Not Christmas Without You

by Jane Porter

  “We can.”

  “Good, then that’s what I’ll do.” She sat back and thought for another moment. “Where do you want to get married?”

  “I’d think you’d want to marry in Marietta. Maybe St. James?”

  “No, not necessarily.” She chewed her lip. “I was thinking maybe we should do a destination wedding. Marry where this whole thing started.” She gave him a hopeful look. “How about a winter wedding at Little Teton? That way most of our family could drive there and they could ice-skate and ski and I’m sure your friend Peter would welcome the business.”

  “And your friend Tricia Thorpe could actually see the resort for herself.”

  “You invite some of your major league player friends and they can see the resort and tell their friends, and maybe even a real sportswriter will go and write about it in a national paper or magazine.”

  He started to laugh. “Wait a minute. Is this all a ploy just to help out the resort?”

  “It is a very nice resort.”

  “It is,” he agreed, brushing a kiss across her lips.

  “And it is where we met,” she added.

  “I love the idea,” he answered, kissing her again before drawing her against his chest. “And I love you even more for wanting to help out Peter. You have a huge heart, Charity Wright. I love your beautiful heart so very much.”

  “And it all belongs to you,” she murmured, happy, so happy just to be in the circle of Quinn’s arms and feel the magic and wonder of his love. It was truly the most amazing thing.

  Quinn Douglas loved her. He loved her, Charity Wright, the woman who had almost given up on her happy-ever-after. And just when she didn’t think she could hang in there any longer, Quinn appeared, stronger, smarter, and braver than any romance hero she’d ever read in any of her books.

  “I love you,” she whispered lifting her head to smile up at him, tears stinging her eyes. She reached up to lightly touch his mouth. His lips were firm against her fingertips. She blinked back her happy tears as she replaced her fingers with her mouth. She kissed him gently, sweetly. “You are the best Christmas gift ever.”

  “I’m just glad you said yes.”

  “Did you even doubt it?”

  “It was a very whirlwind courtship and I know you are risk averse.”

  “I am, but you’re my safe place. I know without a doubt that you have my back.”

  “I do.”

  She was silent a moment, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire. “Because of you I’m no longer hunkered down behind my wagon. I’m out there, living again.”

  “Taking risks, having adventures,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Because I also know that we’ll always be able to come back here. This is home.”

  He smiled. “Exactly.”

  “You don’t really know how many years of baseball you have left, do you?”

  Quinn shook his head. “There may only be one year left. Or, if I’m healthy and playing well like I did this year, there might be another couple of years in me. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to know. I’m going to be fine living in Seattle, or wherever you are, because where you are is where I want to be.”

  “I thought you couldn’t stand the thought of living in Pray.”

  “I think I would have been happy, if Joe had been the right one for me. But he wasn’t. You’re the one I need. You’re the one I want.”

  He cupped the back of her head, and drew her close to kiss her. “Now that I’ve found you, I can’t imagine a future without you. I can’t imagine happiness or family or children with anyone but you.”

  “Not happiness or family,” she echoed, the corners of her lips lifting. “Or Christmas,” she added, kissing him back. “After this, it wouldn’t ever be Christmas without you.”

  Epilogue

  It ended up being a huge wedding at the Little Teton Resort.

  Everyone invited came, from Quinn’s teammates to friends from college. All of Marietta and Paradise Valley seemed to have made the drive over the Teton Pass, too, with the exception of Sawyer and Jenna Gallagher who were home with their newborn son, but they sent love. Indeed, Quinn and Charity felt nothing but love from all their family and friends who’d traveled to Wyoming to celebrate their big day, which was really a big weekend, packed with laughter, activities, and fun.

