His for the Holidays

by LB Gregg, Harper Fox, Z. A. Maxfield

  “I prefer to hide my ill-gotten gains in the Amazing Gains Treat dispensers,” Noel said, when he was finally able to join Robert in the tack room. The room smelled pleasantly of leather and liniment and Robert’s aftershave. “That’s a little stable yard joke,” he added when Robert made no comment.

  Robert was studying the line of framed photos and trophy cups arranged along the bottom shelf of one of the cabinets. He straightened. “In fact, you prefer a Swiss bank account.”

  Noel tried very hard not to show that struck home, saying casually, “Even if that were once true, I’m strictly a Bank of America customer these days.”

  Robert’s expression was sardonic. Surprisingly, he let it pass. “Why pintos?” He nodded at the photos.

  “They’re not. These are American Paint horses. Different bloodlines. Do you like horses?”

  “I don’t know anything about them.”

  Noel said philosophically, “As flaws go, it’s minor. We can get past that.”

  He almost earned a laugh. Robert asked, “Did you grow up with horses?”

  “Me?” Noel did laugh. “No.”

  “You grew up in Arizona, right?”

  Now where the hell had he managed to dig up that information? Noel said neutrally,

  “That’s right. We didn’t have horses. The boxes I need are in the hayloft.”

  Robert followed him out of the tack room. Noel would have preferred to do this without an audience. He’d have preferred not to do it at all, in fact, but he refused to give in to the doctors and therapists who had told him his best bet was to keep both feet firmly planted on the ground.

  He picked up the long ladder, propped it against the edge of the loft, fixed his gaze on the old dart board on the wall, gripped the ladder tightly and began to climb.

  It was worse knowing he had an audience. When he was relaxed, focused, he could usually manage about four feet before the vertigo hit him, but this morning, three rungs up, his stomach flopped over, sweat broke out across his shoulders and his head began to swim.

  Noel gripped the sides of the ladder so hard his knuckles hurt. He kept his gaze fastened on the dart board and reminded himself the ladder was not really whirling out from under his feet.

  Keeping his head very still, he managed another rung. He wasn’t even halfway up the ladder. The loft seemed miles away, the ladder might as well have been a stairway to the stars. He was never going to make it, and even if he did, no way could he get those boxes and climb down again. It had been a stupid idea to store the boxes up there. A decision driven by emotion rather than logic. A refusal to face facts.

  “Something wrong?” Robert asked.

  Noel didn’t dare look at him. He cleared his throat. “No. I don’t think the ornaments are up here.”

  “How would you know? You can’t see anything from there.”

  “No. Only I…don’t remember putting them up here.” He was conscious of floorboards squeaking beneath Robert’s footsteps, aware of Robert coming to stand beneath the ladder.

  Great. At least he’d have a cushion to fall on if his grip gave out.

  “What’s up there you don’t want me to know about?” Robert’s tone was suspicious again.

  Noel made the mistake of turning his head to look down. All the logic in the world couldn’t defy the sensation that the ladder had turned a cartwheel. He instinctively moved to steady himself, but as he was already balanced, the sudden shifting of weight threw him off center. The ladder slid sideways. He heard wood knocking wood, scraping as it slid.

  He knew how to fall. He knew he wasn’t far off the ground. Despite the vertigo, he knew he was not really tumbling head over heels. He was dropping to the floor. Nothing to it. He’d fallen from far greater heights than this.

  He let go and tried to relax his muscles.

  A sickening moment of sailing through empty space—

  Slam.

  Solid, warm flesh. Hard arms locked around him. Noel’s feet were on the ground and he and Robert did a clumsy shuffle step across the rough floor boards.

  “What was that about?” Robert asked.

  It felt good to stand in the circle of Robert’s arms. It felt good to rest fleetingly against human support. Noel lifted his eyelashes. There it was again, that indefinable emotion in Robert’s eyes—a flare of response in the dark gaze a few inches from his own. Robert’s breath was warm on his face, his mouth close enough to kiss.

