A COWBOY'S GIFT

by Anne McAllister

  Maybe it was because tonight's frustration reminded her all too much of the months she'd spent wanting Gus and denying him at the same time when they were teenagers. She'd valued the gift of her body too much to want to bestow it on just anyone. And even when she was sure she wanted to share it with Gus, she hadn't done it lightly.

  She'd wanted to be sure they loved each other. She'd thought of it in terms of forever. She'd believed he did, too.

  If she'd been wrong, it had been an honest mistake.

  And if she'd been mistaken, the loving between them had been honest and true.

  They were so young it had had to be. Neither of them had had the experience to pretend, to feign emotions or reactions they didn't feel.

  She and Gus had loved each other with urgency and desperation and passion. They had loved each other with not only their bodies, but their hearts and souls.

  For years Mary had tried to forget.

  And she'd pretty much convinced herself she'd managed it. And then tonight, in the space of an hour, in every moment, in every touch, each and every memory came flooding back…

  She'd gone with him to move cattle. It had been a warm June day. A perfect day—sunny with white clouds dancing lightly on the breeze. And while Gus had been working, Mary had just come along for the joy of being with him.

  She'd packed a picnic lunch, which had amused Gus no end. But when they'd reached the field where he was to leave the cattle, there was a perfect rippling mountain stream and a flat rock alongside.

  "A perfect place to have lunch," she'd said. And while Gus moved the cattle farther up the hillside, she'd waited there. She had spread out the thin cloth she'd brought along and had set out packets of sandwiches and chips. Then she'd settled down to wait for Gus to come back.

  The sun had heated the rock beneath her, and she'd stretched out, enjoying the quiet, the gentle breeze, the soft white clouds in the blue sky overhead. Her summer job was at the public library where she cataloged books and dusted shelves. It was her day off—and a better vacation would have been hard to find. It was like being liberated, spending the day outside like this.

  And then there was Gus.

  She loved spending time with Gus. Riding with Gus. Talking with Gus. Dreaming with Gus.

  She rolled over on the rock and watched him as he came toward her on horseback. She always marveled at the ease with which he moved, in complete concert with the animal. She was a mediocre rider at best. But Gus … Gus was fantastic.

  And he was hers.

  She touched the ring on her finger. It was a narrow band of gold with a tiny chip of a diamond. But if it had been the Hope Diamond, it wouldn't have meant more. It was his pledge to her, his promise.

  "I'll love you forever," he'd said when he'd given it to her only last week.

  As she would love him.

  He got off his horse, loosened the cinch and came toward her. Mary smiled, watching the rolling, loose-hipped, bowlegged way he walked.

  She rolled up to a sitting position. "I have bologna sandwiches and peanut butter. Which do you want?" she asked.

  "You," he said. "I want you."

  His voice was just a little rough and ragged, and he ignored the sandwich she held out to him. Instead he dropped down beside her and took her in his arms.

  He kissed her with a hunger that had nothing to do with how empty his stomach felt. This need went beyond that. It was bone deep, heart deep.

  And Mary met it with a hunger of her own.

  Always before, they'd stopped. They kissed, they'd touched, they'd caressed. He'd slid his hands up under her shirt or down the back of her jeans. She'd pressed her hips against the soft denim of his jeans and the hard flesh of his body. She'd felt his need.

  And matched it with her own.

  This time they didn't stop. When he opened the buttons to her shirt and unfastened the clasp of her bra, she didn't stop him. When he pressed hungry kisses on her breasts and fumbled with the zipper on her jeans, she didn't say no. She tugged his shirttails free and slid her hands up his back to stroke his fevered skin. She felt him shudder and saw the fine tremor of his fingers when he touched her waist to pull her jeans down.

  The warm sun and the soft breeze caressed her heated flesh. But it didn't feel nearly as wonderful as Gus's fingers did. The skin was flushed and taut across his cheekbones as he wrestled with his own jeans. He muttered at his clumsiness.

