The Maverick's Holiday Masquerade (Montana Mavericks: What Happened At The Wedding 5)

by Caro Carson

  Understanding dawned. “He’s nothing like that stupid pilot. Ryan’s like us. He worked with us in the stables twice this week. Didn’t you think he loved all our twin stories over lunch today? He understands loyalty, and family, and—and love.” But she hesitated over the last word, because Ryan hadn’t said he loved her.

  Really, she hadn’t said she loved him, either. They hadn’t talked about their future as a couple, only that he loved being with her and would come back as soon as he could. Maybe Kayla was right. Maybe she hadn’t been paying enough attention to the real man.

  The theater was plunged into darkness, her cue to take her place center stage before the lights went up on her big scene. It was time for Belle to make things perfectly clear with Ebenezer. Then she’d walk away and leave him alone in a spotlight as artificial snow began to fall.

  Kristen picked up her fur muff and hurried to her mark. Belle needed to have a lot of courage to be so frank with Ebenezer about their relationship.

  A little shiver ran down Kristen’s back.

  It’s just a touch of stage fright.

  But it wasn’t. She couldn’t stay in her happy fog much longer. She needed some of Belle’s courage to ask Ryan exactly where their relationship stood. Tomorrow.

  Kristen took her spot and waited for the curtain to rise. There was nothing to fear. She knew her part and she trusted her crew.

  She had nothing to fear tomorrow, either. Ryan was no Ebenezer. Ryan would never place his career before her. In real life, she wouldn’t be walking out of the spotlight and into his past.

  * * *

  “Oh, my gosh. It’s my Mrs. Claus.”

  Kristen squeezed Ryan’s hand in excitement, pulling him to a stop in front of the thrift shop. They’d had lunch in Kalispell again, and were window-shopping in the quaint part of town, the part that included Depot Park and the theater. Tonight was opening night. So thrilling—but so was finding Mrs. Claus.

  “Do you think she’s the right size? I don’t think she’s four feet. She might be the three-foot version. They made that in 1970. I’ve got the 1968 Santa. He’s bigger.”

  “Maybe your Santa likes his women petite. I do.”

  Kristen bumped him with her shoulder, and he smiled his not-quite-a-smile.

  Pay attention to the real man.

  Her sister’s words had been haunting Kristen all day. She looked at Ryan more closely as they stood outside the window. Its entire display was of Santas. Large ones, small ones, ugly atrocities from dime stores, all were mixed in with porcelain antiques. It was a dizzying array of red suits and white beards, but Ryan had already turned his back on it. That half smile said it all: he wasn’t comfortable.

  “Do dolls creep you out?” Kristen had gone to college with a girl who had a genuine phobia about dolls. To this day, Kristen felt bad about teasing her before she’d realized just how real the girl’s aversion had been.

  “Dolls?” Ryan looked at her with that brow raised in surprise. “Hardly. Did you want to watch a horror movie tonight or something?”

  It was her turn to laugh uncomfortably. “No, I’ve got something else planned.” His ticket to tonight’s show was burning a hole in her pocket. She pointed at the store window, stretching the blue crochet of her mitten with her index finger. “So, it’s Santa Claus, then. You don’t care for Santa?”

  He was about to say no, she knew it, but then he shook his head and looked at her like she was an unusual creature of some sort. “You really pick up on the strangest things. You’re right. I don’t care for Santa. I’m not a big fan of Christmas in general.”

  She remembered his words from the summer. “You said once if anyone could make Christmas better, it would be me.”

  “The decorations definitely look better when you’re in front of them.” His words were light and teasing, but Kristen knew she wasn’t imagining the guarded look in his eyes.

  “I thought you meant I’d make a good thing better, but you meant make a bad thing tolerable, didn’t you?” She should have been paying attention. Tonight’s play had scene after scene that included carolers and Christmas trees. “Just how averse are you to Christmas?”

  Ryan turned to look at the street, with its red bells and green garland stretched between stores and giant candy canes tied to every pole. Then he looked back to the window full of Santas. “Most of this is fine. I hadn’t really made the distinction, but you’re right. It’s Santa that particularly bothers me.”

  His attention was all on her. For once, it made her uncomfortable.

  She tried for a nonchalant shrug.

  “I don’t believe in aggravating old injuries. You told me once about the church steps, and I think it’s smart to just avoid them. There’s a side entrance to the church, so why stand on the steps when you don’t have to?”

  Why go to a Christmas play when you don’t have to?

  She wouldn’t give him the ticket. It was so disappointing, but really, she wouldn’t make him do something unpleasant for the sake of her pride. She’d wanted him to see her onstage, but he’d love her just the same if he avoided a play that made him cringe.

