Cowboy Christmas

by Carol Finch, Elizabeth Lane

  There could only be one explanation for what she was seeing. Clay must have told Toby the truth. Even though she’d asked him to wait, the man had ignored her wishes. He’d betrayed her trust again!

  The coffeepot was boiling over. Steam hissed as coffee spattered onto the hot stove top. Grabbing a dish towel, she slid the pot away from the heat and checked the bacon in the skillet. Her neighbor had given her a smoked side after he’d bought and butchered the last of her pigs. Elise had hung it in the springhouse and rationed each sliver, knowing that when it was gone there would be no more. That she’d lavished three precious slices on Clay’s breakfast was beyond the limits of common sense.

  When she returned to the window, Clay and Toby were washing up at the pump. The boy was watching his father, imitating the way he soaped his hands and splashed his face. Elise had never seen her son look so happy.

  With a sigh she turned away from the window and began setting the table. Reality was bitter medicine, but some things just had to be accepted. It might be her prerogative to deny Clay his wife. But she had no right to deny Toby his father.

  Minutes later they came in through the back door, their faces damp and glowing with cold. Elise shot her husband a glare across the kitchen. You told him, her look said.

  Clay answered her as if she’d spoken out loud. “I didn’t tell him, Elise. He figured it out. You can ask him if you want. How’s your hand?”

  “Better. Sit down and I’ll dish up your breakfast.”

  Toby sniffed the air. His face lit up. “Yum! Bacon! I love bacon!”

  “One piece for you.” Elise scooped the cooked strips onto a saucer. “And two for your…father.” She cracked fresh eggs into the simmering bacon grease. “Sunny side up, right?”

  “You’ve got a good memory.” Clay took his seat at the head of the table with Toby on one side. Elise slid the cooked eggs onto a pie tin and transferred them to the table, along with sliced bread and a pot of warm beans. As if by prearranged signal, the three of them bowed their heads while she took her turn at saying grace. It was almost like being a family again, Elise thought—except for the bitterness that had made their marriage a hopeless sham.

  “It’s been a long time since I sat down to a breakfast like this one.” Clay broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it in his egg yolk. Toby, Elise noticed, did the same.

  “We usually just have mush,” Toby said. “Mama must’ve wanted to make this special.”

  “I see.” Clay’s eyes rested on Elise, triggering a surge of heat to her face.

  Picking up one of his two bacon strips, he laid it on her plate. “No more self-denial, Elise,” he said. “We’ll share and share alike in this family, even if it’s just bacon.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t find much to share around here,” Elise said.

  Clay’s mouth tightened. “I can see that it’s been a rough three years. But now I’m here, and I’m ready to take care of you both. It may take a while to get things back to where they were, but it can and will be done. I promise you.”

  Elise glanced down at her plate, avoiding his earnest gray eyes. Some things could never be as they were. Sooner or later she would have to tell Clay what had happened after he left. But she wasn’t ready yet. She was still reeling from his sudden return.

  Toby reached across the corner of the table and tugged at Clay’s sleeve. His blue eyes were dancing. “Tell her,” he said. “Tell her what we want to do.”

  Clay cleared his throat. “Toby and I were thinking, we’d like to ride up into the hills and get ourselves a real Christmas tree, a nice, fresh bushy one. And we’d like you to come with us.”

  “How can I?” The protest was out of Elise’s mouth before she had time to think. “I’ve washing to do and bread to mix, and the house hasn’t been swept in—”

  “You can’t do wash and mix bread with your bandaged thumb. Leave it and come.”

  “Oh, but I—”

  “Leave it, Elise. We’ve got two horses, and I know you can ride. Once the sun’s higher it shouldn’t be too cold. Come on. When was the last time the three of us had any fun together?”

  Elise glanced at Toby. The anticipation in his eyes melted her resistance. “Oh…all right,” she sighed. “But I’m going to need some extra help from you two.”

  Clay’s grin deepened the creases in his face. “Fine. As soon as we’re finished with breakfast, Toby and I will get started on the dishes. Right, son?”