  The weather held up all weekend, with just a dusting of snow as the ceremony began in the little chapel on the outskirts of Little Teton. Charity’s four bridesmaids—Jenny, Mandy, McKenna, Sadie—looked beautiful in shades of deep blue, each of them wearing a custom gown designed just for them by Charity. McKenna and Trey’s little girl was the flower girl and TJ played ring bearer. Charity designed her own dress, and it was the kind of dress a romantic would wear for a winter wedding, and of course Amanda did her hair. Charity felt like a princess as she spotted Quinn at the front of the church. Quinn and his groomsmen were dashing in black tuxedos but Charity only had eyes for Quinn who took her breath away.

  She loved him, profoundly.

  He’d changed her world. Because of him, she had so much more confidence and she viewed the future with humor and hope.

  Life was good, very good, and her glass wasn’t merely half-full, but overflowing with blessings.

  The End

  The Taming of the Sheenans

  The Sheenans are six powerful wealthy brothers from Marietta, Montana. They are big, tough, rugged men, and as different as the Montana landscape.

  Christmas at Copper Mountain

  Book 1: Brock Sheenan’s story

  Buy now!

  Tycoon’s Kiss

  Book 2: Troy Sheenan’s story

  Buy now!

  The Kidnapped Christmas Bride

  Book 3: Trey Sheenan’s story

  Buy now!

  Taming of the Bachelor

  Book 4: Dillion Sheenan’s story

  Buy now!

  A Christmas Miracle for Daisy

  Book 5: Cormac Sheenan’s story

  Buy now!

  The Lost Sheenan’s Bride

  Book 6: Shane Sheenan’s story

  Buy now!

  Ready for another holiday read? Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from

  Christmas at Copper Mountain

  Jane Porter

  Book 1 in The Taming of the Sheenan series

  Keep reading below or buy now!

  Harley Diekerhoff looked up from peeling potatoes to glance out the kitchen window.

  It was still snowing… even harder than it had been this morning.

  So much white, it dazzled.

  Hands still, breath catching, she watched the thick, white flakes blow past the ranch house at a dizzying pace, enthralled by the flurry of the lacy snowflakes.

  So beautiful. Magical. A mysterious silent ballet in all white, the snow swirling, twirling just like it did in her favorite scene from the Nutcracker—the one with the Snow Queen and her breathtaking corps in their white tutus with their precision and speed—and then that dazzling snow at the end, the delicate flakes powdering the stage.

  Harley’s chest ached. She gripped the peeler more tightly, and focused on her breathing.

  She didn’t want to remember.

  She wasn’t going to remember.

  Wasn’t going to go there, not now, not today. Not when she had six hungry men to feed in a little over two hours. She picked up a potato, started peeling.

  She’d come to Montana to work. She’d taken the temporary job at Copper Mountain Ranch to get some distance from her family this Christmas, and working on the Paradise Valley cattle ranch would give her new memories.

  Like the snow piling up outside the window.

  She’d never lived in a place that snowed like this. Where she came from in Central California, they didn’t have snow, they had fog. Thick soupy Tule fog that blanketed the entire valley, socking in airports, making driving nearly impossible. And on the nights when the fog lifted and temper
atures dropped beneath the cold clear sky, the citrus growers rushed to light smudge pots to protect their valuable, vulnerable orange crops.

  Her family didn’t grow oranges. Her family were Dutch dairy people. Harley had been raised on a big dairy farm in Visalia, and she’d marry a dairyman in college, and they’d had their own dairy, too.

  But that’s the part she needed to forget.

  That’s why she’d come to Montana, with its jagged mountains and rugged river valleys and long cold winters.

  She’d arrived here the Sunday following Thanksgiving and would work through mid-January, when Brock Sheenan’s housekeeper returned from a personal leave of absence.

  In January, Harley would either return to California or look for another job in Crawford County. Harley was tempted to stay, as the Bozeman employment agency assured her they’d have no problem finding her a permanent position if she wanted one. So far she liked everything about her job on the isolated ranch, from the icy, biting wind that howled beyond the ranch’s thick log cabin walls, to the cooking, cleaning, and laundry required.

