by Pamela Clare
God, he wanted to kiss her.
His gaze dropped to her lips, his mouth only inches from hers now, close enough that he could feel the heat of her. It would be so easy.
Knock it the hell off.
He rolled off her, wallowing in the snow before he managed to get his snowshoes beneath him again. “We need to get you out of this.”
By the time he was on his feet, she’d taken hold of the snowmobile and was trying to pull herself up. He walked to the other side and held it, acting as a counterweight so that it wouldn’t flip over. The damned thing weighed almost six-hundred pounds, but it wasn’t as stable as it seemed, especially not in deep snow. He reached for her with one hand, helping her into the seat.
“Thanks.” She was still smiling.
“You okay?”
She nodded, laughed, gave him a breathless, “Oh, yeah. That was fun.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?” He finished securing the tree to the sled, and drove their cargo back to the house, his mind reeling from what he’d almost done, what he still wanted to do.
“Head in and get warm while I stick the tree in a bucket of water.”
She nodded, her cheeks red from the chill, then disappeared inside.
Joe let out a breath. He needed to get his act together. He had come so close to kissing her out there. She was going to be here for a while. He couldn’t let his desire for her get the better of him.
He grabbed his snowshoes, went to hang them on their hook.
Would it be so wrong?
The thought surprised him, made his step falter.
Would it be wrong for him to tell her how he felt about her and to let her decide where this went? She wasn’t that vulnerable sixteen-year-old kid any longer. She was an adult and more than capable of taking care of herself.
No.
There was right, and there was wrong. No matter what he felt for Rain, Joe was still her employer.
Resolved, he hung up his snowshoes then walked back to untie the tree.
Twenty-five days till Christmas
Rain knew the moment she opened the blinds in the morning that Joe wouldn’t open the pub for business today. Snow had blown against her window in a drift that was more than ten feet tall, obscuring much of her view of the outdoors. Outside her bathroom window, visibility wasn’t much better, snow blowing horizontally in the wind, white snow against a white background. She couldn’t tell whether the state was in the midst of a blizzard or if the wind was moving snow that had already fallen.
She knew it wasn’t good for business to be closed two days in a row. Even so, she couldn’t help the sense of anticipation she felt at the prospect of spending the entire day with Joe and decorating the tree they’d brought back.
Joe had almost kissed her last night. For a moment, she’d seen desire in his eyes. She’d known he’d wanted to kiss her. Then he’d pulled away. Why? If he was attracted to her, why not give in to that attraction and see where it led them?
She showered, dressed, and went downstairs to find a note on the kitchen counter.
Hope you slept well. I’m heading into town to help clear streets. We’ll decorate tonight.
Well, so much for spending the day together.
She made herself some toast and coffee, then decided to put her time to use making Christmas cookies and fudge. Using a recipe from her favorite online cooking site, she got to work on the cookie dough, measuring out flour, sugar, and butter, cracking eggs, mixing it together.
Why had Joe pulled back? Why hadn’t he kissed her?
If she knew him—and she liked to think she did—he was probably worried about their working relationship. It would be just like Joe to get caught up on something like that. Or maybe she’d misread the entire thing and he’d never meant to kiss her at all.
No, that couldn’t be it. She’d worked waiting tables all her life. She knew desire in a man’s eyes when she saw it.
She set the cookie dough in the refrigerator to chill for a couple of hours. When she’d cleaned up the dishes, she made a batch of her Grandma’s old-fashioned Christmas fudge, melting butter in a cast iron pot, adding sugar, cocoa, and stirring it as she brought it to a boil.
Her mind drifted to last night, sifting through the details. The feel of his hard body as he’d fallen on top of her. The sharp need in his brown eyes. The way his gaze had dropped to her lips. The desire on his face as his mouth had hovered just above hers.
Shit!
Had she let the fudge boil too long?
She tested it, dropping a bit into cold water, and was relieved to find it was still in the soft ball stage. She whisked vanilla into the fudge, poured it into a greased pan to cool, then loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and started the machine.
Now what?
She walked to the window, looked out onto the landscape of churning white. Then she remembered Silas and his journals. She poured herself another cup of coffee, carried it to the library, built a fire in the little woodstove, then curled up beneath a soft, white throw blanket with the journal to read.
July 28, 1868
I depart Scarlet Springs tomorrow and journey back to Philadelphia for my wedding. How I wish the ceremony and the wedding night could be accomplished in my absence. After countless delays, we finally received the shipment of steel rails needed to begin work in earnest, and yet now I must abandon this enterprise to play bridegroom to a simpering, witless girl. With any luck, I’ll get her with child on our wedding night and be able to leave her behind when I return.
John Craddock, whom I hired in Denver, is the superintendent of my mining enterprise, but he has no head for it. I had hoped that this exciting new venture would produce in him a man of will and vigor. Instead, he continues to earn my disfavor. Where I have learned much about silver mining these past weeks, he seems incapable of expanding his knowledge. He obeys me well, but he cannot reason for himself or anticipate my demands or the needs of the organization. If I do not tell him to do a thing, he does not think to do it. Yet, I must leave my mine in his hands these next two months no matter my misgivings.