  Toby grinned back at him. “Right, Papa!”

  By early afternoon the sun had melted the glaze of ice off the ground. Quail called from the sleeping orchard behind the house. Where wildflowers had grown, sparrows fed on dried seed heads, twittering from stem to stem.

  Bundled into Buck’s old sheepskin jacket, Elise guided the horse up the winding trail. Clay rode ahead, holding Toby on the saddle in front of him. She could hear the pleasure in the boy’s voice as he chattered away, pointing, asking questions and listening to Clay’s answers. How blessedly easy it had been for Toby to accept his father. It was as if the one piece missing from his young life had fallen into place. In Clay, he had found a needed friend and hero.

  What would it be like for him when he learned that his hero wasn’t perfect?

  Elise forced the thought from her mind. Christmas was a time for children to feel loved, secure and happy. The last thing she wanted was to spoil it for her little boy. For this holiday week she would put aside her differences with Clay. She would be patient and civil toward him, and she would take pleasure in their son’s happiness. Sooner or later the reckoning would come. But as long as Clay kept his distance, it could wait until after Christmas.

  And if he didn’t keep his distance?

  Elise’s mouth went dry at the thought of his touching her, holding her. She steeled herself against the tugs and tightenings in the core of her body. She wasn’t ready to let Clay make love to her again. With so many secrets between them, it would be a mockery of the trust they’d once shared.

  On the higher, shaded slope, there was a dusting of snow. It clung to the aspen branches and dry undergrowth, creating a lacy fairyland. A doe raised its head and bounded up the hill, leaving a shower of white in its wake. Toby had fallen silent. Now he spoke, breaking the winter stillness. “It looks like Christmas up here,” he said.

  Clay chuckled, a rich, warm sound that Elise felt all the way to her bones. “Come on,” he said, nudging the horse forward. “Let’s get that Christmas tree.”

  They found the perfect tree just below the ridgeline. Clay cut it with the hatchet he’d brought. Then he used two felled aspen trunks and some rope to fashion a makeshift travois. Lashing the tree in place, he tied it behind his horse.

  “Here you go, son,” he said, boosting the boy into Elise’s arms. “My old horse might decide he doesn’t like pulling a tree. If he bucks, I don’t want you on him.”

  Elise unbuttoned her coat and snuggled her son into the warm lining. Clay stood looking up at her, a naked hunger in his eyes. He was doing his best to please her, to win her back; but she wasn’t ready for that to happen. Tearing her gaze away, she stared into the pattern on Toby’s knitted cap. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It’s a lovely tree.”

  He gave a slight nod, then turned aside, mounted his horse and started down the trail. The travois trailed behind, leaving twin ruts on the frosted ground. Nudging her own horse into motion, Elise followed at a safe distance. One arm held the reins. The other clasped Toby securely against her.

  “We don’t have enough decorations for the new tree,” Toby said. “Can we make more?”

  “We’ll see.” Elise was already racking her brain for things they could use. Colored yarn? Scraps of bright calico? The brass buttons she’d salvaged from an old army coat?

  As the boy chattered on about Christmas, her spirits began to sag. A homemade sweater wasn’t much of a gift for a small boy, but it was the best she could do. She would give anything to see Toby’s eyes sparkle on Christmas mor
ning, but she had no money to spare. Neither did Clay, she was sure. They’d be lucky to afford food on the table this winter, let alone Christmas presents.

  What had happened to the money Clay swore he’d sent home with Buck? Having that money would have made all the difference.

  All the difference in the world.

  Clay sat by the fireplace, resting his boots on the hearth. A crackling blaze filled the parlor with warmth and cheer. From the corner where the new tree stood, the aroma of fresh-cut pine drifted on the air. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds and smells of Christmas seep into his senses. His homecoming had been far from perfect. But anything would be better than the lonely hell of the past three years.

  In the kitchen, Elise was giving Toby his Saturday night bath. Through the open doorway, the sound of splashing water blended with the voices of the two people Clay loved most in the world.

