The Gift of Family: Merry Christmas, CowboySmoky Mountain Christmas (Cowboys of Eden Valley)

by Ford, Linda

  “You’re forgetting my parents.”

  Lawrence and Lydia Gooding had been against the marriage from the start, arguing that their daughter shouldn’t be made to marry Cole Prescott, the no-account son of accused criminal-at-large, Gerald Prescott. Their protests hadn’t changed the outcome, of course. And after the wedding, they made no attempt to ease the situation, verbally attacking Cole and making it clear he’d ruined all their lives. Rachel had been placed squarely in the middle of the war, if a one-sided offense could be labeled that. Amazingly, Cole had kept his cool. Not once had he defended himself or asked her to intervene. She remembered clearly the turmoil of those days and had no wish to repeat them.

  “I deserve their animosity. And yours.” His guard slipped, allowing her a glimpse of sincere contrition. “Leaving you the way I did was wrong. The act of a coward. I’m sorry, Rachel.”

  He regretted leaving? So what?

  “I don’t want your empty words. What I want—no, what I need—is for you to walk out that door and never come back. Leave town before anyone discovers you’re here.”

  Out of patience at last, Abby howled her displeasure at having been kept waiting.

  Cole’s eyes cut to the infant, his resigned expression at odds with the determined set of his chin. “I’m not in the habit of making others happy. Thought you would’ve figured that out by now.” His movements even and efficient, he strolled to the door and grasping the top of his hat with lean, tanned fingers, settled it onto his head and glanced over his shoulder at her.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  * * *

  Riding through the dark, deserted mountain town, Cole was wound tight enough to snap, memories and regrets clawing at him. Rachel was right about one thing—his reappearance was gonna stir up a hornet’s nest of trouble. He hadn’t counted on staying, hadn’t figured on seeing anyone but his wife. One night, possibly two, would’ve been more than enough to complete his business. Now it seemed he was here to stay.

  In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps. The verses Ole Jeb had repeated almost daily had lodged in his soul, a reminder God was in control. Apparently You have other plans for me, Lord.

  His thoughts turned to the dark-haired infant. Abigail. His daughter.

  Cole’s chest ached as unexpected grief swept over him. He’d missed so much. Rachel’s pregnancy. Abby’s birth. What if there had been complications? What if—

  His gloved fingers tightened on the reins. No. He wouldn’t let his mind go there. The good Lord had seen fit to protect them both, and he could only be deeply grateful.

  Looking back, he’d been a fool not to question whether or not there’d been consequences to his and Rachel’s actions. But his sole focus had been on escaping with his heart and soul intact. Slowly but surely, his wife had begun to breach the fortress guarding his heart. She’d started to matter. He’d panicked. Left before it was too late. He’d learned early on that he didn’t really have a way with people, was better off alone. And thanks to his pa’s duplicity, most people kept their distance.

  Apparently he was a dead ringer for Gerald Prescott. Which meant, of course, that when people looked at Cole, they were reminded of the man who’d duped them. A churchgoing man who’d pretended to be a godly, upright pillar of society when he was in fact a swindler and a cheat, skimming money from the church offerings for years. The fact that he skipped town, evading punishment, had rubbed salt in the wound.

  When his childhood home came into view, weathered and neglected, memories of his dear ma swirled in his head, along with a rush of bitterness and anger. When Gerald’s crimes had been revealed, gentle, mild-mannered Rosalie Prescott had been appalled and ashamed, so much so that she became a recluse. The supportive friends who’d come out to encourage her gradually stopped coming. Facing everyone was too painful, and she eventually died a lonely, broken woman. All due to his father’s selfishness and greed.

  Dismounting, he stalked to the door, brittle underbrush crunching beneath his boots. The door hinges were still attached, but inside the shadowed interior revealed an unpleasant scene. Broken glass and soot littered the floor, chinking was missing from between the wall logs and the sour odor of rotten meat hung in the still air. A far cry from Rachel’s cozy, neat-as-a-pin cabin.

