Christmastime on Donner's Mountain

by Laura Strickland

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one supposed to be apologizing.”

  “It’s a rotten way to live.”

  “And what about you? You must have been happy with…what was your wife’s name?”

  “Jenna.”

  “At least when you first married, you must have loved her.”

  “I thought I did. Truth is, Becca, I don’t think I ever loved anyone but you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Damn it, why had he gone and spoken those words, made that confession? He must have been wooed by the magic of the moment, having Becca here in his arms, tasting her and gazing into her eyes. They still looked half wild, like those of some creature he might encounter farther up the mountain. But now he also saw a hard-won wisdom.

  To admit that he never should have married Jenna, that he’d only done it in a misguided effort to fill the emptiness inside, that he’d been as unfair to Jenna as Becca ever was to him…well, he’d never admitted that before, even to himself. And it left him feeling far too vulnerable.

  “That’s honest,” Becca said, her expression guarded.

  “We always were honest with each other, if nothing else.”

  “Nothing else?” She pounced on it. “There was so much else. Have you forgotten?”

  The ache in Jack’s chest increased. He touched her cheek gently. “I’ve forgotten nothing.”

  “Since we’re being honest, I’ll tell you the truth. Those days—and nights—with you haunted me, Jack. They followed me everywhere, and I can’t count the times I pulled up stakes hoping I could shake them from my heels.”

  “Why didn’t you come back, then?”

  “How could I?”

  “Just…come back. Look me in the eye and tell me you made a mistake.”

  “Ha! You make it sound so easy. It wasn’t. I know you’re a patient man, but I’d pushed you too far. And I didn’t want to admit—”

  “That you were wrong.”

  Heaven forbid. Becca Monroe—like her grandfather—found it nearly impossible to speak those words.

  “I didn’t want to admit that the life I’d pictured for myself would never be. There were always other jobs, new places to see. I’d gone off chasing adventure, damn it.”

  The knife that had rested in Jack’s heart for five years gave a twist. He needed to listen to just what she was saying to him, that he still was less important than her selfish desires. He had to recognize that truth before the sheer magic of being with her overwhelmed him and he got hurt all over again.

  Yet this was Becca: she still clutched his hands and gazed into his eyes.

  “And then,” she rushed on, “I called home, asked about you as casually as I could. Gran said it seemed like you were getting on with your life. She didn’t say anything about you getting married”—Becca’s throat closed—“just that she believed you were doing well. I thought you’d gotten over me, and I tried to be glad.”

  “You weren’t?”

  She gave a bitter smile. “Too selfish for that. But I knew there was no point in coming home.”

  “And now?”

  “You know why I came home—for Gramps’ sake. Not that he appreciates it. He’s fought us on everything from eating his meals to getting a shave.”

  “Maybe he’s just ready to follow your grandma. And you, Becca? What are you ready for?”

  Say it’s settling down, he urged her in his mind. Say you know what you need at last, and it’s here with me.

  But those words didn’t come. Instead, Becca pressed her lips together before lacing her fingers through his, pulling him closer and kissing him again.

  ****

  Becca surfaced briefly from the deep and sensual languor that possessed her and wondered how wrong it would be to make love with Jack Donner.

  The fire—neglected—had died down, and the single oil lamp flickered. Gusts of wind battered the sides of the cabin in turns, like a fairytale monster trying to get in, yet Becca felt warm.

  They’d undressed each other slowly there on the sofa, giving attention to what lay beneath each garment as it came away. Jack, she discovered, had unquestionably become a man while she’d been gone—hard all over yet still with that gentleness that had always stolen her breath.

  Did he know gentleness had the power to undo her even where forcefulness might fall short?

  He’d cupped her head in his hands and whispered that he liked her short hair, even though he used to take such pleasure in unbraiding it and spreading it over their entwined bodies. He caressed every part of her as if he remembered and cherished it, and Becca fought tears.