  He’d forgotten about the Saturday night ritual until Elise had stumbled into the kitchen carrying the big tin washtub she kept propped against the back of the house. Clay had taken the tub from her and insisted on bringing in the pump water and putting it on the stove to heat. But the thought of her lugging that tub and all that water every week for the past three years had eaten at him the whole time. A delicate little flower of a woman, Elise wasn’t made for heavy work. But somehow she’d managed that and more. Lord, how hard it must have been for her.

  He would make it up to her, Clay vowed, if it took him the rest of his life.

  He heard the swish as she helped Toby out of the tub. After the boy was in bed, Elise would bathe. Then it would be Clay’s own turn. By then the water would be cool, but never mind that. In prison he’d had nothing more than a bucket and a rag, and there’d been no chance to bathe on the road. Washing in a real tub would be a treat.

  Clay’s clean long johns, stockings and trousers lay folded on the hearth. Earlier Elise had bundled his stored clothes and carried them out to the bunkhouse. Her message was clear. For the foreseeable future he would not be sleeping in her bed. Much as her stubbornness chafed him, Clay had resolved to respect her wishes. The desire to have her was slowly driving him crazy. But he would not take her against her will.

  Only when the door between the kitchen and parlor clicked shut did Clay realize he’d been dozing. The faint sounds beyond the door told him that Elise was climbing into the tub. He stared into the flames, trying not to imagine the water flowing over her naked skin, pooling in the hollow between her breasts, settling over her petal-soft belly.

  The torment was more than he could stand. Swinging his feet to the floor, he rose and stalked out of the front door, onto the porch. His breath misted in the cold night air as he stood with his hands thrust into his pockets. Damn it, he’d done nothing wrong! Not unless saving his fool brother was a sin. The woman had been through a bad time, but he’d never meant to hurt her. Why couldn’t she put the past behind her and welcome him home?

  He stayed on the porch long enough for his frustration to cool. When he returned to the parlor, he saw that the kitchen door was open and the door to Elise’s bedroom was closed. A kettle of water steamed on the stove, ready to be added to the tepid bath. A clean, dry towel hung over the back of a chair.

  Be thankful for small favors, Clay told himself as he stripped off his clothes. At least she’d cared enough to think of his comfort. The gesture was small, but it was better than nothing.

  Elise tugged her nightgown over her head and covered it with her flannel wrapper. She’d kept her bedroom door closed all day to provide more heat for the rest of the house. By now the room was so frigid that her teeth were chattering. Her hands quivered as she knotted the sash around her waist. She’d planned to sit up in bed and read awhile; but her skin and hair were still damp. The thought of crawling between icy sheets made her shiver.

  The parlor would be deliciously warm. But to get there, she would have to walk through the kitchen. And the splashing sounds beyond the door told her that Clay was still bathing.

  Don’t be a goose, she lectured herself. The man’s your husband. There’s nothing wrong with your seeing him naked.

  She knew she was being silly, but three years was a long time. Her stomach fluttered as she opened the door and stepped into the lamplit kitchen.

  Clay sat with his back toward her, his knees buckled against his chest. The size of him took up so much space in the round tub that water sloshed over the rim. At first he didn’t seem aware of her. He was struggling to wash his hair, scooping the water into his hands and losing most of it before it reached his head. His cramped position in the tub made it impossible to bend over. His helplessness tugged at her heart.

  “Wait.” She stripped off her long-sleeved wrapper and tossed it over a chair. Dressed only in her thin muslin nightgown, she stepped behind him, took a tin cup from the counter and scooped it full of water. He groaned with relief as she poured the water over his head. “I always used to do this for you, remember?”

  His chuckle sounded strained. “I remember. I just wasn’t sure you did.”

  Taking a sliver of lye soap, Elise lathered her hands and began to soap his head. His thick brown hair was stiff with dust and sweat. She massaged the suds all the way to his scalp, scrubbing with the cushions of her fingers.

  “Lord, that feels good,” he muttered.