  If Robert would only…

  And it was there in Robert’s face. He wanted to. He was considering it.

  Noel waited, barely breathing, watching Robert’s conflicted face from beneath his eyelashes. He didn’t want to seduce Robert again. This time Robert had to make the move.

  He was conscious of the quiet warmth of the stable, the sweet smells of hay and alfalfa, the more earthy scents of horse and human—

  Conscious—shit!—of Tommy’s footsteps approaching and then quickly—but not quickly enough—retreating.

  Robert’s hands dug into his arms and he was pushed away. “What was that supposed to be?” Robert sounded slightly out of breath. Noel wasn’t sure if he was referring to the fall or the attempted kiss.

  “If you don’t know, one of us has a problem.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Robert was already moving away, going to straighten the ladder which had wedged mid-fall behind a cross beam.

  “Why don’t I have a look at what’s in this loft.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Robert planted the ladder against the shelf once more and scaled it quickly. Noel eyed him critically. Not built for cat burglary, that was for sure, but he moved well. Powerfully, swiftly. He had a good sense of balance. Noel liked that in a man.

  He was grinning at his own nonsense when Robert reached the loft and disappeared.

  He reappeared with a large box marked Christmas. “Something funny?”

  “Yeah, but the joke’s on me. You can go ahead and drop that box.”

  “Drop it?”

  “It’s light enough. And it’s well-packed.”

  The box came hurtling down and Noel fielded it easily.

  Robert went to get the next one. In all he dropped three cardboard boxes down to Noel.

  They carried the large containers out of the barn and up the hillside. For the first time Noel really noticed Robert’s parked car. A sports sedan, not an FBI sedan. Noel had seen enough of those in the old days to recognize them a mile off.

  Though possibly not at night.

  He directed a narrow look at Robert. “Was that you following me last night?”

  “Were you being followed last night?” Robert asked blandly.

  “It was you.”

  “The wicked flee when no man pursueth.”

  Noel was sure now. “It was you.”

  “If it was me, I might have a thing or two to say to a lunatic who drives one hundred and thirty miles per hour under poor road conditions.”

  “If you hadn’t startled the hell out of me, I wouldn’t have been speeding.”

  “What happened to that famous icy nerve?”

  Noel started to answer, but his attention was caught by an old-fashioned pickup with a holly wreath adorning its grill trundling down the road toward them.

  “Now what?”

  “For the middle of nowhere, you get a lot of visitors,” Robert observed, and Noel didn’t think it was his imagination that Robert’s voice echoed his own exasperation.

  “Not usually. This is one of my neighbors. Francis Rich.”

  Noel carried the two boxes he held to the edge of the porch, setting them down as Francis pulled into the front yard in a great semi-circle, spraying snow.

  The truck was still rolling to its stop as he jumped out and came running toward the porch. He was a plump young man with shoulder-length curly brown hair. He wore a brown and white poncho and square spectacles.

  “Noel!”

  Noel was conscious of Robert right behi
nd him, and for the first time his presence at Noel’s shoulder felt supportive rather than custodial. Or maybe that was simply Noel believing what he wanted to believe.

  “What’s wrong, Francis?”

  Francis’s round face worked. “A newborn cria is stuck in a crevice on your property.”

  Noel’s heart plummeted too. “Is it still alive?”

  “It was ten minutes ago. But I can’t get it out on my own.”

  “What in God’s name is a crias?” Robert asked, looking from one of them to the other.

  “Cria. It’s a baby llama,” Noel explained. “Francis breeds them.” He’d have liked to ask Francis what the hell a cria was doing getting stuck in crevices on his property, especially today of all days, but a couple of years worth of living next door to a llama farm had taught him that llamas were very good at finding the weak spot in any fence and wandering on through.

  “Can’t you call the fire department or something?”

  Noel laughed at the innocence of city slickers. To Francis he said, “I’ve got rope and canvas in the stable. We should be able to make some kind of a sling and get it out.”