  The physicality of the work was exactly what her mind and body needed. It was good to lift, bend, carry, mop, sweep, dust, fold. The harder she worked, the better she felt, and today, for the first time in years, she actually felt almost….

  Happy.

  Harley paused, brows knitting in surprise.

  Almost happy.

  Wow.

  That was huge. Almost happy was significant. Almost happy gave her hope that one day she would feel more again, and be more again, and life wouldn’t be so bleak and cold.

  Because it had been bleak.

  It’d been….

  She shook her head, brushed off the little peel clinging to her thumb and grabbed the last potato, swiftly peeling it, clearing her mind of everything but the task at hand, concentrating on the texture of the wet potato, the cool water in the sink, the quick motion of the peeler, the dazzling white flurries at the window, and the crackle of the fire behind her.

  She liked being here. It was good being here. This wasn’t her house and yet in just one week it felt like home.

  She enjoyed this kitchen with its golden, hand-planed pine cabinets, wide-planked hardwood floor, and the corner fireplace rimmed in local rock from the Yellowstone River. She loved how the rustic exterior of the sprawling two-story cabin hid the large, comfortable, efficient kitchen and the adjacent over-sized laundry room with its two sets of washers and dryers… to handle feeding and looking after, not just Brock Sheenan, owner of Copper Mountain Ranch, but the hired hands who worked for Brock and lived in the bunk house behind the barn.

  In winter the ranch hands didn’t leave the property much during the week. The work was too grueling, the nights fell early, and driving at night could be treacherous on the windy, icy mountain road, so Monday through Friday Brock provided dinners for his five men, and clean, dry clothes, too. Come weekend, they were on their own, but Harley wouldn’t have minded cooking for extra mouths seven days a week.

  The isolation of Copper Mountain Ranch, tucked back in the Absarokas, higher than the typical Paradise Valley ranch, might have scared off other job applicants, but not her. She didn’t mind the severe weather or Brock Sheenan’s brusqueness—and she’d been warned about that in advance—but she was okay with a silent, gruff boss. She didn’t come to Marietta, Montana looking for friendship. Like Brock himself, she didn’t need conversation and company. She was here to work, and she preferred being left alone.

  The employment agency liked her attitude. They said she was perfect for the temp job and filled her in on the Sheenans, one of the bigger, more prominent families that had settled in Paradise Valley around the turn of the century. She’d be working for Brock Sheenan, the oldest of the five Sheenan sons. Brock had bought Copper Mountain Ranch to get away from his dad, which had caused some bad blood within the family, but he’d wanted his own place, and had designed the two-story log cabin himself, helping build it as a wedding present for his bride.

  But tragedy struck a year and a half into their marriage, when Brock’s wife Amy was killed in a horrific car crash on one of the twisting mountain roads. Devastated, Brock disappeared into his ranch, becoming almost reclusive after that.

  The employment agency had shared the details with her, asking for her confidence. But they thought it was important she understand that Brock Sheenan had a… reputation… for being eccentric. He didn’t need people the way others did, and he’d been quite specific in his desire for a tidy, professional, and disciplined housekeeper. He wouldn’t tolerate lazy and he couldn’t abide chatty. He needed a quiet, orderly house, and he liked things done his way.

  Harley didn’t have a problem with that. She was quiet too, and this year she’d been determined to avoid the holidays, and had deliberately chosen to go away for December, needing to escape her big California family that celebrated Christmas with endless activity, festivities, and fuss.

  She loved all her nieces and nephews but this Christmas she didn’t want to be around kids. Because this year she wasn’t celebrating Christmas. This year there wasn’t going to be a tree or trimmings, no stockings, or brightly wrapped toys.

  Eyes hot, chest burning, she scooped up the mountain of wet potato scraps, when a deep, rough male voice startled her.

  “You okay, Miss Diekerhoff?”

  Turning quickly, potato skins still dripping, Harley blinked back tears as she spotted Brock Sheenan standing by the fireplace, warming his hands.