  “Somebody’s got to keep you looking presentable.”

  He laughed, a comfortable sound. Too comfortable, she thought. She could feel the deep stirrings, the awakening desires she had no wish to feel. Scooping a cup of water, she poured it slowly onto his hair. The water trickled down his neck and over his broad shoulders. His skin was the warm gold of polished maple. She had always loved his skin, seeing it, touching it.

  She remembered the times she’d washed him all over while he stood in the tub, soaping his powerful frame from head to toe, touching every part of him. Those baths had always ended with both of them in bed, their bodies locked in a glorious tangle. But she couldn’t think of those times now. She couldn’t let herself want them.

  Clay was still her husband. But her innocent passion for him was dead. It had faltered when she’d read the report of his arrest. And it had died forever that spring night in a windblown orchard—the night she had buried her heart.

  Chapter Three

  “Elise, are you all right?”

  Clay’s question snapped her back to the present. The empty cup clattered to the kitchen floor.

  Hot-faced, she bent to pick it up. She was losing her hard-won self-control. She needed a diversion to get it back. “I’m fine,” she said. “I just remembered something I wanted to ask you, that’s all.”

  “What’s that?” He sluiced his fingers through his streaming hair.

  “I usually take Toby to church on Sunday. This time there’ll be Christmas songs and a special program. He’s been looking forward to it.” Elise took a deep breath. “I was hoping you’d want to come with us.”

  Clay hesitated, as she’d expected he would. Her husband had never been much of a churchgoer. And she could just imagine how uncomfortable he’d feel walking into church after a three-year absence, with the whole congregation knowing where he’d been. But she could hardly go and take Toby without inviting Clay to come along.

  After an awkward pause, he shook his head. “Afraid I’m not up to church yet. But I’d be happy to drive you into town.”

  “There’s no need,” Elise said. “The weather’s clear and the road’s safe. I can drive the buggy myself. I’ve been doing it long enough.”

  His jaw tightened, and Elise realized how her words had struck him. “Fine,” he said. “I can find plenty to do around here. I’ll have the buggy hitched by the time you’re ready to go. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  Shifting in the tub, he rose with his back toward her. Water cascaded down his body in glistening drops. On his arms and shoulders there were new scars, mute testament to what he must have suffered in prison. Clay was no longer the gentle, laugh
ing husband who’d ridden away from her. The years had changed him into a lean, hard-edged stranger, someone she no longer knew. Even so, the sight of him took her breath away.

  Turning, he reached for the towel she’d hung where the stove would warm it. Elise willed her hands to remain clasped at her waist. To reach out and touch him, as she yearned to do, would mean total surrender. It would mean giving up everything—her pride, her trust, her hard-won defenses against pain.

  A pain so deep she could hardly bear it.

  As he wrapped the towel around his hips, Clay turned back toward her. Elise glimpsed his arousal before he pulled the towel tight and tucked the end to hold it in place. She felt the dampness of her muslin nightgown where it clung to her torso, revealing every curve. Heat flashed upward from the core of her body.

  His eyes probed hers, questioning, seeking. She saw the hunger in their stormy depths. A word from her, a touch of her hand and all resistance would end.

  “Elise—” His hand reached out for her.

  No—it was too soon. If she let him into her bed before she was ready, what had once been an act of love would become an act of submission, or worse. She could find herself lying beneath him, thinking of what he’d done and hating him for it.

  Seized by unreasoning panic, she snatched up her robe, darted into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

  Heart pounding, she lay in the darkness. She heard the splash of water as Clay emptied the tub out the back door. Then his footsteps died away and the house was quiet.

  Clay had the buggy hitched by the time his wife and son came outside. Toby’s hair was slicked into place. He wore a dark woolen coat that strained at the buttons and showed his bony little wrists below the cuffs. Elise was wearing a plain gray dress with the navy blue cloak she’d owned since her teens. Her hair was twisted into a coiled braid on the back of her head. Her eyes avoided Clay’s as he helped her into the buggy for the two-hour drive to town.