  For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder what life might be like if he’d stayed. Would they have somehow found happiness? Instead of passing the night alone in this ramshackle ruin, would he be holding his wife, snuggled with her in a warm cocoon of quilts?

  “You’re dreamin’, Prescott,” he muttered as he lit a cracked kerosene lamp.

  He wasn’t the kind of man who deserved happy ever after, nor did he believe in such a thing. The best he could hope for was a friendship with Rachel, if she would allow it, and a solid father-daughter relationship with Abigail. He wouldn’t dare hope for more.

  * * *

  Ensconced in her rocking chair before the fireplace, sewing basket at her feet, Rachel stitched wings onto an angel’s costume while a contented Abby kicked and rolled on her pallet. The few bites of breakfast she’d managed to swallow roiled in her stomach. Thoughts of Cole tormented her.

  The room was quiet save for Abby’s soft babble and the occasional pop and shift of the logs in the fireplace. With each breath, she inhaled the crisp, hearty pine scent emanating from the evergreen garland decorating the mantel. Handmade ornaments were tucked into the greenery, splashes of bold color against the drab grays and browns of the stacked-stone fireplace. The sparse decorations were her halfhearted attempt to revive her holiday spirit.

  She hadn’t bothered with a tree. What was the point? It would only serve as a reminder of her and Cole’s first and only Christmas, an awkward day to be sure, two reluctant acquaintances thrown together on what was supposed to have been the most special of days. Watching as he’d hauled in a tree and helped decorate it, she’d felt as if they were playing house.

  She checked the mantel clock again. Where was he? Had he changed his mind about staying? The needle slipped and pierced her skin. With a frustrated sigh, she sucked on the wound and crossed to the water basin to wash the stain out of the white material. This was a disaster!

  As she draped the damp fabric over the nearest straight-backed chair, she heard the thud of Cole’s boots on the porch. Her lungs constricted as a sense of unreality settled over her. Her husband was here, and he knew about their daughter. What was he planning to do? How long was he planning to stay? One night? A week? Forever?

  What’s happening here, God? My world has been flipped upside down, and I can’t find my footing.

  Smoothing the folds of her full, floor-length skirt, she sucked in a fortifying breath and pulled the door open. Cole’s hooded gaze met hers. “Good morning.”

  Rachel’s skin flushed hot despite the low temperatures. Without the distraction of shock and fatigue, she was able to take in every inch of impressive male. His dusky brown cowboy hat sat low on his forehead, in the way men who didn’t want to be noticed wore them. A fawn-hued canvas duster flowed in straight lines to his ankles, beneath which peeked a pair of brown leather riding boots that appeared to be new and of fine quality. Soft deerskin gloves protected his large hands from the elements.

  “May I come in?” He interrupted her inspection. His freshly shaven cheeks held a tinge of pink, his breath puffs of white smoke in the crisp air.

  Face flaming, she jerked a nod, moving back to allow him to enter. She watched silently as he removed his gloves, then deftly unbuttoned the duster and slipped it off. His lanky frame had filled out. She couldn’t help but notice his thick, ropy shoulder muscles stretching taut the cream material of his shirt or the way his walnut-colored vest hugged a firm, sturdy-looking chest. His obvious strength and power drew her, made her feel irrationally safe.

  But she wasn’t s
afe with him. She had to remember that.

  When he’d set his hat and gloves aside, he turned to regard her with hands on his hips and questions in his eyes. “Are you not speaking to me today?”

  She clasped her hands tightly at her waist. “Of course I am.” She didn’t have a choice, did she? “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  His tension eased off. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Have a seat at the table.” She crossed to the kitchen, expecting him to follow her. Reaching for the kettle, she glanced over her shoulder and caught her breath. He’d moved closer to where Abby lay playing on the floor, his intense, uncertain expression squeezing her heart. Rachel stilled. How would he be with their daughter?

  “Can I hold her?” he asked quietly.

  “Y-yes, of course.”

