by Cait London
Harmony had made the beds and turned the blankets down to catch the heat. The beds were soft and welcoming, though lack of sleep lay stamped on Jonah’s harsh features.
Intuitively, she understood: No one had softened Jonah’s hard life and he mourned his wife and daughter.
The healing need within Harmony cried out to touch him, to soothe that fierce expression of pain. In the unforgiving light, Jonah’s rugged face was shadowed, circles haunting his unusual sky-blue eyes. The black stubble covering his hard jaw shifted, as though he were gritting his teeth. He wore his black mood and his pain like a cape, swirling around him. He was not Mr. Merry Christmas.
She gripped the bells at her wrist, steeling herself against reaching out to him.
His gaze ripped down her body and the raw surge of his needs thrust against Harmony. She shivered and straightened and faced him, her fingers releasing the bells. She no longer wanted to reach out to him. She wanted to protect herself— to keep her life running smoothly, and she sensed that Jonah was a danger to her.
“You look like a warlord home from the range,” Harmony stated lightly, not allowing her emotions to escape. This man troubled her deeply; he challenged her on a deep, primitive level, and she sensed that he could change her life forever.
Fierce, sexually hungry, hot-tempered, lone-wolf warriors battling their talents were not on her Christmas menu du jour. His aura was swift, action packed and decisive, slicing at softness not necessary to his life.
Jonah Fargo was a man at the end of his proverbial rope. He tore off his gloves, then he slapped them into his hat before sailing it to the washer. His dark fingers flipped open the buttons of his battered shearling coat; he discarded it on a huge rocking chair by the stove. He stood very still, his head lifted at an angle, and she sensed him testing the scents of the room, prowling through them. To a man living alone for years, the scents and sounds were unfamiliar and disturbing.
A man who moved quickly, purposefully, Jonah Fargo possessed a lithe grace that was frightening in his anger.
He glanced at the washer, which Harmony had filled with his dirty clothing. Her senses caught his mood: Rage trembled around him, pain shot through him like lightning bolts. Jonah Fargo stood there, a glowering warlord of a man, long legs locked at the knee, spoiling for a fight.
He didn’t like sharing his lair with her, the Christmas-reeking invader.
Shrimp leapt to her feet and stood in front of Harmony. Jonah’s lips tightened, his eyes glancing at his dog, then back to Harmony.
She refused to rise to anger, to rise to Jonah’s stormy mood. After all, it was the holiday season when people should be filled with goodwill. She hadn’t lost her temper— ever— and she didn’t intend to have her Christmas cheer trampled by the snow covered, worn western boots of Jonah Fargo.
Harmony disliked confrontation; she liked her life’s cogs revolving smoothly. She always avoided people like the tough cowboy, the ones with raw edges and maddening manners.
She shrugged mentally; the Christmas season was for loving and warmth. Jonah would just have to lump her happiness. She plunged the wooden spoon into the pot bubbling on the old stove and lifted the aromatic stew toward Jonah, offering him a sample. “Would you like a taste?”
“What have you done, woman?” Jonah demanded in a harsh, deep voice as he looked slowly around his small home.
Woman. Antiquated dominant, arrogant warrior male term used for the female species. Generic term for the species not male, and having surface fat contained in curves.
“I merely cooked supper with the few groceries I could find,” she returned too quickly, too sharply, and immediately regretted rising mentally to Jonah’s thrust. Jonah’s home was worn and barren, just like his stove and refrigerator. To a woman used to cooking, with windowsill potted herbs waiting for her, Jonah’s empty cupboards presented a challenge. The frozen steak would serve two people now, simmering in a tasteful mix of carrots, onion and barley. He should darn well appreciate a hot, nourishing meal in a blizzard!
He kicked aside a pile of separated laundry waiting on the linoleum floor and walked around the perimeter of the living room, glancing into the opened doors of the three bedrooms. He slammed each bedroom door and the bathroom door, which promptly slanted, one hinge coming away from the doorframe.
“Keep these shut. Keeps the heat in the living room,” he ordered and sprawled into the old rocker. He looked at the gas heating stove as if the flames could tell him how to extract Harmony from his premises.