Today, I hired a foreman. I sought a man who knows the mining trade well enough to run the underground operations in my absence and who knows how to get a day’s hard work out of these damned Cornish. By all accounts, the man I hired is just such a man. He is himself Cornish, with the colorful name Cadan Hawke. He is a big man, all muscle like an ox, and came with letters of praise written by the last mine owner for whom he worked. I cannot say, however, that I am well pleased with him. He is bold in both manner and speech, as if he believes himself to be my equal.
His speech itself is as amusing as it is unintelligible. When I asked him how long he’d worked in mines, he said, “Me father was a tinner, you, and his father afore him. I was born with a gad in me hand. I been holin’ like since I was a bearn o’ nine.”
I told him that I would expect him to make sure everyone on my payroll, from the hoist operator to the muckers—the boys who put ore into the carts—does a full day’s work without shirking. He said, “I’ll nae abide any sleuchin’ at the wheal. The men will be good trugs and true.”
Mr. Craddock informed me that this meant Hawke would not tolerate laziness but would only hire hard workers. I will admit that Craddock has a knack for their ridiculous dialect. I suppose that does commend him.
After that, Hawke looked me in the eyes as bold as you please and asked whether I was a “jest man, a fair man.” He said he’d work his knuckles to the bone for such a man, but not for one who “knicks” his workers.
Is that not insolent?
I laughed and told him I was as just and fair as any man and that I was the one who ought to be afraid of dishonesty and thieving.
Next, he asked about the pay—not his pay, but the pay of the men. I asked him what he thought was fair, hoping the question would reveal whether he had my interests at heart or merely those of the workers. I had Mr. Craddock look into this matter a
nd had learned that the going rate of pay for miners in the Colorado Territory was three dollars a day plus three candles. I waited for Hawke’s answer, determined to send him away if he thought me a fool and asked for more.
“Three dollars a day, sir, and three tommy sticks,” he said.
Why I should have to pay for the miners’ candles is beyond me, but I saw no alternative but to agree. I informed Hawke that he had the job and that I expected him to have the mine completely operational by the time I return in September. He grinned and told me I’d be “right plaised” when I got back and that I wouldn’t regret hiring him.
I do hope he’s right on both counts.
For now, I must turn my attention toward my journey home and my coming nuptials. I received a letter from Louisa this morning in which she prattled at length about her love for me and her joy at the thought of becoming my wife. Do women have nothing better to ponder? I spent no more than a dozen hours in her company, and yet she writes eloquently of the deep love she has for me.
I have yet to purchase a gift for her. I find the whole business tedious, and yet a man must have an heir. Still, this wedding has begun to feel like the noose around my neck. Since there is no way word of any dalliance could reach my future father-in-law before I do, I have procured the services of one of Belle Ellery’s girls for my last night in town. Belle owns the most fashionable brothel in Scarlet and is quite lovely for all that she is aged almost forty. For a handsome fee, she has promised me a virgin.
I warned her that I would have no problem discerning between a true virgin and an actress. I cannot hope to breed a healthy heir on my wife if I give her a disease. Belle asked if I wanted a white girl or whether a Mexican or Indian would suffice. I told her I didn’t care so long as no man has been between her legs before I. All women are the same on the inside.
Rain closed the journal, set it on the sofa beside her, and got up to stoke the fire, laughing to think that Rose’s ancestor had run a brothel. She had no trouble imagining that. Rose, like Belle, had a penchant for seducing younger men. Though Rose never traded sex for money, she did sell illusions—tarot readings, astrological readings, and the like. What was prostitution if not the illusion of intimacy?
The description of Cadan Hawke’s speech had also amused her. Most of the people here were descended from Cornish miners, and not all of their customs—or their unique words or ideas—had been lost. The pub, Knockers, was named after the tommyknockers, spirits that the Cornish had believed lived in the mines. Lexi Taylor even claimed to have seen one when she’d been trapped and injured in a collapsed mineshaft. She said the tommyknocker called himself Cousin Jack and kept her awake and alive until Austin and the rest of the Team arrived to rescue her. Rain had always figured that Lexi had hallucinated the tommyknocker, but who was she to say that what Lexi had seen wasn’t real?
As for Silas, Joe was right. He wasn’t a good person. Rain felt sorry for Louisa. The poor bride-to-be had no idea that her future husband was a pig who cared more for money than for her. Rain found herself wishing she could send a letter or a telegram to warn Louisa. But of course, all of this had happened long ago. Besides, if Louisa hadn’t married Silas, there would be no Joe.
Rain had just put another piece of wood in the woodstove when she heard Joe enter the mudroom, stomping his feet to shake off the snow. She closed the woodstove, went downstairs, and walked down the hallway to meet him. The look on his face made her pulse skip. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Chapter 6
“I’m an idiot. That’s what’s wrong.” Joe slipped out of his sodden parka, hung it on a hook to dry.
Rain walked toward him, concern on her face. “What happened?”
The sight of her blunted the sharpest edge of his anger. “I’ve spent the entire morning half a freaking mile from the house stuck in a damned ditch.”
