by Pam Crooks
“Tru.” She drew in a quivery breath. Her eyes closed, and she rested her forehead against his chest. Words seemed to come hard for her.
“Do you see now why I refuse to interfere in Ryan and Camille’s relationship?” Tru stroked her hair, relishing the feel of the blonde strands sliding through his fingers. “They’re entitled to be in love. We can’t take that away from them.”
Her head lifted. “No.”
The word came out hushed, maybe even reluctant, but she wouldn’t have said it if she didn’t mean it.
“Know what I think?” he asked, low.
Her mouth softened. “Tell me.”
“We’ve talked about this long enough. Discussion closed. Take off your coat.”
“My coat?”
“As late as it is, Miss Blanchard, we can be sure the two lovebirds aren’t coming. You’re not going back to town, so you’ll have to spend the night here.” He helped her unbutton the wrap, waited while she slipped out of it, and then he tossed the garment over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Bending, he slipped an arm behind her knees and lifted her into his arms, rustling her skirts.
“With you? Just the two of us?” Curling her arms around his shoulders, she crossed her ankles, and widened her eyes.
He carried her toward his bedroom. “Alone. The whole night.”
“Well, then.”
She seemed to consider the idea but apparently didn’t find the impropriety particularly worrisome. He laid her on his bed, then turned up the lamp on the small table beside it.
Her hair splayed against his pillow, a tangled mass of silken strands that shimmered in the light’s glow.
Had he ever seen a woman more beautiful?
“I’d like to ask you something,” she said.
He sat beside her, hip to hip. “I’m listening.”
“Are you in love with Gaylene? Because if you are, I refuse to spend the night with you or let you kiss me ever again.”
Should he be offended? Or amused? He wasn’t sure.
“Gaylene is an old friend. And no, I’m not in love with her. You think I would’ve kissed you like I did back at the Paxton if I was?”
“Perhaps not,” she murmured. “But is she in love with you?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Might be that she was once. Maybe she still is. But after you, Juliette”—he hovered on a precipice like a man without wings— “I mean it when I say there’ll never be a woman like you in my life again.”
“Oh, Tru.”
“You might as well know, too, I’ll always love you.” He took that jump off the precipice into a free fall. “No matter what happened to us in the past.”
There. He’d said it. A McCord all but on his knees professing his undying love to a Blanchard. Most likely, Pa had done the same to Elizabeth. Certainly, Ryan to Camille. And now Tru himself...
What was it about the Blanchard women that affected the McCord men like this?
Tru scowled. It unsettled him, baring his soul to her. He felt naked. Vulnerable. Maybe he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. Let her stew on it for awhile.
Taken by the look of her, how small she was in his bed, he stood. She was pure female. Fully clothed, but soft and luscious and ripe for his taking.
“Nothing I want more than to make love to you right now, Juliette.” There went his mouth again, saying the words that insisted upon being said. “But whether or not you think so, a McCord has honor. When and if I bed you, it’ll be when it’s right and proper between us.”
She gasped softly, pressing her fingers to her lips.
“I’ll sleep in Ryan’s bed tonight, since he’s not here to use it himself.” Tru took a step back. Two, then three. “Good night, Juliette. I’ll see you in the morning.”
And though it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, he turned and left her laying there, alone in his bed.
Chapter 7
Juliette wasn’t sure what awakened her. Had it been the shrill song of a distant rooster? The bright morning sunshine? Or the realization she wasn’t in the Paxton Hotel?
She rolled to her back. She was in Tru’s bed. In his room. Her sweeping glance took in all the things that were his...assorted books on a shelf, his Sunday-best Stetson hanging on a hook, shiny leather boots beneath. The room contained only a few pieces of furniture, none of them new, each simply made but sturdy and polished. Plain, cotton curtains hung at the room’s only window, the pale fabric pristine and starched. Tru McCord, she learned, liked his things neat and tidy.
Her head turned, and there on the pillow next to hers lay a single rose. Her breath caught at the sight of it, the crimson petals stark against the white cotton pillowcase. A stunning prize from winter. A rare gift bloomed as if only for Christmas, indeed, seemingly just for her, when she was here, in Tru’s home, and could she have been more awestruck?
Or more humbled?
Tru would’ve cut it from the bush only this morning. He would’ve found the time perfect, when the petals had not yet unfurled. He’d trimmed the stem of its thorns, and then brought it to her, laying the precious rose here, close, where she would be sure to see it.
Hardly breathing, she took the flower and inhaled its perfect scent, lowering her lids to savor the moment and tuck it away forever in her heart.
She’d seen exotic flowers artfully arranged at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York. She’d seen lavish bouquets at the Paxton, too, as well as other high-class hotels, and hadn’t given them a second thought. But this lone Christmas rose was as fine as any gift presented to the Christ Child on the day of His birth.
And Tru had wanted her to have it.
Emotion clogged her throat.
Taking the rose with her, she slipped from the bed and stood in front of his mirror. After enjoying the rose’s perfection, her own dishabille left her shaking her head wryly. Her dress was wrinkled from lack of a nightgown, and her hair needed a good combing. She gently lay the rose aside. Dare she help herself to his toiletries?
