Upon a Midnight Clear

by Jude Deveraux

  It was humiliating at best to win a pair of birds when she had her heart set on currency. No doubt John was thinking the same thing. He hadn't said a word.

  Bellamy put a hand on each of their shoulders, bringing them closer together. "I entrust you with my little friends. Keep them happy and you'll be happy for all your days. Merry Christmas."

  Then he threw his head back and laughed, "Ho, ho, ho!"

  Isabel didn't know whether to cry or sock him in the jolly old stomach.

  Lovebirds! They'd been tricked. John was right. Bellamy wasn't Santa Claus. He was a demented old man who'd gotten his holidays mixed up. This was no Christmas prize. This was the trick in a Halloween trick or treat!

  The crowd dispersed as Bellamy walked back up the steps to his house, his wife following and then the two bruisers, who waved to the crowd. Many waved them off with a grumble.

  Isabel and John were the only ones left on the street. She lowered her arm and her shoulders sank.

  "You were right," she dismally croaked. "Bellamy is a crackpot."

  To her amazement, John didn't readily second her conclusion. After a long moment, he quietly took the cage from her and began walking. She went alongside him.

  The wind kicked up out of nowhere. Warm gusts of the Santa Anas brought an unnatural shower of… snow?

  Those scurrying down Main Street paused to see what was what.

  Small white petals thickened the holiday sky and sprinkled down with the most delightful fragrance.

  A gentleman off to Isabel's side shook his head. "Sun-Blessed," was all he said before running off to his home.

  Of course. Lemon blossom petals from the Sun-Blessed groves. But how did there get to be so many of them? This had never happened before. It was a flurry of flowers that looked like real snow. The delicate smell of them filled the air with a magnificent perfume beyond description.

  John glanced over his shoulder at Bellamy's house. Isabel followed his gaze. The residence had grown dark. The breezes must have blown the candles out on the tree.

  "I'll walk you home," he said in a low voice.

  He had distanced himself from her, she could tell. They hadn't won what they had thought and now he was angry. This was it, the end. They'd go their separate ways. It would be as if they had never known one another.

  She should have known. Money had ruined her first marriage. Money had just ruined her chances for a second one.

  But what about the birds… ?

  Who would keep them? She didn't think she could. They'd always remind her of John. It would be too painful.

  The road became covered with a snowfall of white blossoms. They clung to Isabel's shirtwaist and sleeves, they lay in her hair. She blinked several from her lashes.

  Once at her cabin, John stopped at the base of the steps. She could barely face him. She'd been so sure everything would be perfect tonight.

  "I'm sorry we didn't win like you wanted to, Isabel."

  Tears filled her eyes. "That's all right. You said all along we were being fooled by a silly old man. I didn't listen to you. I should have."

  John set the cage on the porch and put his arms around her from behind. He cradled her close and kissed the side of her neck. How easy it would be to lean into him and to let herself feel better. But kisses and embraces weren't the answer to anything.

  "I was the one wrong about the contest," John said, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. "It was real."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because if it hadn't been for hhn, I wouldn't have known you, Isabel. For that, I'll forever be grateful. He said in his notice that the winner would be forever grateful. Well, I am." Then he moved away from her and she heard the shaky intake of his breath. Turning toward him, she brushed the tears from her eyes.

  He stood with blossoms dusting his shoulders and hat, softness sifting on a man who'd shown her softness… kindness… love.

  "You keep the birds, Isabel. They'd like your place a hell of a lot better than they'd like mine. You've got"—his voice clogged, and he cleared his throat—"got hope around here. They'll like that. Take care of them." Then with a lowering of his head and a shove of his hands into his pockets, he said, "Take care of yourself."

  Tears slipped down her cheek as John followed the lane into the night.

  When he was gone, she lowered herself onto the steps and buried her face in her hands. Hot tears spilled through her fingers.

  Even with every emotion inside her in turmoil, a single thought surfaced and saddened her most.