  “Yes. Please. Hurry,” Francis urged. “I’m afraid his mother will get stuck, too, trying to get him out.”

  “You’re breeding llamas?” Robert’s tone was skeptical, as though he suspected the llamas might be a cover for a more sinister animal.

  “Llama’s are exceptionally smart and resourceful animals,” Francis informed him, trailing them up the stairs as Noel snatched up the stacked boxes of ornaments and carried them into the house.

  “Getting stuck in a crevice doesn’t sound exceptionally smart to me.”

  Noel ignored the exchange behind him as he grabbed an LL Bean field coat and gloves from the closet beneath the stairs. What a day. He still hadn’t showered or shaved. No wonder Robert was keeping him at arm’s distance—and he hadn’t even started fooling around with llamas yet.

  Behind him Francis was still extolling the virtues of llamas to Robert, who was making polite but unconvinced noises.

  “Will you be here when I get back?” Noel asked, zipping his coat.

  “Sure I will. Because I’m going with you.”

  “Good! The more hands the better,” Francis said.

  “I’ll be right back,” Noel told him, and he set off for the barn followed by Robert.

  “You know, you really don’t have to go,” Noel said as they slipped and slid their way down the now much-traveled hillside. “This won’t take long.”

  “I disagree. How do I know you won’t take this opportunity to try and make a break for it?”

  Noel stopped walking. Robert couldn’t be serious. And yet…he looked totally dead pan.

  “You can’t—Why would I? I live here. I’ve been living here for nearly a decade. I’m not running from you or anyone else.”

  “That’s easy to say.”

  “I call you every year.”

  Robert stared at him.

  “I’m not hiding from you, Robert. Far from it.”

  Robert’s mouth gave a curious twist. His gaze faltered. It was the strangest expression. Noel couldn’t tell if it was the face of a man about to laugh or cry, but just as quickly the look was gone and Robert had his usual mask in place.

  Noel knew it was a mask because he remembered, had held on as tight as he could to the memory, of every minute of their one and only night together. The Robert Cuffe he had known had been surprisingly funny and disarmingly tender beneath the requisite tough guy facade. What had happened to that man?

  He had to still be there because, despite Robert’s accusations, Noel was increasingly confident Robert couldn’t truly believe him guilty of those recent cat burglaries. He was too smart, for one thing. No matter how similar the new rash of burglaries was to Noel’s old pattern, there had to be enough differences that there were doubts in Robert’s mind.

  Besides, if he’d come there determined to arrest Noel, he’d have his G-ride. He’d have brought uniformed police officers with him.

  “Maybe if you told me what this is really all about I could help you.”

  “Plea bargaining already?”

  Irritated, Noel turned away and continued to the barn. Robert, perhaps in a show of faith—or perhaps in a show of weariness—waited on the hillside. Inside the barn, Noel grabbed rope and a sheet of canvas and hurried back to the rust colored pickup.

  The three of them squeezed into Francis’s truck with Daisy, his Australian sheepdog. The cab smelled like llama and wet dog. At least, that’s what Noel hoped it smelled like. Hopefully his lack of grooming wasn’t catching up with him.

  As Francis tore down the road and across the snowy pasture, he offered a hand to Robert. “By the way, I’m Francis Rich. I own Hidden Creek Llama Ranch.”

  Robert, eyes not leaving the snowy road—the truck was doing enough of that—briefly shook hands. “Robert Cuffe.”

  “Where do you know Noel from, Robert?”

  Robert said pleasantly, “I know him from the old days.”

  Noel stared straight ahead, waiting for the rest of it. He was surprised Robert had bothered to be that discreet. Not that it mattered in this case.

  Francis, of course, merely laughed. “Are you one of his old gang? We’re always trying to get Noel to tell us about his ill-gotten glory days.”

  “Were your glory days ill gotten too?” Robert inquired of Noel.

  Noel looked back at him but declined to answer.