  But passion came swiftly, the desire to claim and be claimed here in this cabin with the storm howling outside—the one place in the world where Becca felt safe.

  Jack was Jack. He’d take nothing she didn’t offer. It would be up to her whether she parted her legs for him, let him in and lost herself.

  If she did, would she ever be able to walk away again?

  “It’s late.” Lying on top of her he kissed her slowly, a luxurious contact of lips on lips that set her trembling. “Want to go to bed?”

  She wanted, she wanted. Not enough room here on the sofa, and she’d wound up stretched beneath him. She liked being on top.

  As if he could read her mind—as if the connection between them had become just that acute—he whispered with a smile in his voice, “I’ll let you have the top. I know how much you like that.”

  “Umm.” No longer capable of forming words—barely capable of forming thoughts—she made a sound of agreement. She felt drugged, yet wild with the desire to ride him.

  “Was that a yes?”

  “Yeah.” She’d worry about tomorrow come morning. Maybe, if she got lucky, morning would never come.

  He stood up and lifted her with him as if she weighed nothing. In the dim room his eyes gleamed blue as a summer sky. But this was winter—Christmas—and she had so much to lose…

  “Wait.”

  He froze, his muscles like iron. He blinked at her, and she saw his vulnerability, the power she had to hurt him.

  Still.

  “This doesn’t mean I’m back,” she warned him. “You understand that, going in?”

  “Oh, God.” He touched his forehead to hers and closed his eyes a moment.

  “I just want to be sure you know,” she said quickly, “that when I walk away, I walk away for good.”

  “Well, then, Becca Monroe, I guess I’ll have to take whatever time I can get.”

  ****

  But time evaporated as if it had never existed, and night sighed over the cabin, carried in the arms of the wind. Becca rested in Jack’s arms also, her passion seeming to have climaxed with the storm. Now spent, she waited for the dawn and reckoning.

  Yet darkness still hovered outside the cabin windows. On the rug beside the big bed, Gyp snored. Jack slept too, his fair hair tousled on the pillow and his face that of an angel—one with an incipient, scruffy beard.

  She attempted to examine the emotions that filled her, and failed. Tenderness. Ease and belonging she hadn’t known since the last time she left this place. And love—it fairly spilled through her, tempting her to speak the words. But she couldn’t do that to him, not again—not unless she meant to stay.

  And there were other feelings, too: fear, and a weird sense of dread. The old restlessness that wouldn’t seem to let go of her even here where she wanted to be.

  Up on the mountain where love had first found her, it had come to her again. But unless she could be sure, unless she could commit, she couldn’t risk wounding this man a second time.

  She supposed she could slip from the bed now while he slept, and leave. She wouldn’t be able to get her car started, but she could probably hike down the mountain.

  The coward’s way out.

  She stirred, and Jack did also. His lashes fluttered and his eyes came open, catching her in mid-slide.

  They stared at one another before he said, “B
ecca? Were you planning to duck out on me?”

  She blinked. Why try to deny it? He knew her far too well.

  She sat there naked on the side of the bed, her shoulder to him. “I thought it might be best.”

  “Best or easiest?”

  She glared at him over her shoulder. “Believe it or not, I was thinking of you. Jack, the last thing I want is to hurt you again.”

  “Becca…” Gently he caught her shoulder and turned her to face him in the bed. “Does it have to be a choice? Can’t you just stay?”

  “I don’t know, Jack. I just don’t know.”

  She bounded up and went to the sofa, where she gathered her clothes and began to dress.

  Jack sighed and ran his hands over his eyes. “All right, hang on. I’ll get my truck turned around and drive you back down.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  They dressed in silence, and Becca did not touch him again; she didn’t dare.

  Chapter Eight

  Gyp bounded ahead of them, leaping from snowdrift to snowdrift, determined to accompany Jack wherever he wanted to go. At least, he thought unhappily, he inspired that desire in one female’s breast.