  Brock was a big man. He was tall—six one or two—with broad shoulders, a wide muscular chest, and shaggy black hair.

  Harley’s late husband, David, was Portuguese and darkly handsome, but David was always groomed and polished while the Montana rancher seemed disinclined to comb his hair, or bother with a morning shave.

  The truth was, Brock Sheenan looked like a pirate, and never more so than now, with tiny snowflakes clinging to his wild hair and shadowed jaw.

  “I’m fine,” she said breathlessly, embarrassed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “The faucet was on.” He rubbed his hands together, the skin red and raw. “You’re not… crying… are you?”

  She heard the uncomfortable note in his voice and cringed a little. “No,” she said quickly, straightening and squaring her shoulders as she dumped the potato peels into the garbage. “Everything’s wonderful.”

  “So you’re not crying?”

  “No,” she repeated crisply, drying her hands. “Just peeling potatoes for dinner.”

  Her gaze swept his big frame, seeing the powdered snow still clinging to the hem of his Wrangler jeans that peeked beneath leather chaps and white glitter dusting his black brows. His supple leather chaps weren’t for show. It was frigid outside and he’d spent the week in the saddle, driving the last herds of cattle from the back country to the valley below so they could take shelter beneath trees. “Can I get you something?”

  “You don’t happen to have any coffee left from this morning that you could heat up?”

  “I can make a fresh pot,” she said, grabbing the glass carafe to fill it with water. “Want regular or decaf?”

  He glanced at the clock mounted on the wall above the door and then out the window where the snow flurries were thickening, making it almost impossible to see the tall pine trees marking one corner of the yard. “Leaded,” he said. “Make it strong, too. It’s going to be a late night for me.”

  She added the coffee grounds, and then hit the brew button. “You’re heading back out?”

  “I’m going to ride back up as soon as I get something warm in me. Thought I’d take some of the breakfast coffee cake with me. If there was anything left.”

  “There is.” She’d already wrapped the remaining slices in foil. He wasn’t one to linger over meals, and he didn’t like asking for snacks between meals, either. If he wanted something now, it meant he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. But it was already after four. It’d be dark within the hour
. “It’s snowing hard.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t do a last check. The boys said we’ve got them all but I keep thinking we’re missing one or two of the young ones. Have to be sure before I call it a night.”

  Harley reached into a cupboard for one of the thermoses she sent with Brock on his early mornings. “What time will you want dinner?”

  “Don’t know when I’ll be back. Could be fairly late, so just leave a plate in the oven for me. No need for you to stay up.” He bundled his big arms across his even bigger chest, a lock of thick black hair falling down over his forehead to shadow an equally dark eye.

  There was nothing friendly or approachable about Brock when he stood like that. His wild black hair, square jaw, and dark piercing gaze that gave him a slightly threatening air, but Harley knew better. Men, even the most dangerous men, were still mortal. They had goals, dreams, needs. They tried, they failed. They made mistakes. Fatal mistakes.

  “Any of the boys going with you?” she asked, trying to sound casual as she wrapped a generous wedge of cheddar cheese in foil, and a hunk of the summer sausage he liked, so he’d have something more substantial than coffee cake for his ride.

  He shook his head, then dragged a large calloused hand through the glossy black strands in a half-hearted attempt to comb the tangled strands smooth. “No.”

  She gave him a swift, troubled look.

  He shrugged. “No point in putting the others in harm’s way.”

  Her frown deepened. “What if you get into trouble?”

  “I won’t.”

  She arched her brows.

  He gave her a quelling look.

  She ought to be intimidated by this shaggy beast of a man, but she wasn’t. She’d had a husband—a daring, risk-taking husband of her own—and his lapse in judgment had cost them all. Dearly.

  “It’s dangerous out there,” she said quietly. “You shouldn’t go alone. They invented the buddy system for a reason.”

  One of Brock’s black eyebrows shot up. “The buddy system.”