Shane had given her that.
She would have decorated the house with evergreen boughs and holly, just as she had promised Francesca she would. She could still remember the little girl's eyes growing round with wonder when she had told her about Santa Claus.
"Well, he is really Saint Nicholas, you see," Kaitlin 99 had told her with a wink, as they had shaken out a bed sheet. "He was a bishop hundreds and hundreds of years ago and he was kind and generous, the patron saint of children, and he loved to give out gifts. To the Dutch people who came to live in New York, he was 'Sinter Klaas.' So for us now, he is Santa Claus! And he comes every Christmas to bring gifts. A minister named Mr. Moore described him in a poem back in 1823—before I was even born—and he is wonderful, Francesca, truly wonderful! He dresses in a red suit with white trim, and he is this huge roly-poly bear of a man, so kind, so very wonderful."
And she could still remember looking up to see that Shane was watching her from the hallway, his gaze speculative and curiously soft. He'd caught her arm when she would have fled. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For giving her Christmas."
And she had nodded, needing to flee the warmth of his touch. She'd given him so little. He'd given her so much. But she had built the walls that lay between them, and Shane had seemed more than determined to stay on his own side of them. He could be so hard. Their battles, perhaps her survival, depended on his being that way.
But then he had touched her cheek. So gently. "You're just like her, you know. A child deprived of Christmas." And his voice was soft, so soft. "This year, we will have Christmas. We'll drink mulled wine before the fire. I'll chop down a fir tree and we'll decorate it with angels and stars. And we'll all put gifts beneath the tree. You will have Christmas, Kaitlin."
She'd had to pull away. Knots had tied within her stomach, her heart had seemed to lodge tight within her throat. How did he know her so easily, so well? How could he touch upon those places in her heart that were the most vulnerable?
"I have no money of my own," she had told him. "I shall have no gift for you."
That glittering gaze of his, hot, too-knowing, taunting, wicked, and wise, had come sweeping over her and she had heard the sound of his laughter, a sound that touched her up and down the spine. "Oh, but, my love, think of it, you do, you do."
Her cheeks had grown hot. She wanted to slap him then and there.
She wanted to fall into his arms...
She'd had a chance to do neither. He had pulled her close to him. Yet for all the rough carelessness of his touch, there had been a note of true and painful longing in his voice when he spoke. "A son, Kaitlin, give me my son."
And she had pulled away from him once again. "You'll have to speak to God on that, sir, since I seem to have no choice in the matter."
"But you do. You run. You fight me," he told her. His voice was too soft. His eyes too searching. He was coming so very close to the child who had always missed Christmas, to the woman who was still so terribly afraid.
"I don't seem to run fast enough," she informed him primly, which brought laughter to his lips, but something else to his eyes. He wanted things from her. Things she couldn't give.
Things she was too afraid to give.
"What is it, Shane? Is something wrong?" Francesca asked worriedly. Poor little thing. She was just ten, and she sometimes seemed very old. Life had given her a too-acute awareness. She had been passed from relative to relative, and now she was concerned that she might be the cause of the troubles that lay between them.
"Wrong?" Shane said to his niece, lifting the little girl into his arms. "When I live with two of the most beautiful women in the West? Never! We were just discussing Christmas, Kaitlin and I. And Santa Claus is coming this year."
"He never came before," Francesca said.
"Well, he's coming this year. Right down the chimney."
"He'll singe his rump!" Kaitlin advised.
"Never. Santa Claus is invulnerable to fire."
Francesca laughed. "Will he come for us both, for Kaitlin and me?"
His eyes had touched Kaitlin with a curious light of understanding as he answered Francesca. "Oh, yes. Santa will come for you. And for Kaitlin."
But Santa could not come. Not here, to this teepee in the wilderness where all those who surrounded her did not believe in Christmas.
The tears grew hot behind her lashes. She blinked hard, not willing to let the first one fall.