  As for Becca—what had he expected? Did he really think making love with her might change anything? It never had and likely never would.

  Becca went her own way, always. The expenditure of passion was, for her, just that. Not the opening of an old wound and a need that surpassed anything he’d ever known. Becca didn’t do getting tied down, and she didn’t do forever. If he knew anything, it was that.

  But he still loved her, damn it. Damn it!

  He watched her pick her way through the knee-high snow, hands tucked into her pockets, and thought about how she’d tasted—like wild honey and hot woman. He thought about the night just past, with her tucked into his arms—the best sleep he’d had since she went away.

  God, he was a fool.

  They reached the truck and cleared it of snow together, in silence. She’d refused his offer of breakfast—she just wanted to get away—and his stomach rumbled even though he felt sick.

  She spoke at last. “Snow’s pretty deep. Do you think your truck will make it?”

  “All-wheel drive. Come on, Gyp—you need to wait back in the cabin. Once I drop you off in Crawford, Becca, I’ll have to go to the tree lot for the day.”

  “Will Gyp be okay here alone?”

  “I’ve put down food and plenty of water. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

  “She can come with me if you like, stay the day at Gramps’.”

  His gaze met hers in question. It would make an excuse to see her again, if he had to pick up Gyp—a possibility. The first chink he’d seen in Becca’s armor.

  God, he was pitiful.

  “You sure? Won’t your grandfather mind?”

  “He likes dogs. And I hate to think of her here alone; it’s Christmas Eve.”

  So it was. Jack nodded. “That’s kind of you.”

  She gave him a bitter smile. “You know better than that, Jack Donner. I’m seldom kind.”

  ****

  “Just what do you mean by staying out all night?” Gramps sat propped in his bed with a face like a thundercloud. Clearly, Becca thought, no Christmas spirit had yet reached his bedroom at the top of the stairs. Instead, his sharp gaze examined her like she’d been walking the streets of Crawford trolling for customers.

  She sighed, thinking how much she wanted out of here, away from the twinkling lights and the carols and the determined holiday nonsense. And Jack? Did she want away from him too?

  She thought of the way he’d touched her last night, the pure magic of his fingers sliding over her bare skin, his lips at her breasts. Just as miraculous as ever.

  “I got caught in the storm, Gramps,” she said, trying to keep her tone pleasant. “In case you haven’t looked outside, we got about eighteen inches of snow.”

  “Of course I haven’t looked outside. That damn brother of yours barely lets me get up for the bathroom.”

  “Still better than the hospital, right?”

  “Sit down.” Gramps indicated the chair tucked close beside the bed. “Robert says you took it into your head to chase up Donner’s Mountain. How come?”

  So he meant to give her the third degree. Becca perched on the edge of the chair and gazed at her grandfather, taking a real look at him.

  He appeared to be in considerable pain. He also looked antsy—well, she knew that feeling. She tried to imagine how it would feel to be trapped in a bed, the victim of her body, and managed a bit more sympathy.

  Ignoring his question, she asked one of her own. “Did you take your pills?”

  “Yeah, right after I downed that swill your brother tried to pass off as breakfast. They don’t come quick enough.”

  “What don’t?”

  “Those pills. I need them sooner than every four hours. This damn heart of mine hurts every time it beats.” Not giving her a chance to reply, he grunted, “So tell me why you went up the mountain.”

  Could she? Dared she speak so honestly to this irascible old man? Would she ever have another chance?

  “I wanted to see if I could manage it—face the past. Some of my best times were there. And some of my worst.”

  Gramps looked surprised, maybe at her candor.

  “But the storm caught me. I didn’t even make it to the overlook and wound up at the cabin.”

  “Robbie said you were spending the night there—at the cabin. With that Donner boy?”

  “Jack, yes.”

  They stared at each other, Becca and the old man, with identical eyes and suddenly identical understanding.

