond bearing if she didn’t go along, maddening as they were.

  Gideon took special care with Mittie—he still couldn’t tell the aunts apart, to Lydia’s amusement—and finally, Millie was out of the carriage, too.

  Busy unloading children, food and gaily wrapped packages, Wyatt and Sarah and Rowdy and Lark remained with the buckboards.

  Gideon steered the ladies to the front gate, opened it for them, and waited while they all passed through, but he caught Lydia’s gaze right away, and she thought she saw a grin quirk up the corner of his mouth.

  Only that morning, he’d finally gotten around to pulling their bed away from the wall, and given the springs a generous oiling, as well. The knowledge was a deliciously private secret and Lydia felt a little frisson of anticipation. Later, when she and Gideon were alone—

  But for now, it was Christmas Eve, the house was redolent of pine and a crackling fire on the hearth and the enormous goose roasting in the oven, and she had a family to welcome. That in itself was something to celebrate—being part of the Yarbro clan.

  Ruby reached the porch first, taking Lydia by the shoulders and beaming. “Look at you,” she said. “That’s a girl you’re carrying, or I’ll eat this hat, fur and all.”

  Lydia laughed, and her eyes stung with happy tears. “If this baby is a girl, we’re going to call her Rose,” she said.

  Ruby’s face softened with a brief look of nostalgia. “So Gideon tells me,” she said, spotting Snippet, standing on the porch beside Lydia. “Is that a dog or a horse?” she teased.

  Helga, clad in a sturdy, no-nonsense traveling suit of blue woolen, took Ruby’s place as the other woman went inside. “Good heavens,” she whispered, with a shake of her head, “those old women must still believe in St. Nicholas. They brought stockings to hang from the mantle.”

  Lydia beamed. “They always hang up their stockings on Christmas Eve,” she reminded Helga. “And we always fill them.”

  Helga chuckled and entered the house.

  Gideon brought the aunts carefully up the walk, one clinging to each of his arms. Snow settled in his wonderful taffy-colored hair and caught on his eyelashes.

  Mittie and Millie wore matching green dresses and cloaks of the same hue, hooded and trimmed in black velvet.

  “We brought our stockings,” Mittie called.

  “Aren’t you cold, standing there with no coat on?” Millie fretted.

  Gideon arched one eyebrow at this, and grinned.

  Mittie looked back. “There are a great many parcels in the boot of the carriage,” she chirped to Gideon. “Can the driver be trusted?”

  “He can be trusted,” Gideon assured the old woman.

  There was another flurry of happy greetings, once everyone, including Wyatt’s and Rowdy’s families, had entered the house. Packages were placed beneath the tree, and tucked among its branches, and Snippet reveled in the presence of so many excited children eager to ruffle his ears.

  Looking at all of them, taking off their coats and cloaks, settling in for a lively Christmas Eve together, Lydia felt rich beyond her wildest dreams—and it had nothing to do with owning a bank, or the mansion in Phoenix.

  She’d have willingly given up all the money and the property for the sake of any one of these people, let alone the whole “crazy outfit,” as Gideon called them.

  The driver brought in load after load of gifts, trunks and valises, and beamed from ear to ear when Gideon paid him and wished him a Happy Christmas. As he closed the door behind the man, he turned and met Lydia’s gaze again.

  “Later,” he mouthed and chuckled when she blushed.

  Owen and Shannie and the baby arrived soon after that, and the gathering was complete.

  The meal was well received—secretly, Lydia fretted that the goose was a little dry—and when it was over, the women crowded the large kitchen, washing and drying dishes and putting leftovers away. The men had gathered in the study, closing the double doors behind them, and the children fought merrily over whose turn it was to pet Snippet.

  “I thought Mary O’Hanlon and her brood were coming, too,” Lydia said, as she and Lark put clean china plates back into the kitchen cabinets.

  Lark smiled. “They’re at church,” she explained. “Mary thought this first Christmas without her husband ought to be a quiet one. She’s put up a tree, though, and as soon as she shooed her chicks off to the services, Rowdy sneaked in with at least three armloads of presents and a ham almost as big as Snippet.”

  Lydia studied her generous friend. Once or twice, over the course of that rollicking evening, she’d caught Lark gazing wistfully at her ever-expanding midsection. There was no envy in Lark, Lydia knew that—her smart, capable sister-in-law didn’t give such things “heart-room,” as she would have said. But she and Rowdy couldn’t have any more children, and Lydia wondered if that weighed on Lark. If ever a woman had been born to be a mother, it was Lark.

  “What?” Lark asked, catching Lydia’s fleeting expression of worry.

  Lydia swallowed. “Do you ever wish—does it bother you that Gideon and I—?”

  Lark smiled, kissed Lydia smartly on the cheek. “No,” she said. “I couldn’t be happier for you, or for Gideon, either.” Then, dropping her voice to a mischievous whisper, she confided, “There’s a certain very exciting freedom in knowing Rowdy and I can make love without worrying that I’ll be fat as a cow for the next nine months.”

  Lydia laughed. “Lark Yarbro!”

  Lark’s eyes sparkled. Clearly, she was anticipating things
that would happen later on in the evening. “There’s only one thing better than Rowdy Yarbro out of bed,” Lark said, still whispering, “and that’s Rowdy Yarbro in bed.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened.

  “Have you seen the glances passing between Sarah and Wyatt?” Lark went on. “As soon as that flock of theirs is tucked in for the night—”

  “Oh, my,” Lydia said. Her sisters-in-law spoke frankly, and she was still getting used to that.

  Lark chuckled. “And don’t pretend you and Gideon aren’t planning exactly the same thing,” she finished saucily. “Because I’ve got eyes in my head, Lydia Yarbro, and that man can’t wait to get you upstairs.”

  Heat surged into Lydia’s face, but she couldn’t help smiling.

  Sarah edged between them then, looked from one to the other. “What are you two whispering about over here?” she demanded good-naturedly.

  “We’re the Yarbro women,” Lark answered. “What else would we be talking about besides the Yarbro men?”

  Sarah looked back over one shoulder, probably making sure the aunts, Helga, Ruby and any stray children were out of earshot. “Wyatt’s been teasing me all night,” she said. “A look and a whisper here, a pat there. That man is going to get his comeuppance when we get home.”

  Lark gave Lydia an I-told-you-so glance.

  And they all laughed then.

  There was, as it happened, a great deal more laughter that night, inside that sturdy, well-lit house, with snow swirling past the windows.

  Stories were told.

  The tree sparkled, though there were no candles on it, due to the risk of fire.

  The children opened their gifts from Lydia and Gideon.

  Snippet received a soup bone.

  And, when the visitors had started for home, church bells ringing in Christmas all over town, the aunts hung their stockings from the hooks Lydia had made Gideon put in the mantel days earlier.

  Ruby, flushed with the bustle of a noisy Christmas Eve, a new experience for her, pleaded fatigue and went upstairs to bed. Helga and the aunts were soon gone, as well.