She hadn't cried yet. No matter how frightened she had been, no matter how despairing, she had never given way to tears. She was strong, her will was strong, her spirit was strong. Shane had said so. It was one of the things that he admired about her. Watching her with that cool expression in his eyes, his hands on his hips, his head just slightly cocked at an angle, he had said so. She could still remember the deep timbre of his voice as he had spoken to her after the first Indian raid. "Well, you've courage, my love. And a will of steel."
Perhaps the implication had been there that she was lacking other things, but she did have courage.
Kaitlin leaned back against the tough hide of the teepee, closing her eyes, continuing to fight the overwhelming urge to cry.
You were wrong, Shane! she thought. So very wrong. Some of the other things were there. I did love you, but I was lacking the courage to tell you.
She had almost told him. She had almost done so on that fateful day when she had etched her first number into the hide of the teepee. A three... for December third, 1869.
That was the day when they had fought so furiously because she had disobeyed him.
Genevieve had disappeared into the far north field. She was a small, part-Arabian, part-wild horse, and she was precious to Kaitlin. She wasn't just the only horse Kaitlin had ever owned, she was fine and beautiful, and so affectionate. She gave Kaitlin so much love.
So when she had disappeared, Kaitlin had gone after her, riding old Henry, the plow horse. She hadn't found Genevieve but Shane had found her. And he'd very nearly dragged her back, calling her a fool over and over again, and warning her that he didn't have time to keep going after her. It was going to prove to be a brutal winter for those living at the foot of the Black Hills.
"I didn't do anything-—"
"Tell it to the Blackfeet when they find you the next time!"
"I'm not worried about the Indians. Chancey told me that they're a distance away."
"They're right on our border!"
"Living their lives. While we live ours—"
"Don't fool yourself, Kaitlin! The Blackfeet were the most warlike tribe in the area!"
"Yes, and they killed a lot of whites, and the whites killed them. But that's because the whites were infringing on their fur trade. And now we buy the furs from them and—"
"And that's supposed to make everything all better?"
"But the Indians don't come in this close—"
"The hell they don't! Ever since that fool trapper disappeared with Black Eagle's boy, the Blackfeet have been coming in closer and closer. All kinds of rumors are going around, of Indian war, real, horrible, disastrous war. Damn you, Kaitlin, I know Black Eagle! I know him well. You stay the hell out of the north field and the north woods!"
"But Genevieve—"
"Genevieve is an Indian pony now. There aren't any finer horse thieves in the world than the Blackfeet. If only you'd really cared for any living thing around you, she might not have disappeared!"
To Kaitlin, that had been it. She had promptly assured him that he was the only living thing around her that she didn't care about.
"I pulled you out of a New Orleans sewer. Maybe that's where you belong!"
She struck him. And suddenly she was being dragged across their room, and tossed on their bed. "I've seen the fire in you," Shane said angrily. "I've seen you smile, and laugh. By God, it's there. It was there for Daniel Newton."
"Daniel's a gentleman—"
"And a half-assed fool. And he isn't for you. But da
mn you, Kaitlin, the fire is there. Within you."
"Maybe you haven't the spark to light any fire within me!" she replied furiously.
And he had gone still. Dead still. "Oh, but I do," he had assured her. "Oh, but I do!"
She had leapt up, suddenly feeling very afraid. But she was determined that he not see it.
She wanted to run—she couldn't. He had planted his hands on his hips, blocking the doorway. "Well, you've courage, my love. And a will of steel. But that won't help you now. Not one bit. Whether I wooed you or won you, Kaitlin, I made you my wife. And you agreed to the terms. And I'll be damned if I'll let you try to cast me out one minute longer. You want a spark, Mrs. McAuliffe? I'll light a boxful of matches, and so help me, we will find the fire within you."
His voice had thundered, deep, harsh, determined. Sitting in the teepee, Kaitlin could still hear the thunder of it in her mind. Remembering, she felt a trembling in her fingers, and the trembling seemed to spread. She couldn't forget what had followed. She had relived it time and time again, here in desolate captivity in the wilderness.