His razor laid next to a wash basin, the towel beside it imbibed with the clean smell of his soap and still damp from when he’d shaved, reminding her of him all over again.
There was something intimate in seeing the items a man groomed himself with every morning. Items a wife would soon take for granted. Since Father had employed a personal barber, Juliette hadn’t witnessed them often. Even Mama had been denied the privilege.
But Father, it seemed, had a way of doing things most men didn’t. Tru would think the idea of a personal barber ludicrous, and thoughts of all they’d discussed last night rushed forward. Two very different men, Father and Tru. Yet they both held a special place in her heart.
I’ll always love you.
She pressed an unsteady hand to her bosom from the words Tru spoke last night.
There’ll never be a woman like you in my life again.
He’d wanted to marry her once. Did he still? After all that happened between them, did she have the right to even want him to?
With his brush, she removed the tangles in her hair and battled waves of apprehension with every stroke. Daylight had a way of changing one’s perspective. Would Tru regret declaring his love? Certainly, there was much between them yet. Her hotel, most notably. Solving that problem wouldn’t be easy; indeed, a solution seemed all but impossible.
Leaving her hair loose about her shoulders, she left the room, the rose tucked between her fingers. Tru was gone, no doubt to tend to his chores outside. Perhaps even a calf or two had been born during the night, and that would certainly be a lovely start to any cattleman’s day, wouldn’t it?
She smiled to herself, her mood lighter, too. She hadn’t been so long in a big eastern city not to appreciate the importance of growing a herd in this part of the country. In Tru’s case, it was especially so, given his determination to establish his reputation as a stockman.
But though she had every intention to join him outside, she lingered in the cabin. Finding a tall glass, she filled
it with water from a pitcher in the ice box and slid the rose in for safekeeping.
Afterward, she helped herself to a good look around the home he lived in with his brother. Simple furniture. A rough-hewn mantle above the fireplace. A small table and chairs that sectioned off a basic kitchen. Across the cabin, in the open doorway of the second bedroom that would be Ryan’s, she could see a narrow bed, neatly made with a quilt pulled snug.
Yet despite her interest in her surroundings, she nearly missed the spindly fir tree in the shadowy corner, next to the fireplace. The poor thing looked so shabby, it faded into the log walls with nothing of interest to catch her eye.
Still, the little tree drew her. Perhaps it needed some compassion to brighten its spirit, much like the compassion Tru had shown her last night, and hadn’t her spirits lifted, just being with him? He’d kept her warm and safe, had given her assurances about their siblings, and declared his love.
No wonder she’d slept like a baby the whole night long.
Well, this tree needed someone to love it, too, and curious, she pulled out a small wooden box from beneath. No doubt Tru or Ryan had the best intentions to decorate the thin branches at some point before Christmas, but their interests had wandered, and maybe they had just about the time Juliette and Camille rode in...
She opened the box. Glass balls of various design and colors lay nestled within on a bed of shredded paper. They’d once been carefully packed, revealing their importance, but it was the long strand of wooden beads that held Juliette’s attention most.
Despite their evident age, each ball appeared to have been whittled smooth, then painted gold. Had James McCord done this for his sons? Had he tried to make Christmas special for them, without a woman’s help? Had he worked long hours using his carpenter skills to perfect each bead before stringing them, one after another, until long enough to circle and drape a tree?
For long moments, the vision held her riveted. Two young boys, soon grown into men, and their father spending Christmas together, having little but each other to celebrate.
Until her father destroyed even that.
Her fingers trembling, Juliette lifted the long strand from the box, taking great care not to jar the glass ornaments unduly. Reaching up on tiptoe, she laid one end on the top branch, then to the one beneath, then moving around and reaching to drape each one below, as long and as far as the strand could reach.
The ornaments followed next. She positioned them just so, saving most for the front of the tree where they’d be sure to catch the light from the window. After the last one had been hung, she stepped back to survey the result.
Of course, every tree should have a star on its top, and what was she to do about that? Perhaps Tru could fashion something, but surely during all these years of tree decorating, his father would have made sure there’d be a star?
She re-checked the box, to be sure. As she’d taken out each ornament, she’d inadvertently shifted the shredded paper, and there beneath, on the very bottom, was indeed a star, painted gold like the beads. More of James McCord’s handiwork?
Pleased beyond words, she dragged a chair from the kitchen, swept aside her skirts, and stepped onto the seat. The tree wriggled and shook from her efforts to clip the star on the very top branch, but she managed it, fiddling until it faced the room just right.
Satisfied, she stepped back down onto the floor, returned the chair to its place at the kitchen table, and turned to peruse the finished tree.
While she’d worked, the sun had moved higher above the cabin and proudly flung its rays into the window, like glitter onto paper. Her breath caught in surprise. In pure delight. The glass ornaments sparkled on their branches, like jewels in a queen’s crown, transforming the shabby tree into one as fine as any she’d seen. And she’d seen plenty. Just like that, as if she’d snapped her fingers, the whole cabin shifted its simplicity into something more grand, all in readiness for Christmas morning.