  They hadn't lit the candles on their Christmas tree.

  A kerosene lantern burned on the bureau of John's room, giving off a mellow light. He lay stretched out on his bed, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling. In his hand, the golf ball he'd pocketed when he'd found water for Isabel. With a flick of his wrist, he pitched the ball upward. It soared back down and he caught it. He threw it again. Caught it again. He'd repeated this process some hundred times since returning home from Isabel's house.

  He couldn't get her out of his mind. Her despair over the contest playing out like that had been blatant. She'd wanted the money more than he did. Hell, he'd wanted the cash, too—maybe more than her. But he would have gladly given it all up.

  Lovebirds.

  Who did Nicklaus think he was kidding? Lovebirds were a pair. A couple that couldn't be parted. Nicklaus knew from the start of his damn contest that he was giving away a prize with complications. And he'd known they'd win and they'd have the birds to contend with.

  Why?

  Did the great Saint Nicholas know them better than they knew themselves? It was the only conclusion John could come to grips with.

  Money would have bought him a lot of things he could use. Only it wouldn't have bought him Isabel's love. That, he'd have to earn.

  He tossed the ball and it fell into his palm with a smack.

  He should have told her how he felt, should have damned the consequences and just been honest for a change. He could live with rejection. He couldn't live without knowing if Isabel loved him in return, and he'd walked away from something.

  Tomorrow morning, first light, he'd tell her. Get it all out in the open and let it be whatever it would be, future or no future. But for once, John Wolcott wasn't going to run from a commitment. He wanted to be a husband and a father, and if Isabel felt the same way, he'd marry her by sundown Christmas day.

  On that thought, he forgot to catch the ball and it thwacked him on the brow. With the wincing impact, he had the oddest feeling that Nicklaus had slugged him for taking so long to see the light.

  Isabel didn't sleep much at all that night. The birds rustled around in their cage for most of it And this morning just before the sky turned golden, they began to chirp and coo at one another. They were so much in love, she could actually feel it overtaking the room.

  Barefooted, she padded out of bed in the gray dawn. Finding the white shawl that John had bought for her, she went outside and sat in her rocking chair to greet the day—bleak as it would be for her.

  She'd been so hopeful she'd win the money and her life would be everything she wanted, she could have the things she needed. But money didn't give her John. She'd been a fool to let him go. She was in love with him. Why hadn't she told him so? It hurt to think how much she longed to be in his arms…

  Wrapping the shawl tighter about her, she brought the ends to her cheek and rubbed the softness next to her skin.

  She'd been selfish last night and she didn't like herself for it today. Telling John how she felt about him was worth the risk of his not returning her affections. At least she'd know.

  The ripple of a chance stirred within Isabel. Yes… she'd tell him. Right away.

  Several minutes later, Isabel dashed down the steps to the lane, but stopped shy to gaze at her lemon grove. Her mouth softly fell open.

  Cardinal red ribbons were tied in bows around the branches of every single tree-—just the color of ribbon she'd wanted as a child. W
ho had done such a thing? John? He hadn't known about the ribbons.

  But somebody else had…

  About to turn and leave for John's bungalow, Isabel's pulse skipped when she saw him coming toward her up the drive. He carried a bucket and several of the clubs Bellamy used.

  She didn't want to seem too anxious… too eager.

  "Merry Christmas," she said softly, remembering what day it was. :

  "Same to you, Isabel," he returned, his tone pleasant yet guarded

  The lump on his forehead, just above his eyebrow, distressed her. She feared he'd gotten into a fight. "What happened to your forehead?"

  John's grimaced. "I hit myself shaving."

  "What… ?" That made no sense.

  "Never mind."

  Isabel let the matter drop. She raised her arm toward the grove. "Did you do that?"

  John took in the ribbons, then shook his head. "Nope."

  Then he lifted his arm with the bucket of golf balls. "What about this? Did you leave these on my doorstep?"