“What?”
Oh, she looked good, faded jeans accentuating her hips, the ties of her blue peasant top undone to reveal just a hint of cleavage, her hair hanging thick and beautiful down her back.
He pulled off his wet gloves, tossed them onto the bench, and flexed his freezing fingers. “I couldn’t see the edge of the road and slid off at the first switchback.”
“Oh, no! I’m sorry.”
“I called the tow company, but they’re backed up and won’t be able to make it up until about seventy-two hours after the roads open again.” He sat on the bench, yanked off one boot and then the other, his anger at himself flaring. “I’ve stopped being an asset and become a liability.
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
Joe didn’t think so. He was supposed to be a leader in this community. Instead, he’d gone and done something stupid. “I tried digging my way out. That’s what I’ve been doing all morning. I got soaked and had to give up. I wasn’t making much progress anyway with this wind.”
“Why didn’t you text me or call? I could have come to help.”
He got to his feet. “I didn’t want you out in this.”
She took one of his hands, her fingers warm. “Your hands are like ice. You need to get out of those wet clothes. I’ll make some fresh coffee.”
Coffee.
Damned if that didn’t sound like the best thing ever. “Thanks.”
Wanting to avoid dripping or tracking snow across the floor and up the stairs, he waited till she’d gone, then stripped down to his boxer briefs, tossing the clothes into the washer. He grabbed a clean towel from the dryer, wrapped it around his waist and headed up the back stairway, aching for a hot shower. The warm water was almost painful at first, stinging his cold hands and feet, warmth slowly seeping through his skin. But the water couldn’t wash away his frustration.
He and Rain were stuck in this house until the tow company had the staff and the time to drive up, help dig him out, and tow or winch his Land Rover out of the ditch. Yes, he had the snowmobile, but he couldn’t risk taking Rain out on that, not when the road to town would involve some serious steeps and a lot of sidehilling. He’d risk his safety, but he wouldn’t risk hers.
So you’re going to be snowed in for a few days with a sweet, beautiful woman who means a lot to you. Why is that a problem?
It was a problem precisely because he was attracted to her. No, that was a lie. He wasn’t just attracted to her. He wanted her. He’d wanted her for a long time, and spending time with her had only made him want her more.
It’s called self-control.
Yeah. Okay. Sure. It’s not like Joe was a dumbass twenty-year-old who was controlled by his dick. He could spend time with a desirable woman without getting sexual. Hadn’t he been doing that where Rain was concerned for years now?
This situation is different.
No, it wasn’t different. He didn’t have to let it be different. He could treat it like any other day at the pub.
Do you believe what you’re saying to yourself?
Whose side was his brain on, anyway?
And … he was talking to himself.
Great.
He finished his shower, dried off, and then, just for the hell of it, shaved. He’d had to buy razors when he’d lost the bet to Rico and might as well use them up. When he’d finished that, he towel-dried his hair, and dressed, slipping into some jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and leaving his hair down.
He found Rain sitting on a bar stool at the breakfast counter, sipping a cup of coffee and looking at messages on her cell phone.
She looked up, her lips curving in a smile. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
She hopped down from the stool and poured him a cup of coffee. “This will warm you up the rest of the way.”
He took the mug from her, sipped, the rich flavor of dark roast filling his head. “What have you been up to?”
“I made dough for Christmas cookies. It’s in the fridge waiting to be rolled and cut. I also made chocolate fudge, and I read more of Silas’ journal—the entry where he hired Cadan Hawke
.”
Damn.
Joe wished she’d lose interest. “You’ve been busy.”
“Did you know that Rose has an ancestor who owned a brothel?”
“That’s a true fact. Belle Ellery was a working girl herself until she set aside enough money to buy her own place.” Joe didn’t even want to know how much fucking and sucking that had entailed.
“I wonder what she looked like.”
“I think there’s a photo of her somewhere. I can try to find it later.” He decided to change the subject. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving. Why don’t you sit down and relax while I warm up some of my chili and cornbread from last night?”
Didn’t that just sound like heaven?
Don’t get lost in some fantasy of domestic life. This is temporary, just a product of circumstance.
Rain buzzed about the kitchen, reheating chili on the stove, popping cornbread into the microwave, clearly at home in his kitchen, the two of them talking mostly about the weather.
“I wonder how they dealt with storms like this one,” she said.
“Who?”
“Our ancestors.”
“I suppose a big snowfall shut the town down for a while. It would have been impossible to get supply wagons up the canyon. In long winters, most people went hungry trying to make supplies last. Lots of folks died, women and children, too. Back then, if you weren’t prepared, you didn’t last long.”
“They didn’t have the Weather Channel to warn them.”
“We’ve got it easy.”
“It doesn’t always seem that way.”
“Amen to that.”
She put their lunch on the granite counter and sat down on the bar stool beside him. “Have you ever thought of putting all of these historic photos and Silas’ journals in a museum or donating them to a library somewhere? I bet people would love to read—”
“No!” He barked the word, interrupting Rain, who froze mid-sentence. Surprised by his own response, he tried to salvage the situation. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s been one hell of a morning.”