  Heart in her throat, she didn’t move as he crouched beside the pallet and ran a fingertip along the curve of Abby’s cheek. “Hey there, darlin’ girl. Can Daddy hold you?”

  Big blue eyes focused on his too-handsome-for-words face, Abby burst forth with a string of gibberish. As he reached over to scoop her up, Rachel thought she saw his hands tremble. In one swift motion he was on his feet, cradling her against his chest as he smoothed her cap of dark hair. Father and daughter took stock of one another. Then, with a sigh, she rested her head against his shoulder and snuggled closer. His gaze shot to Rachel’s.

  The pained wonder in his eyes cut deep. Remorse dripped into her veins. She should’ve done something to try to find him. She could’ve asked around, searched for clues as to where he may have been headed. Or, as he’d suggested, hired someone to track him down. Only now did she understand that in keeping Abby’s existence a secret, she’d aimed to hurt him. The same way he’d hurt her.

  Whirling around, she fought to keep the tears from flowing over. She refused to lose control in front of him. Focused on pouring water into the kettle, she jerked when she heard his step directly behind her. Water splashed onto the work surface.

  “There are some things I’d like to know.”

  His velvet voice wrapped around her like a warm quilt. His body heat radiated outward. For a split second, she forgot everything except the loneliness. The ache to be held. She very nearly leaned back against him. Thank goodness her sanity returned before she gave in to the impulse. Cole Prescott was not the man to offer her comfort or anything else.

  Snatching a towel from the row of knobs above the dry sink, she wiped up the spill and set the kettle on to boil. “Like what?”

  “How did you fare during the pregnancy?”

  Startled, Rachel swung around. “What?”

  He shifted his stance, uncomfortable but clearly wanting answers. “I’ve heard pregnant women are sometimes very ill, and I was wondering if you had been.”

  “I experienced some mild nausea,” she reluctantly admitted.

  “Any fainting spells?”

  “No.”

  His sun-browned hand spanned Abby’s back as he cradled her close to his broad chest. Already she could sense his protectiveness, his paternal pride. She had to admit, her husband and daughter looked natural together.

  His voice deepened. “Tell me about her birth.”

  She lowered her gaze to the floor. That was too personal a matter to discuss with a man she hadn’t seen in nearly a year and a half. “Ask anything you want about Abby. She’s your daughter and you deserve to hear about her. But you forfeited the right to know anything about me the minute you walked out that door, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask me anything more.”

  “I regret not being here for you,” he said in a pained whisper. “If I could go back—”

  “Well, you can’t,” she blurted, raw inside and out remembering how frightened she’d been that night her water broke. All alone, the pains coming faster and harder...

  Despite everything, she’d called out for him. Longed for her husband’s familiar presence, his strength and quiet assurance.

  When she felt the warm pressure of his hand on hers, her lips parted and her gaze shot to his face. Cole rarely initiated physical contact. No doubt living with rejection had made him reluctant to show affection.

  “Did you have someone here with you? At least give me that much.”

  Drowning in his hazel eyes brimming with concern, she slowly nodded. “My mother came to check on me, and she found me....”

  “Thank the Lord.”

  Again, she was speechless. Cole hadn’t attended church in all the years she’d known him. And not once had she seen him read the Scriptures or bow his head to pray. So what—

  A sharp rap on the door shattered the silence.

  He dropped his hand and stepped back. “Expecting anyone?”

  “No.”

  She circled the table and walked to the door, relieved at the interruption. That exchange had been too intense for her peace of mind. Her relief died a rapid death when she pulled open the door and found her mother standing on her porch. She was not ready for this.

  “Mother, what are you doing here?”

  Lydia wrenched her hands together, her brow deeply furrowed beneath her black bonnet. A covered basket was looped over her left forearm. “I just came from Clawson’s. I overheard Lucille and Mr. Moore talking about a stranger in town.” Her brown-black eyes shimmered with worry. “A man they say bears an uncanny resemblance to that no-account husband of yours.”