Winter wind howled around the house; Harmony’s uncertain temper nudged her control as she ladled the stew into bowls and placed the biscuits she had baked on the table. She liked cooking and family dinners, but with Jonah gnawing on his temper…
He glanced at her, his eyes a startling shade of blue against his dark skin, new beard and black hair. She noted the softening wave at the nape of his neck and the tense muscles of his jaw and throat.
Jonah’s gaze changed, shielded by his lashes as he looked down her body. In the middle of placing the butter on the old wooden table, Harmony hesitated. She was shaken by Jonah’s slow visual tasting of her hair, her shoulders, breasts and hips.
The male species studying the female, his ears pointing.
Her buttocks tightened as she caught the image of his large hands gripping her tightly, easing her against the thrust of him—
Harmony swallowed instantly, aware that her breasts had responded, suddenly sensitive. She blamed the cold; then Jonah’s gaze locked to the cupid pendant resting between her breasts.
“Come eat,” she said in an unfamiliar sharp tone and slammed the butter plate onto the table. She usually wore layers of loose, flowing clothes, or long, swirling skirts. However, the black jeans and the sweater had suited traveling and her western destination. With Jonah nearby, she regretted her choice.
There was nothing wrong with her jeans or her sweater. But the freezing temperatures, her frightening slide into the ditch and meeting Jonah Fargo could nettle the calmest person.
She shivered as her senses caught a masculine exploration of her body, a soft touch here, a smoothing one across her lower stomach, then a firm cupping of her femininity—
“Since you’re stuck here, don’t think you can take over,” Jonah said. He walked to the table, loomed over her, and Harmony stepped back too quickly.
Jonah was too large, his mood too fierce, his aura too potently sexual now.
Six-feet-three inches of pure muscle and frustration, Jonah in a dark mood could terrify anyone, Harmony reasoned. She refused to be intimidated, tilting her head up to him. At five-foot-eight, she rarely felt small or very feminine.
Jonah’s size— or was it his aura?— caused her to feel delicate and womanly... desirable... needed by a man— The picture of Jonah and his playmate making love passionately inside a flame scorched Harmony.
Unable to bear his swirling passions— anger, frustration, elemental desire— she slid quickly into her chair and was surprised to find Jonah acting the gentleman and easing her to the table. He sat slowly and looked at the bowls of steaming soup and the freshly baked biscuits.
“Thanks,” he said finally, as if a distant reminder had dragged good manners from him.
“You’re welcome.” The small sign that he had been gentled slightly was encouraging.
A storm of Jonah’s memories went zipping by Harmony’s psychic senses as he stirred the spoon and studied the rich broth. Another woman had cooked nourishing soup, a child’s spoon had sought the pasta alphabet letters. G-R-A-C-E.
The pain within him caused Harmony to reach out to touch his tanned hand and the spoon stopped. Jonah lifted his haunted, rugged face and glared at her. Too quietly he warned, “Don’t ever touch me, lady.”
Harmony had wanted to ease him; she’d rarely reached out to others so impulsively. The need to heal, the ability, had proven very dangerous. She studied her trembling fingers, curling them protectively into her palms. Her nails bit i
nto her slightly callused skin. When would she learn not to open herself, to give too quickly?
Harmony frowned, aware of Jonah circling her, though he hadn’t moved. He was silent, watching her with a troubled frown.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked roughly. “Of being alone... here with me?” His fingers slashed through the thick black hair, the gray at his temples glistening in the light. He ran his hand across his jaw, and the rough sound caused the hair on Harmony’s nape to rise.
“Look,” he said slowly. “I’m a little rough around the edges right now. I guess I’ll stay that way. The wreck probably didn’t help your nerves. But you’re safe and warm. Pax will be here tomorrow and you can be on your way. Keep thinking about that and you won’t be afraid.”
“Should I be afraid?” She asked the question to hear his deep voice again, the slow western drawl curling around the warm room. Harmony had never been frightened since she first discovered her powers, she realized suddenly. Jonah didn’t frighten her now; she wanted to touch her lips to the hard line of his. She ached to smooth his rumpled hair.