There had been more that afternoon. So much more.
Even now, the thought of all that had happened could bring a crimson flush to her cheeks. There had been so much more...
There had been his hand on her arm and the startling iron-hard grip of his fingers. She had gazed at that hand detaining her, and some sharp retort had sprung to her lips. But then she had met his eyes. Hazel eyes, with sparks of glimmering gold. Eyes that commanded, eyes that held her fast. Eyes hotter than the glitter of the sun, alive with anger, with determination, with fire...
And with desire.
Oh, yes, there had been more. The violent force of his kiss, the rent and tear of fabric. Her fists had flown in protest, pummeling against him. And then...
Then there had been the magic. Things whispered in shadows of their bedroom. Intimate things. A touch, a brush, his hands, his caress, so knowing. Demanding here, so tender there. The feel of his naked flesh against her, and a burst of the fire-hot gold of his eyes entering her so that a flame was ignited within her, stirring her, arousing her, taking her places she had never been before, until showers of ecstasy had burst upon her like a honeyed rain from heaven...
She'd been tempted to cry then, too. For the words should have come. She should have whispered them, she should have made him believe. She should have had the courage to risk ridicule; she should have been able to give to him at last.
But she had been so afraid that he would shove that gift aside...
And so she hadn't spoken, and he had risen, and she had turned her back on him. "I'm sorry, Kaitlin. No, damn you, I'm not sorry. You're my wife. And I want you to be more than a cook. I'll not be stopping at Nelly Grier's when I've a black-haired beauty at home, even if she has emerald eyes flashing nothing but hatred my way."
Kaitlin didn't respond. If he hadn't been so fond of the industrious Nelly Grier, she might not have longed to be the ice princess he liked to call her.
"Black-haired, and black-hearted," Shane whispered softly, and it was then that she spun on him.
"No! No! It's not me, Shane MacAuliffe. You prove time and time again that you prefer the company at Nelly's to that at home—"
"Damn! I prefer a spark of warmth!"
What had she just given him, she wondered, feeling lost. And why did he seem more violent and furious now than ever before? She had thrown the pillow at him in a sudden fury herself, and she had cried out that she hated him...
And he had stared at her. Hard. He had almost spoken, but he had not. He had turned on his heel, and left her, slamming the door behind him.
"No, no, that was a lie!" she whispered, but she spoke to a closed door. "I love you, Shane." And she did love him. Not the beautiful home that he had given her. Not the closet full of dresses. None of the things that she had married to possess really meant anything at all, not when she compared them to that look in his eyes when she had insisted that she hated him.
She had to tell him. And she had to make him believe in her.
And so she washed quickly and hurried out of the house. She ran to the stables he had built on the edge of the wilderness. Chancey, Shane's old sidekick and now master-of-all-trades, was there, whistling as he rubbed oil into a harness. "Chancey, where's Shane?"
"Why, I think he rode off to the north field. Said there was supposed to be some good hunting up that way."
Forgetting everything Shane had said to her about the north field and disregarding all of Chancey's protests, she had saddled old Henry. "I have to find Shane," she'd said urgently.
And she had ridden out.
And she quickly learned just how wrong she had been, for she had barely reached the north woods before she had heard the cries. She had turned, terrified to see them. A war party. They were in winter gear, dressed in fringed deer hides, beaded jackets, and fringed breeches. Feathers had danced from the bands at their heads.
Their cries, their whoops and calls, had sent panic spiraling through her.
She might have made it safely back to the ranch on Genevieve, but not on old Henry.
She had tried to run the horse. But she had barely started off before the first of the warriors had come upon her.
She waited to feel an arrow or a tomahawk pierce her back. Strong arms wrapped around her instead. She was drawn onto the Indian's mount. The wild ride that followed was almost as frightening as the first sight of the Indians.