  "No."

  "Well… damn. Who did?"

  Both were quiet a long moment. Then together "I think I know—" They broke off and laughed, nervously.

  "Isabel." The way he said her name had her shivering with wanting. "I need to talk to you."

  She raised her eyes to his. "Me, too." Before she lost her courage, she went on, "It's about the birds. I don't think it's fair for just me to have them. And I don't think it's fair for only you. We won them together… so I think we should stay… that is…" He looked at her so intently she could barely breathe, much less think. All the things she planned on saying tripped over her tongue and she grew flustered and near speechless. "Oh… help me," she said more to Bellamy than to herself. It came out naturally… as if he knew she needed him.

  John took a step toward her. "You mean, keep the lovebirds together because we're together?"

  Slowly, she nodded. "Yes… that's what I want."

  To her surprise, John dropped the iron sticks and bucket with a thud and took her into his arms. He lifted her off the ground and gave her several twirls in the dawn light that fanned across the yard in rays of honey and brass.

  "I love you, Isabel Burche," John confessed.

  Through her laughter she returned the avowal. "I love you, John Wolcott."

  Setting her back on her feet, John gave her a hard kiss on the mouth; then he cupped her cheeks within his strong hands.

  "I should have told you last night how I felt."

  "I should have, too. I'm sorry about the way I acted. I don't care about the money. Only you."

  "Me, too."

  He kissed her once more, this time with a lingering caress over her lips. "So what if we don't have Nicklaus's stale money? Who cares? I've got my job at Calco."

  "And I've got my lemon sauce and syrup to sell. We'll make do."

  "Damn right"

  Through a light rain of kisses, he asked, "Isabel, will you marry me?"

  "Yes," she said back through feathery kisses of her own. "I’ll marry you."

  Then he picked her up once more and swung her around in his strong arms to her delighted laughter.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  Two weeks had passed since John made Isabel his wife.

  Dressed in the clothes they'd worn in Ventura, their private ceremony had taken place in front of her lemon trees all decked out with ribbons. The reverend hadn't been too keen on preforming the nuptials outdoors, but he made an exception on account of the fact that it was Christmas day—though it was more likely due to Isabel's promise to deliver him a case of her syrup at no charge.

  Sunday sprung forth bright and cloudless, the air dry but not dusty. John looked forward to the one day a week that he could spend entirely with Isabel. Workdays were long on Ferndale No. 8, and from there he headed to the livery to muck the stalls and pay for that piebald mare. Sundays he dug the well. He didn't mind the exhausting labor because he was working toward something.

  Making a home for Isabel.

  John had changed—for the better. He'd even sent Tom five dollars with a letter and a promise to pay him back every last cent he'd borrowed.

  Although he'd given up liquor, John hadn't given up his dream to drill for his own oil. So this morning, he'd had Duster come out and assess the place to give him his opinion on the possibilities.

  Duster had walked the property and sadly shaken his head. Too many rocks. Not enough grasses, he'd said. The skeptic now sat in the porch rocker drinking a glass of Isabel's lemonade. Beside him, the birdcage hung with the lovebirds softly singing.

  John called for his wife, who walked through the grove with a basket picking lemons. It seemed as if the trees had been producing bushels of lemons overnight. Isabel hadn't taken the ribbons off. She claimed she'd keep them on those trees forever as a symbol of their love.

  "Hmm?" Isabel said as she set her basket down and came toward him. -

  John had selected the niblick club and a Perfect Flight golf ball—the very one that had dropped out of the sky at the well spot.

  "Darlin', I'm going to line you up, and I want you to hit this ball as hard as you can."

  She shaded her eyes with her hand. "How come?"

  "Because wherever this ball lands is where I'm going to find oil"

  "No petroleum on this property," Duster declared with a slow rock and a sip of lemonade.