Harmony felt slow heat rise up her throat and, to her horror, Jonah studied her rising blush impassively. Then he began to eat. Harmony ate slowly, very aware of her uncertain emotions about Jonah.
Jonah Fargo stirred her as no other man had. To a woman who preferred elegance and simplicity and grace, Jonah’s raw urgency acted like lightning racing across her taut nerves. Graceful, strong and dangerous, as though he spared nothing once his mind was locked to a purpose, his movements were too swift.
He stood abruptly and looked down at her. Heartbeats stretched by as she sensed Jonah’s need to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. He was a man of action, a man who took what he wanted...
Harmony fought the stirring within her, the fiery need to meet him recklessly on that white-hot plane. Between them, the air seemed to simmer with lightning and thunder. Harmony realized that her hand had risen protectively to her throat where her blood pulsed wildly, heavily. She looked away, stunned by her emotions and the sudden shyness that she had never experienced. The tiny bells on her bracelet jingled musically as she flattened her hands on the table, needing the solid wood to stop them from trembling.
She wasn’t a shy woman, nor was she extremely sensuous. Yet now, with Jonah standing over her...
“The soup was good. I’m not much on herbs, so it suited me fine. Thank you,” he said stiffly. “Leave the dishes. I’m used to doing things myself. Just don’t mess anymore. I like things the way they are.”
“Mess?” she asked incredulously. While Harmony recognized his appreciation of the meal, she resented his current attitude. Ugh... woman obey man— that darned elemental plane again where he nettled her as no other man had. She parted her lips to tell him that he just might not get a Santa Claus stocking this year. Then the wind began to howl mournfully and Jonah tilted his head, his body tense as he listened.
Shrimp immediately leapt to her feet and padded to Jonah, leaning against his legs as though to comfort him. Jonah closed his eyes and the light caught his black lashes, tipping them in blue sparks. Harmony sensed the emotional storm swirling around him: The father’s heart inside Jonah bled, aching for the daughter he’d cradled in his arms and who had made his life joyous and full. The empty Christmas seasons without Grace weighed too heavily upon him, like cold bricks.
He breathed slowly, his expression one of deep pain, before he slowly opened his eyes to look down at Harmony.
“You’re safe and warm,” he repeated. “Remember that if I seem a little strange tonight,” he said to comfort her. He looked as though he was tearing apart and the pieces were flying away into the freezing wind.
The healer in Harmony ached to help him. She realized instantly that Jonah had the ability to send her emotions teeter-tottering. She stepped back, waiting for Jonah to sort through his problems.
Jonah’s thoughts were controlled now, veering toward June Fields.
Harmony straightened. She refused to be a mental participant of another romantic interlude between Jonah and his sexual medication. When she began to rapidly clear the table and wash the dishes, Jonah shrugged, pulled on his coat, and left the house. He entered the howling wind as though it were his old friend, as if somewhere out there in the freezing temperature he would finally find some peace.
From the steamy kitchen window, Harmony watched him lean into the force of the wind until he disappeared in a curtain of snow.
Come back... come back and stay warm, Jonah, she whispered silently. Jonah had sensed her need of the missing herbs: The man’s psychic abilities lurked, prowling through his mind without his knowledge or acceptance.
Harmony shivered slightly; she didn’t envy Jonah’s discovery, for it was a time of terror.
Later, when she placed the folded laundry in the old dresser, she found the doll. Resting in a worn box, the baby doll seemed new and unloved.
Harmony ran trembling fingers across the old box, then carefully lifted the doll free. She smoothed the worn lacy gown and held the doll close to her, letting her senses absorb… big, work-roughened hands had trembled, smoothing the gown, cherishing the doll. Tears had dampened the cloth— Jonah had lost a child, a daughter... The cry carried by the wind into Jonah’s mind had been his memory of his daughter’s—
Then a door slammed and Jonah’s boots hit the worn linoleum, crossing to the bedroom where she stood. He had loved his daughter so deeply. She was the reason he breathed, he laughed...