  He hasn’t said he loves you. Pay attention.

  Fine. Then he’d care for her just the same whether he saw her onstage or not.

  She loved him, though, and she was concerned for his comfort. “Avoiding church steps or whatever else is unpleasant is simple enough, but avoiding Santa Claus... I don’t think it’s possible. December must be torture for you.”

  The sting of tears caught her by surprise. Disappointment, concern, love for a man who was leaving two days from now, her uncertain future—all of it added up. She puffed out a little breath and blinked back the tears quickly.

  Not quickly enough. Ryan pulled her protectively into the alcove by the window. “Is that a showstopper? I didn’t think that would make a woman consider walking away.” The stiffness with which he asked the question was a sure sign that this was not a passing curiosity. This question mattered.

  A woman walking away. Pay attention.

  “What if you have children someday? Would you raise them without Santa?”

  He was silent for an eternity.

  She felt awful, keeping him by this window full of Santas. “We can keep walking. We don’t even have to talk about this.”

  To her surprise, he enveloped her in a hug. “It’s okay. I’ve never dated a woman who made me think about having children.”

  She hugged him back, grateful once more that he was leaving the rodeo forever. It sounded like a rotten life.

  He let go of her and cleared his throat a little, a man prepared to make a formal statement. “I think children deserve to believe in the magic of it all.”

  Kristen let out the breath she’d been holding. If she’d had time to think up a right answer, that would have been it.

  “I’d handle it.” To her relief, Ryan winked at her. “You’ll notice I’m standing in front of this window without going crazy at the moment. I didn’t run screaming from the Santa on your porch. I’m a grown man, I can control my feelings. If I was with a child who wanted to sit in Santa’s lap, I could stand in that line at the mall for as long as it took. Does that answer your question?”

  She smiled and nodded and pretended she wasn’t choked up by those tears once more. Poor Ryan. Her Ryan. The one she was paying attention to.

  She started walking toward Depot Park and her theater. Ryan fell in step beside her, and she reached out to hold his hand, blue mitten to his black leather driving glove. Only one event in his childhood could have given him such an aversion to Christmas. “Did you see Santa before or after your birth mother walked away?”

  He whistled softly. “Has anyone ever suggested the law to you as a career? You’re so fearless in your questioning. I can just see you with a witness on the stan
d.”

  That surprised her, in a good way. She swung their hands a little bit. “I like that image. It makes me sound tough. Much more flattering than what my brothers would say. They say I’m like a bull in a china shop, always jumping in without thinking.”

  “No, it’s an insightful question. Childhood memories are tricky, though.”

  “You were three, right? I’m trying to come up with a memory from when I was three. I don’t think I have any.”

  “I was almost four, but I still only remember a couple of moments.”

  They’d come to an intersection with a traffic signal. Ryan pushed the button, and out of habit, Kristen shifted from foot to foot to stay warm while they waited for the signal to walk. She’d been doing that since she was a little girl.

  “When I was three, my sister and I were taken to a preschool here in Kalispell once a week while my mother did the big shopping. I really only know that because my mom has pointed out the preschool to me and told me about it.”

  “The big shopping?”

  “You know, the weekly grocery stock-up. My brothers went through boxes of cereal, so she bought them by the gross.”

  The light turned green, and they continued walking hand in hand, like grown-ups.

  “Anyway, I suspect the preschool was a way for her to get her shopping done without hauling around two three-year-olds, but she insists that it was to improve our social skills. If you think about it, it would be easy for twins on a ranch to grow up without ever seeing other children their age. I don’t remember the preschool at all, or at least I thought I didn’t, but I remember this toy kitchen. It was made of wood, but it had a stove and sink, and the knobs were blue. I asked my mom once what happened to it, who had we given it away to, and she said we never had a toy kitchen. It had been at this preschool.”

  She slowed her steps, concentrating on that memory, and Ryan slowed down with her.

  “That’s it. I can’t remember the classroom or any of the other kids or what the teacher looked like. I remember blue kitchen knobs. Isn’t that weird?”

  “I’m told that’s normal. Below a certain age, you might remember something like the candles on a birthday cake, but you wouldn’t remember the whole day, like who was at the party or what gifts you got. Just an image of a flaming cake.”

  “You were told that?”

  “Part of the adoption process included counseling for my parents as well as me. I don’t remember that, either, but to this day, my parents recommend it to other adopting parents. When I was old enough to ask questions, they always seemed to know what to expect. I asked about the church steps when I was in middle school. Before that, they weren’t sure I had any memory of my birth mother at all.”

  His adoptive parents must have cared about their new son very much to have prepared themselves to answer all his questions in the future. She’d like to meet them some day.