  "Well see," John called to him. Then he handed the club to Isabel and set the ball on a tiny mound of dirt he'd made. "All right, darlin', you give it your best shot."

  "But I don't know how to hit it."

  "I'll show you." He cuddled her in front of him and made her lean back into his hips. "There you go. Sway a little. Loosen up."

  She did so, pressing her shapely behind into him. He had to fight off the urge to forget about hitting the ball, tell Duster to go repark himself at the Republic, and take Isabel into the house and lie over her on the bed.

  "Well, if that isn't the backward way to do things," Duster hollered, breaking John out of his thoughts.

  "Just you watch," John replied without looking up.

  "Really, John, I think we'd have better luck if you hit the ball."

  "Darlin', you are my luck. Now you're going to do fine."

  He put his hands over hers to fit around the club's handle. Then he helped her shift her weight and get into the right position. "Just swing your hips, Isabel, and lay into it."

  "All right."

  He straightened and backed away from her, giving her room to move. She didn't. She got out of position and turned to face him. "You know who gave you these clubs and balls, don't you?"

  They'd been through this before. He'd never come out and admitted that he thought Bellamy Nicklaus had left him the golf gear and put the ribbons on her trees. Deep down, he knew the crafty buzzard had done it. How, he didn't know.

  Because on Christmas day, that house on Ninth and Mill had been deserted as if nobody had ever lived there at all. The only thing remaining was the tree in the yard, all decked out with holly berries.

  "Yes, I reckon I do, Isabel," he finally said.

  "I just thought we ought to clear that up before I go hitting the ball. If we don't believe, this won't work." The silk poppies on her hat waved with the bob of her head as she turned around once more. "So, are you going to admit Bellamy Nicklaus is a legend?"

  He drew up behind her and corrected her stance. Whispering into her ear, he said, "I believe that somewhere in time, the name Nicklaus will be a legend linked with golf. How's that?"

  After a moment's silence, she nodded. "It's a start."

  "Good." Backing away again, he gave Duster an encouraging nod.

  Duster merely snorted.

  "Go ahead, darlin', whack the hell out of it."

  On that, Isabel sliced the club through the air and the ball sailed high in the sky. She came to stand beside John and he pulled her close with his arm.

  Together, they watched the
golf ball sail toward the ground, each knowing that whatever the outcome, they were already rich.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  STEF ANN HOLM is the author of ten published novels and has been featured in various newspapers, including the Los Angeles Times and USA Today. Recently nominated for a Career Achievement Award as Storyteller of the Year by Romantic Times, she's just completed her eleventh romance. Harmony is the first book in the Brides for All Seasons Series, and is the story of Tom Wolcott, John's brother from "."

  She's been married for sixteen years and has two daughters (three if you count the dog). The early years of her writing career were spent sneaking time at the typewriter in between changing diapers and putting her daughters down for naps. Now that her girls are older and in school full time, she has the entire day to create what Publishers Weekly calls a "fine sense of atmosphere" in her novels. She loves to cook gourmet meals—especially desserts. Whenever she travels, she orders asparagus because nobody in the family likes it but her.

  While Stef Ann is working on her next installment in the Brides for All Seasons series for Pocket Books, she invites you to write to her at P.O. Box 5727, Kent, WA 98064-5727.

  * * *

  Mariah Stewart

  If Only in My Dreams

  * * *

  For Katie and Becca,

  who make all my seasons bright

  * * *

  Chapter One

  With her Land Rover happily eating up the miles in the afternoon sun, Quinn Hollister headed north on Route 191 about sixty miles outside of Billings, Montana, determined to be home before dinner. Praying that no unannounced storm would ambush her to slow down her progress, she depressed the accelerator and prepared to make tracks. Fumbling in her big blue nylon zippered bag, she rejected first one, then another tape of Christmas music until she found just the right songs to sing along with as she drove toward the small town of Larkspur, and, just beyond the town limits, the High Meadow Ranch, where her family would gather to celebrate the holidays.