“What are you doing?” Jonah asked roughly, the stark light hitting his rugged face, gleaming on the taut skin over his jutting cheekbones.
Harmony placed the doll aside on the dresser and moved into his arms, holding him closely. For an instant his pain caught her, a terror within him squeezing, hurting… She gasped as the vise tightened in her own chest.
Jonah’s heart raced beneath her cheek; he tensed, then a shudder moved down his body.
“What’s this?” he asked unevenly, in a hoarse whisper.
Harmony reached to lay her hand along his cheek, to take his pain and give him peace. But Jonah’s head lifted back immediately, a proud man refusing comfort. Then his arms closed slowly around her, locking her to his body.
She knew then that Jonah Fargo would keep what he held dear.
He lifted her, until their eyes were level.
“Jonah...” Harmony whispered before his lips touched hers gently.
She’d wanted to ease him for the moment, to take his pain into herself— but Jonah’s lips were searching hers softly, teasingly, warmly, and Harmony let herself drift in unfamiliar, pleasing sensations. She felt as if tiny warm ribbons were stroking her, cradling her gently against him.
Then Jonah’s arms tightened, his hands opening wide to heat her back; his lips changed, firmly demanding more than she wanted to give.
He was too close, too hard and too dangerous. His heat enveloped her, his needs driving against her.
“No,” Harmony whispered against his lips and regretted the shiver that slid through her body. He continued to hold her, his mind foraging for answers.
“No,” she repeated, aware that her stocking feet were dangling inches above the floor. The tiny bells jingled as she pressed her hands against his hard chest; Jonah’s heart raced as wildly as hers.
“Lady, I’m not so old and so far gone that I don’t recognize an invitation,” Jonah said slowly. “Or a tease.”
She didn’t fear him, Harmony realized suddenly. She feared the need within herself to take the sweet, wild fire that Jonah’s first kisses had offered. She fought the second shiver— stunned by her rising temper— as Jonah slowly lowered her to the floor.
“A tease?” she repeated unevenly, pushing back the building anger that he alone could raise in her.
His smile was not kind. “Try the cupid act on someone who is buying. You’re not the first woman to think you can—”
“Think I can do what?” Harmony’s han
ds curled into fists at her side. The bells tinkled a warning.
“Have me. To think you can sweep a poor widower off his feet by feeding him and then treating him to honey kisses and curves,” Jonah finished flatly. “Well, lady. You have picked the wrong cowboy. I am not in the mood for a tease or for a sweetheart. You’ll have to contain your hugging urges until you can find someone more accommodating. The next time you grab me, you’d better mean business.”
“You insufferable, low-down, uncivilized—” Harmony stopped abruptly, stunned that she had lashed out angrily at him. She instantly placed her fingers over her lips.
“Brute?” he asked mildly and a slow, amused gleam darkened his brilliant eyes. “Now that really hurts me. Just slashes me into itsy bitsy pieces.”
Harmony inhaled and took a step backward, her back coming against the wall as Jonah loomed over her. She fought to think, wading through her sensory perceptions: His pain was defused, temporarily shadowed by his other emotions. He was focused on her now, and Harmony did not like being the object of his amusement.
“I would not want you in my Christmas stocking if you came with a ton of gold and half a ton of diamonds,” she stated.
“Uh-huh,” Jonah murmured and flicked the gold cupid between ha breasts with the tip of his finger. “You want to know what I think about Christmas stockings? They have big holes m them, and holiday cheer is so much hogwash. Stick to your cupids if you want romance, Miss Harmony Davis. I don’t play games.”
“Games?” He’d accused her of being a tease and a flirt. The taut silence stretched between them as Harmony thought of slapping him. She’d never lifted her hand in anger to anyone, but Jonah Fargo was asking for—
“Are you going to slap me or not?” he demanded.
Shrimp began to whine softly and came to stand between them.
Jonah’s darkened gaze lowered down Harmony’s body, then rose slowly. “You’re a big girl, Harmony. You should know that if you come at a man like that and he’s going to get ideas. Now, what’s it going to be? That bed and me, or a nice quiet evening where you stay in your corner and I stay in mine?” he asked slowly.