  Robert asked, “And how is the old gang?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “No? Well, your old pal Chickie is doing a ten year stretch in Dannemora for grand larceny.”

  Noel shivered. He’d known that was inevitable. Mostly he’d worked on his own, but when he used a partner, he used Chick MacEvoy. Chick was one of the best second story men around, but he wasn’t famous for his patience or planning.

  “Yep,” Robert said thoughtfully, and Noel knew they were pressed too close to each other for him to have missed that shiver. “The past has a way of catching up with everyone sooner or later.”

  Chapter Four

  Two llamas stood side by the side on the snowy track, chewing their cud and watching solemnly as sentries as the pickup bumped and ground its way to the side of the road.

  Robert opened the door, grunting as Daisy scrambled over him and jumped out. The men followed, wading through the shin-high snow to the back of the truck.

  On the slight knoll above them stood another shaggy llama. She appeared to be gazing down into the rocks. The weird clucking-humming noise she made carried down the hillside. Frances was making worried clucking noises too. Noel’s eyes met Robert’s and he smiled faintly.

  The other llamas wandered up as Noel lifted the tarp and rope out of the truck bed. They poked their muzzles into Francis’s jacket pockets and he petted them absently.

  “I hope that rope is long enough.”

  Noel stopped. “What do you mean, you hope the rope is long enough? How deep is this crevice?”

  Francis looked flustered. “Well, it’s…” He spread his hands wide, far above his head.

  “Seriously?” Robert asked of no one in particular.

  “When you said crevice,” Noel asked, “did you maybe mean crevasse?”

  “Er…maybe,” Francis admitted.

  Noel sighed, but what was the use in giving vent to all the things he longed to say? Francis was…Francis.

  They climbed up the knoll, Daisy trotting ahead of them, her wagging tail dusting the snow as she ran.

  As they reached the top, the mother llama picked her way sure-footedly over to them, making a strange sound that mostly resembled a squashed moo.

  “All right, Mama. Help is on the way,” Francis reassured her.

  Noel walked over to the “crevice” and gazed down. He could make out what looked like a leggy ball of white fluff tucked about thirty feet down. Two things were immediately clear to him. That animal was not getting
out of there on its own—and Francis was too wide to make it through the narrow fissure of an opening.

  That left…

  He glanced around. It was beginning to get crowded on the knoll between humans, dog and the other llamas. Robert joined him, staring down at the cria.

  “How long is the rope you brought?”

  “Long enough. A hundred feet.”

  The small llama was faintly echoing the worried hum of its mother.

  “How the hell did that happen? I thought you said llamas were supposed to be smart?”

  “They are, but they’re curious, too, and that one’s probably only a few hours old. They’re usually born in the daylight.”

  “You seem to know a lot about llamas.”

  “They get through Francis’s fence a lot, so I’ve spent some time listening to him on the subject.”

  Francis was on his knees on the other side of the hole in the ground peering anxiously down. One hand steadied his glasses perched precariously on his nose. The mother llama peered down with him. A small echoing hum rose from the cria.

  “There must be a way I can get down there,” Francis fretted.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Robert said. He looked from Noel to Francis as though trying to determine the extent of the threat. “You’re dreaming.”

  It was blunt but honest. No way was portly Francis going to manage to wriggle through that opening. Robert could probably make it. Though he was muscular, he was lean, and he seemed reasonably limber. But the obvious choice was Noel.

  Noel knelt, trying to get a better view of the shelf where the cria lay. Going down was probably not the problem. Or at least not as big a problem as climbing up would be. Either way, it was nothing he hadn’t done a million times—though, granted, not since his fall.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Francis look relieved. “No, no. I’ll do it, of course. I only brought you here to lend a hand. I’ll make the climb. It’s my little lost llama.”

  Noel happened to be watching Robert, so he saw him roll his eyes.

  “You’d probably better let me do it, Francis.” Noel rose, dusting the snow from his gloved hands. “I’ve got more experience at this kind of thing.”