The sight certainly made her smile and warmed her heart. It would be her surprise to Tru, having his tree decorated. With his cows calving, he might appreciate the time she’d saved him.
But more important, he might enjoy Christmas a bit more, the way it was meant to be enjoyed.
Humming, she slipped into her coat, buttoning it as she went outside. The crisp air filled her lungs and played against her cheeks. It didn’t take long to find Tru at the stock pen, an arm braced over the rail, his gaze intent on the cattle within.
She held back from joining him, compelled, instead, to study the land that meant so much to him. Three hundred acres of prime Nebraska rangeland, graced with a beautiful lake and as much grass as the eye could behold.
Tru’s home. Ryan’s, too. And Camille’s very soon.
Daylight did have a way of changing one’s perspective, in moments dragging her away from the joy of Christmas tree decorating to the harsh reality of what she wanted them to give up for her and her career.
Had she ever been more selfish?
Tru turned, then, his dark eyes clinging to her. When he looked at her like that, how could she see her plan through? How could she expect him to uproot his life for her own?
“A pleasure it is, Miss Blanchard,” he murmured.
Her blood warmed at the husky greeting. He had that much power over her. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Sleep well?”
If he could put aside their differences, she could, too. But more than anything, she wanted to. Forever, if she could.
“Considering I was alone the whole night,”—she batted her lashes with exaggerated coyness—“as well as could be expected.”
He chuckled. “Are you always flirty first thing in the morning?”
“Only with you, it seems.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for the rose. What a lovely surprise.”
He sobered and rubbed his jaw. “It’s the damnedest thing, that rose.”
She cocked her head. “Oh?”
“I can’t figure it. Look over there.” He gestured toward the front of the cabin, near the porch. “Once I cut the rose off the bush, it withered. Just like that. In minutes, almost.”
She stared. It was true. The leaves were no longer a vibrant green, but had drained of their color, turning brown and dull. Even from here, anyone could see the bush had succumbed to the Nebraska winter.
“Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she said, startled.
“Nor have I.” His arm circled her waist. “It’s like that rose grew just for you, Juliette. For us. Once I gave it to you, its purpose was done.”
She frowned. “Tru. That makes no sense.”
“We’re both seeing it, aren’t we? A Christmas rose.” He drew his finger down her nose. “Makes me think you could have them every morning, you know. A rose for each room in the cabin if the bush set its mind to it. It’s that magical.”
Magical? He sounded so serious, she declined to mention the notion was silly and unlikely. Yet his thinking wasn’t altogether unfounded. “If I married you.”
“Yes.”
What could she say, when their past collided with their future? Though he kept her against him, a response evaded her, and finally he released her. She turned and once again considered the lake in the distance. Had it been only a couple of days ago that Stephen Dunn and Charles Hatman were out here with her, as enthralled by her choice of location for the hotel as she was?
She squinted up into the endless expanse of blue sky. “There’s one thing you haven’t told me yet, Tru.”
“Name it.”
“How is it that this land is still yours when you said your father lost everything to Ace Stillman at the Antler?”
He swept back one side of his coat and hooked a thumb in the hip pocket of his Levi’s. “Pa had put these three hundred acres in my name. One of the few smart things he ever did in his life.”
“I see.” She sighed. “With your name on the deed, my father couldn’t touch it.”
“No one cou
ld. Pa intended this land to be my graduation gift. A place for me to open a veterinary practice.” His mouth quirked. “Due to circumstances beyond my control, I never graduated. But the acres are mine, nevertheless. Fair and square. I’m using the land to breed cattle instead.”
The tall cowboy she’d met at Stan’s Restaurant had been interested. Cal Workman, she recalled. How many others planned business with Tru that she might never meet?
Yesterday, she’d been so intent on convincing Tru to sell his land that she paid his cows no mind. Now, however, their importance grew clearer.
“Mr. Workman mentioned breeding his stock with a particular bull of yours.” A pair of newborn calves lay on the ground, content to be cleaned vigorously by their mother. Given how captivated Tru was with them, they were likely sired by this bull. “He’s pretty important to you, isn’t he?”
“More than you know. I had him brought over from Italy. Cost me everything I had, but he’s worth it.” Tru cleared his throat. “Want to see him?”
Her mouth softened. His chest all but puffed from pride. “I’d love to.”
He took her arm and led her to another corral. Inside, a heavily-muscled, gray-colored beast ruminated his hay, ignoring them. “His breed is larger than nearly any other in our country. He can survive on a range with limited grazing during drought years. He tolerates Nebraska’s heat and bitter cold. Beef quality is excellent, and he gains weight fast.”
She never claimed to have more than the most basic of knowledge in the art of cattle breeding. After all, she was a city girl, through and through. But Tru’s enthusiasm was catching, and this animal he’d had shipped from halfway across the world proved unexpectedly fascinating.
“I studied plenty of breeds before I decided on this one,” Tru continued. “I’m the first to introduce the line to the United States. It’s only a matter of time before word spreads about him. Cattlemen are constantly looking for ways to improve their stock. Cal’s only the first to give him a try. I’ve got a list of others who are interested.”
“Deciding to buy this animal was quite an undertaking for you,” Juliette said quietly, thinking of the time and money.