  Gramps drew a long breath. “Let me tell you something, girl—from the vantage of my hard-won wisdom.” His lips twisted in a bitter smile that might have been hers. “The heart’s a funny thing. It hurts when it’s dying. It also hurts a lot along the way, when it wants to live. Your heart hurting now, is it?”

  “Yes, Gramps.”

  “I know it. I know it is, girl, ’cause I’ve felt that ache. You loved the Donner boy once. Do you still?”

  “That’s just it, Gramps. I do. But even if I love him, I don’t know if love’s worth the price.”

  Gramps nodded as if he understood completely. “For folks like us, it’s a steep price. Feels like giving away a part of yourself—that part that sees an open road and longs to take it. Staying put for one person…that’s a lot to ask for.”

  “When I left before, I never asked Jack to come with me. I couldn’t. His roots are so deep here in that mountain, I think it would half kill him to pull them up. His family’s lived there for generations.”

  Gramps smiled. “Wild men, they used to be—the sort that only came to town a couple times a year. But they settled. They settled.”

  “I can’t ask him to leave with me now, either. He’s comfortable with his life; that cabin’s his home. And you know, as I know, I’m just not worth that kind of sacrifice.”

  Gramps looked startled for a moment. “Ah, well, girl. Maybe that’s at the heart of our rovin’ and dissatisfaction, eh? That thought in the mind that we’re never quite good enough.”

  “Maybe.” Becca hung her head.

  “Look at me. Rebecca girl, look at me.”

  Cautiously, she raised her eyes.

  “I was just out of the service when I met your grandma. Thought the army would be a good way to see the world, and it was. Never imagined I’d settle down. But she—she was like the Donner boy, settled. She taught school in those days, and everything was about her class and her plans for the future. Here, in Crawford.

  “Well, I knew I wanted her. Wanting’s the easy part, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Staying’s the hard part.”

  “Yep. But when you’re made like us, girl, with that itch inside, and your heart fastens on someone, something’s got to give. You have to sacrifice the urge—or the love.”

  Startled, Becca looked into her grandfather’s eyes
and saw him, really saw him—a strapping young man with brown hair like hers and a spirit that even then could barely keep still. In love with the gentle young woman with the roses in her cheeks and the twinkle in her eye.

  “You chose,” she reminded that young man. “But were you happy?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. It’s a tough row to hoe.”

  “You never seemed happy.”

  “Never’s a hard word. When I look back on it from this place I sit, it’s all happy. Seeing your father and your aunt born. All the birthdays and Christmases, and the little things like your grandmother’s smile. Though that’s not a little thing, is it?”

  “No.”

  Surprisingly, Gramps reached out and took Becca’s hand. “When I look back now, I can barely remember the restlessness and the urge to run. All I remember’s the love. So even a rock-headed fellow like me figures that must be what matters. And I can’t tell you, girl, what I’d give to have one more day with her, just one. So Becca, you listen to me. If you love that boy, tell him. And make your choice based on what’s going to matter in the end.”

  “But I don’t know if he still loves me—well enough, anyway, to forgive me. Gramps, do you know what I did to him when I left? I hurt him so badly he said he couldn’t handle it anymore and was done with me.”

  Gramps’ expression became frank. “You sleep with him last night?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “That’s a good first step.”

  “Gramps!”

  “Ah—don’t look at me that way. You think I don’t understand what effect passion has on a man?”

  Speechless, Becca stared.

  Earnestly he told her, “My advice is you go and talk to that boy. ’Cause the years—they pass quicker than you can imagine. But the love—that’s what lasts.”

  Chapter Nine

  Snowflakes fell softly as Becca crossed the square, swirling down in a slow dance as if gravity had little effect on them. One or two planted wet kisses on her cheek, gentle in contrast to last night’s storm.

  That was the thing—as Gramps might have said—with snow and love. Sometimes it came gently; sometimes it blew through and tore your world apart.