  Rachel blocked the doorway, but she had no doubt Cole could hear every word spoken. She had to get rid of her mother without alerting her to his presence.

  Lydia stepped forward and patted her arm. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence, dear. I just thought you should be aware of the talk going round.” The undercurrent of worry in her voice belied her words.

  “Mother, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s nearly time for Abby to eat and I—”

  To her dismay, Cole appeared behind her. Reaching across her shoulder, he swung the door wide and edged into Lydia’s line of sight.

  “Your friends were right, Lydia,” he said matter-of-factly. “I arrived in town yesterday.”

  “You.” Her mouth hung open, her eyes narrowing to angry slits. “How dare you show your face around here! And you, daughter—” her attention swung to Rachel “—what possessed you to allow him into your home?”

  Frustration set Rachel’s teeth on edge. The war had begun.

  Chapter Three

  Beside him, Rachel stiffened. Her face had leached of all color save for two fiery patches on her cheeks, and her mouth was pinched with strain. It was a familiar sight, unfortunately. Didn’t her parents see that putting her in the middle upset her? In expressing their hatred for him, they caused her no end of distress.

  “As you can see, Cole is getting acquainted with Abby.”

  “That man doesn’t deserve to be a father,” she spat, jabbing a finger in his direction. “He’s bad seed, Rachel, the son of a swindler and cheat of the vilest kind. How can you expose this innocent child to his influence?”

  Cole ground his teeth together, ruthlessly tamping down the fury churning in his gut. Perhaps sensing his turmoil, Abby began to fuss.

  Rachel gasped. “Mother, please. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

  “If you won’t choose to use common sense, your father will.” Jutting out her chin, she glared at Cole. “I’m warning you. I’m going to fetch my husband. If you’re still here when he arrives, you’ll find yourself on the wrong end of a shotgun.”

  “No!” Rachel gasped.

  For the second time that morning, Cole intentionally touched his wife. He settled a restraining hand on her shoulder. Jolting from the contact, she turned to stare at him, her wide blue eyes troubled. He was stunned to see an apology there, as well.

  Breaking eye contact, he leveled
a look at his mother-in-law. “This is my land. My home. I built it with my own hands. Make no mistake, I will defend it and my family if necessary. You and your husband are welcome here if and only if you plan to be civil and watch your manners. I won’t subject Abigail to your hostility.”

  Lydia’s chin dropped, obviously stunned that he’d dared speak against her. But he refused to be bullied. If he had any chance at all to stick around and see his daughter grow up, he had to set the boundaries now. He just hoped it wouldn’t cause more problems for Rachel.

  “Cole,” Rachel began, but her mother cut her off.

  “You’re nothing but trouble, no better than your pa,” she found her voice. “Just you wait until my husband hears about this! And the rest of the fine folks of Gatlinburg. They’ll run you outta town.” Looking pointedly at his hand on Rachel’s shoulder, she raised an imperious eyebrow. To Rachel, she said, “Think real hard about what you’re doing.”

  Then she stomped away, crossing the yard and disappearing on the forested path that connected the two properties. Rachel shivered. In the heat of their conversation, the cold had failed to register. He dropped his hand and, urging her inside, shut the door and lowered the latch.

  She stopped in the middle of the room, shoulders slumped. She looked lost. Defeated. Brushing past her, he placed the baby on her pallet and gave her a toy. Then he went to stand before Rachel.

  Dressed in a high-collared lilac blouse and royal purple flower-print skirt, she was a delicate bloom in the midst of a colorless winter. The floral scent clinging to her hair and skin unearthed forbidden memories. Memories best forgotten if he wanted to maintain his sanity.

  “Talk to me.” During those first months of marriage, he’d shied away from any deep conversations, fearful of both revealing his own emotions and caring about hers. But he was fighting for the right to raise his child, and he’d do anything to make that happen.

  A spark of anger flared in her eyes. Flipping her long ponytail behind her back, she jammed her fists on her hips. “Your land, huh? You’re awfully territorial for a man who abandoned his wife and home, aren’t you?”