  "Here," she whispered. "Let me." She reached for him. He shut his eyes, his jaw bunched. His whole body seemed to quiver. "No." The word came from between clenched teeth. "Don't. Touch."

  "But—"

  "Not. Now. Not. Yet." He was touching her, though. Brushing a hand over the hollow of her belly, over the tops of her thighs, over that very intimate part of her that so longed for him to touch it.

  "Gus!" She didn't care what he said. If he could touch her, she could touch him. They were in this together. Forever. "Please!"

  He'd freed himself from his jeans then, and she couldn't help but stare. She'd seen pictures, of course. She'd paid close attention when Mrs. Plum had hauled out all those clinical diagrams. But a diagram was a far cry from the real, hard, eager reality of Gus Holt.

  Mary swallowed. Gus settled between her thighs. His fingers touched her, stroked her, made her crazy with longing for him. And so she reached for him.

  "Mar'!" But he came to her, nudged her thighs wider, and together, awkwardly, fumblingly, they joined.

  It was pain and it was pleasure. It was as if an emptiness she had never realized was filled—with love. With Gus.

  He moved. A little. Trembled. A lot.

  "I need— Oh, hell, Mar'! You need—!"

  "You," she said. "I need you!" And she drew him down, her fingers clutching tightly into his muscular buttocks as she brought him home.

  He bucked against her, his back arched, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Then an almighty shudder ran through him and he went rigid. And Mary felt the warmth of his seed spill within her.

  Gus's head dropped. His elbows bent. He settled onto her, into her, and rested his cheek against hers. "I love you," he whispered.

  He'd whispered it every time they'd made love after that. He'd been abashed and regretful that first time. "I was s'posed to make it good for you," he'd told her apologetically.

  She'd touched his face. "It was good for me."

  "You don't know," he'd insisted.

  And he was right, she hadn't.

  But in the coming months she'd found out. They'd learned together. He hadn't always been that urgent. He hadn't always been that frantic. He'd taken the time to meet her needs. He'd taken the time to help her find needs she hadn't even known she'd had! And then he'd met those. Willingly.

  She'd tried not to think about that.

  She'd tried not to miss it.

  She'd lived without sex for a dozen years after Gus had broken their engagement. She didn't need it.

  If she could survive without him, she'd assured herself, she could survive without sex.

  And she had.

  She still was.

  But now she remembered what it had been like.

  She remembered the closeness, the gentleness, the passion, the hunger. She remembered all of it.

  Because Gus, damn it, was back in her life.

  And she, fool that she was, had let him in. She'd gone to dinner with him. She'd gone to childbirth class with him.

  Next thing you knew she'd he giving her heart to him.

  No. Oh, no. Not again.

  Memories were one thing. The future was something else.

  Love was one thing.

  Forever was another thing altogether.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  So he was going to be seeing her every Wednesday night.

  That was something.

  It wasn't enough.

  But he knew better now than to push. He knew he'd wormed his way as far as he dared into Mary's private life—for th
e moment at least.

  Still, it was only one evening a week. He needed something else.

  "Well, I suppose there's the Christmas pageant." Becky sounded doubtful.

  "Christmas pageant?"

  "We have one every year in Elmer. It's officially called The Winter Frolic now, but it's the Christmas pageant same as always," Susannah explained. "Carols. Musical numbers. Dancing. And of course the Nativity play. You know—" she shrugged "—just a Christmas pageant."

  Gus hadn't been in a Christmas pageant since his mother had twisted his ear and marched him into the Murray gymnasium and stuck a shepherd's crook in his hand. He had serious doubts about this one.

  "Why would I want to get involved in a Christmas pageant?"

  "Because Miz McLean's directing it," Becky told him. "Maybe you can be a wise man."

  Not likely, Gus thought. "Okay, I'll go," he said. "But I don't think I'm gonna make it as a wise man."

  "Don't worry," Becky said cheerfully. "Miz McLean will think of something. She always does."