But she hadn't cried. She'd refused to be cowed.
Even when the Indian had pushed her from his horse to the ground.
Even when she had realized that the Indians seemed to think that old Henry was a greater prize than she was herself.
Perhaps not, for she quickly realized that she was to be the property of that first warrior, who had led the party and swept her from her horse.
He was tall, nearly as tall as Shane, and had long, straight, ink-black hair. His face was deeply bronzed, with hard, high cheekbones and deeply set dark eyes. If she weren't so terrified, she might have said that it was a noble face.
She could not think of it as a noble face for long because when night fell the Indian came to the teepee where she had been brought. Quickly she had realized that he meant to have white property indeed, for he had barely finished the meal provided for him by an Indian woman before he had reached for her.
She had fought. Valiantly, she thought. But there had never been any contest. The Indian had laughed, finding her struggles amusing. He had wrested her to the floor, his dark eyes claiming her, his lips curled into a smile. Then suddenly his fingers had moved over her ring.
Her wedding ring. There had been no proper band of gold when Shane had wed her. Her wedding ring was his signet pinkie ring, set upon her middle finger, made to fit her with long lines of thread.
Ah her struggles had done nothing.
One look at that ring, and the Indian had drawn away.
Then she discovered that the Indian she had been calling all manner of names spoke English, and spoke it very well.
"This is MacAuliffe's ring. What are you doing with it?"
"I am MacAuliffe's wife," she had said, her heart seeming to have ceased to beat.
And that had been that. The Indian had risen. "MacAuliffe's wife."
He had walked out of the teepee.
And Kaitlin had scratched the number three into the hide of her curious prison.
December third...
So long ago now! And she hadn't been hurt. They had dragged her back when she had tried to escape, but other than that, they had been kind enough to her.
Shane had told her that he knew Black Eagle. Knew him well. She didn't know how, but apparently, there was some kind of bond between them, for the Blackfoot chief respected her husband. Why, she wasn't sure.
Yes, she was. Because Shane was always honest; he kept his word. Because he was determined, and honorable. Because he was brave. Because he respected his Indian neighbors;
because he saw them as human.
There were so many wonderful things about Shane.
And she had just discovered them too late. She'd been so wrapped up in her desperate need to find happiness that she had let it slip right through her fingers.
And now it was nearly Christmas. How foolish her pride had been. Now that it meant so little, she could so easily have thrown it all away. She closed her eyes tightly. She should have been home. With the fir branches and the holly. With the decorated tree. With the mulled wine before the fire...
No, the decorations didn't really mean anything. Shane meant everything. She should have been with him. She should have been able to sit on his lap, put her arms around his neck, and whisper into his ear. "Shane, I have a gift for you..."
But Christmas would come and go. Christmas would be the number twenty-five etched into the hide of the teepee. There could be no help for it. Black Eagle's tribe of Blood Blackfeet so far outnumbered the white settlers in the region that no one could come to her rescue. As Shane had said of Genevieve, "She is an Indian pony now," so they must all be saying of her, "She is an Indian's woman now." If they assumed that she was still alive.
No great posse could come riding to her rescue. No one could ride to her rescue. No one at all.
Kaitlin started suddenly as the teepee flap, closed against the cold of the season, was suddenly thrown open. Black Eagle, tall and menacing in his buckskins and winter furs, stood before her.
He reached down a hand. "Get up, Kaitlin."
She stared at him uneasily. She had been here for what seemed like a very long time now. She felt that she knew Black Eagle fairly well herself, for she had talked with him many times.
But he had never come to her like this, demanding that she come with him. Not on a day when the winter snows piled up high outside and a vicious wind swept down upon them.
"Kaitlin, get up!" he repeated.
She didn't dare to refuse him. She let him take her hand and pull her to her feet.
He threw a heavy fur over her shoulders and led her out where the wind blew strong and wickedly and snowflakes swept wildly through the village of teepees.
And then she saw him.
Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures Page 9