  * * *

  Mary thought she was seeing things the next evening when Gus showed up at the Elmer Town Hall. She thought she was hearing things when he announced that he'd come to help out, to audition—he choked a little when he said that—to do whatever he could to help.

  "Why?" she asked suspiciously. "Is this because of me?"

  "You?" Gus blinked. "Well, yeah."

  So at least he wasn't going to lie about it. Mary looked beyond him toward the group of shrieking, yelling fifth-graders that she was going to have to turn into something resembling a choir of angels in fifteen far-too-short minutes.

  But then Gus added, "Partly, anyway. But since Taggart said I could work for him and that isn't really enough to make full-time, even with the road work, I've been talking to Jed McCall. I'm goin' to be workin' for him, too. So, as I'm for sure stickin' around, I figured I'd better start doin' my bit for the community."

  Her jaw dropped. "You aren't serious."

  "Course I am. I told you I was gonna work for Taggart. But I had to do some number crunchin', and when I did, I knew I'd need to line up somethin' else, too. I'd like to put somethin' down on a few acres of my own."

  "Here?" She could feel her heart jamming its way into her throat.

  "You're here."

  "Gus, you can't be doing something like that because I'm here."

  "Why not?"

  Half a dozen interested children and adult volunteers looked equally interested in her answer to that question.

  "You just can't!"

  But before she could come up with any better reason than that, Alice Benn bustled over. "Ah, Gus, dear. How sweet of you to come! Isn't this a treat? We don't have a Joseph yet."

  "No!" Gus blurted at the same time Mary said, "Oh, no."

  Alice's eyes grew wide as dinner plates. "No? But it's such a perfect part. He can play opposite you, Mary, and—"

  "No!" Mary said firmly. It was bad enough he was coming to childbirth classes with her. She did not need him acting the part of Joseph in the pageant, especially not after she'd been shanghaied into playing Mary because Poppy was too close to delivery to hope she'd make it until Christmas week, and no one else wanted to stuff a pillow under her bathrobe to accomplish what Mary could just by being there.

  "You're Mary?" Gus's brows biked up. He looked as if he were reconsidering.

  "That's my name."

  "Well, I think it's a perfect idea," Alice gushed.

  "Gus can't act," Mary said flatly.

  "Well, I—"

  "No!"

  But she'd have to come up with something. He wasn't just going to walk away. She'd seen that light in his eyes before. She'd have to find him a job that kept him busy and away—far away—from her.

  The door to the hall opened and Tuck McCall shouted, "Where d'you want the rabbits, Miz McLean?"

  "Rabbits?" Gus said.

  Mary smiled. She laughed. She beamed. "Gus will take them," she called back.

  Gus stared at her, stupefied.

  "You can be the bunny wrangler!" Mary told him.

  * * *

  The bunny wrangler.

  "You take care of livestock, don't you?" she'd said when he'd opened his mouth to protest. "Well, it's right up your alley, then. You wanted to help. You can take care of the livestock. In this case, the livestock are bunnies."

  "Whoever heard of bunnies at Christmas?" Gus demanded.

  "We don't have room for sheep in the hall," Mary explained practically. "But the children like real animals. They're interesting. They add an aura of authenticity. And you did say you wanted to help?" The look she gave him dared him—just as he'd known it would.

  Gus herded bunnies.

  That meant seeing that they were onstage when required and shuffled neatly off to their cages when they were not. It meant cleaning up after the critters when they did things that no self-respecting actor should do while onstage. It meant having half a hundred kindergartners crawling all over him wanting to help him while he did his job. It meant showing each and every one of them how to hold a rabbit gently, to stroke it softly and not—for Pete's sake!—to let it go so that it skittered under the stage or behind the curtain or beneath that huge stack of folding chairs that would fall and crush it if he weren't absolutely careful trying to catch it again.

  He did it all without complaint.

  But he told Mary with his eyes that she wasn't going to get away with it. That there would be a time—and a place—for them.

  But Mary, it seemed, stayed one step ahead.

  She was Mary in the Nativity play one minute. She was the director of the angel's choir the next. She coached the shepherds to look awestruck and the wise men not to trip over their robes. She took on the unenviable task of choosing a baby Jesus from the babies who auditioned. And she managed not to offend any of their mothers—a major miracle as far as Gus could see.

  Every minute she kept working. She had vision. Ideas. She drew word pictures to set the scene and before long had everyone clamoring to create what she suggested.

  "A rustic crib," she thought aloud. "And a roughed-in sort of wooden manger. Not much, but it will seem much more real to the children. If only…" She looked hopeful.

  "I'll build you a crib … and a manger," Gus said.

  He did. When he wasn't wrangling bunnies, he was sawing wood, hammering nails, putting up sets. And out of the corner of his eye he was watching Mary as she bustled from one project to the next, encouraging, helping, laughing, supporting.

  He was aware of when all was going well, and he noticed when she stopped and rubbed at her back as if it was bothering her. Then he set down his hammer and crossed the set, coming up behind her silently and beginning to rub her back.

  She jumped, startled. Then she made a soft sound, somewhere between a whimper and a moan.

  "You should sit down," Gus's hands worked rhythmically over the tight bands of muscle in her lower back, then worked their way up her spine and down again.

  "Can't," Mary breathed. "I'd fall asleep if I did." It was late and she'd put in a full day at school.

  "You don't need to do this."

  "Of course I do!"

  "Not all of it. They expected a simple Christmas pageant. You didn't, for example, have to give them the Rockettes."

  That was the group of elementary-aged girls who had come in last week just desperately wanting to do a dance number—if only Mary would coach them.

  "This is a Christmas play," he reminded her, still kneading, loving the way she arched her back and almost purred in response.

  "It's a community celebration," she corrected. "It's evolving."

  "I'll say," he muttered.

  Over the past week he'd built a crib and a manger—and the set for an entire row of storefronts for one of the musical production numbers.

  He hadn't believed it when he'd heard her say, "Production numbers," the first time. He'd stared at her, then had dared to ask, "Are you out of
your mind?"

  "We can't just do a Nativity scene and the traditional Biblical story. There's too much congestion at the manger."

  He laughed.

  But she went on quite seriously. "We have to have other scenes to accommodate everyone who wants to have a part. All ages. That's why we're doing 'Silver Bells,' 'Winter Wonderland,' 'Frosty the Snowman.'"

  "I don't believe this," he fumed to Becky the next morning.

  "Oh, it's normal," Becky said. "I was an auxiliary snow person once."

  Gus was clearly out of his depth.

  But he didn't give up. If be wanted to prove anything to Mary, he couldn't.

  So he herded the damn bunnies. He built the damn sets. He showed up every day after he finished helping Taggart and Noah. He made it a point to pick Mary up at school and take her out to dinner before they went to the town hall or, if he took her home, he cooked for her there.

  "You don't have to do this," she told him every day.

  He ignored her. It wasn't true. He did have to do it. For her. For himself.

  She kept protesting. But she stopped fighting.

  He took her to every Lamaze class. They didn't even discuss it. He picked her up and took her down to Livingston for dinner. Then they went to class together. It was a given.

  They were a couple.

  Gus was delighted, convinced he was wearing her down.

  * * *

  He was wearing her down.

  The only thing Mary could hope was that all this exposure to bunnies and babies, an angel's choir that preferred shooting hoops to singing hallelujahs, not to mention three vertically challenged wise men who kept falling over their fathers' bathrobes and a couple of retired teachers with matchmaking on their minds was wearing Gus down, too.

  Norman Rockwell Does Montana wasn't Gus's scene. She was sure of it.

  Gus liked moving on. Gus liked going down the road.

  He would be heading down this road anyday now, Mary was sure of it. No matter what he said.

  But day after day, contrary to all her hopes and expectations, Gus stuck around.

  He showed up at school and insisted on taking her to dinner or, when she declined that, on coming back to her place and cooking for her there.

  She let him do it at first because she intended to call his bluff. She didn't think he could cook.