  “Is that all you remember? Church steps and the backs of her legs and the hem of her skirt?”

  “It’s like one of those six-second videos that you see on the internet. I’m looking down at my shoes, and I’m standing on cement steps. I know it’s a church, and it’s some kind of Christmas festival, because I’m holding a snow globe. It’s brand-new to me, like I’ve just gotten this snow globe, and my shoes hurt, and my mother...”

  He trailed off into silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Kristen said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to relive that.”

  He looked almost surprised at her apology. “It’s okay. I was just replaying that scene, and you were right. I would have said that Santa wasn’t part of it, but he was. That snow globe had a little plastic Mr. and Mrs. Claus in it, puckered up for a kiss and bending toward each other with their eyes closed.”

  “Oh, no. Like the one on my porch?”

  “It’s a common scene. I dropped the snow globe when she walked away. There was water and glitter splattered everywhere, and those red figures were lying there in the open air, still straining toward each other, still trying to connect. They never get to kiss, do they?”

  They reached the park, which was really just an open square. Soon, it would be filled with cocoa stands and craft stalls for the official start of the holiday season. Right now, in the sunny-cold afternoon, it was a still-green square by the railroad tracks, empty except for the plain evergreen in the center that awaited its holiday finery.

  Kristen stopped walking and turned to face Ryan. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have retired Mr. Claus. I would have at least shut up about my quest for Mrs. Claus.”

  “Unnecessary, remember? I can handle it.”

  She felt the tears sting her eyes. “Right. Because you’re a big, tough man and you can control your feelings.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  She stepped into him, her boots fitting between his as she clutched his lapel in her mittens and looked up at him through lashes that were wet with tears. “I’m so very sorry. I’m sorry that Ryan Michaels had to learn to control feelings like those. And I’m sorry that Ryan Roarke has a girlfriend who is too curious. I shouldn’t have been so nosy.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I want you to know me.” He lifted her chin with his leather-gloved hand and kissed away a tear. “You are so special because you want to know me. It’s a gift to be with a woman who asks such real questions. Most women just want—”

  He cut himself off abruptly.

  “Women just want what?”

  Long moments ticked by. At first, she was horrified that she’d brought up some other terrible memory, but when he wouldn’t quite meet her gaze, she looked at him harder. What did women want from him?

  “Oh, my gosh,” she blurted. “You’re blushing, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You are.” She slapped the lapel of his overcoat with her palm. “That’s what women want from you, huh? I guess I’m not very unique.”

  They both began to laugh, and it felt wonderful to be with him, laughing by an evergreen on a sunny day in the park.

  “Kristen.” Ryan pulled her to him. “You are the most perfect you. Never has a woman touched my heart the way you do.”

  Her heart soared at those words, and she looked up at him through lashes that were still dotted with tears. “With you, I’m crying one minute and laughing the next. I think that definitely means I love you.”

  “Are you sure you can love a man who is more of a Scrooge than a Santa?”

  If only he knew. “Scrooge had his reasons for hating Christmas, and so do you. I’d have to have a heart of stone to hold it against either one of you. I’ve always had a soft spot for Scrooge.”

  “I’ve always liked Scrooge, too.” His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, and then he straightened and looked around the square. Red bells, candy canes, the tree awaiting its decorations—he looked critically at them all. “I’ve always thought I hated Christmas, but I don’t. None of this bothers me. I watch at least one version of Scrooge every year.”

  “You do?” The ticket in her pocket might be a sweet surprise, after all.

  “I do. I don’t hate everything about Christmas.”

  “Just Santa?” she asked, wanting to be sure.

  “Yeah, I’m not so crazy about him, but now I’ve pinpointed why. Thank you. I told you those questions were good ones.”

  “Being like Scrooge could be a good thing. He changes at the end of the play and ends up as the biggest Christmas fan of them all.”

  “That may be a bit ambitious, but I’ll work on it.”

  “The day after Thanksgiving, there’s a big parade through town that ends right here. The mayor lights the tree, and it stays lit all month. When you come back, I’m going to bring you here and kiss you until you have a great Christmas memory to start building on.”

  His smile dimm
ed a little at her words, but that was probably because a great Christmas was a new concept for him. “I told you when we met that if anyone could make Christmas better, it would be you.”

  She looped her arms around his neck. “And when I find my 1968 Mrs. Claus, I’m going to put her on the porch with her little mouth pushed right up to Santa’s. It’s too sad that they never make that connection. Mine are going to get to kiss all winter long.”

  He’d said her questions were like a gift to him, but she had something better to give: a promise. So while he was still chuckling, she spoke very seriously. “And, Ryan Roarke, whether it is Christmas or the Fourth of July or spring or autumn, I will never, ever walk away from you.”

  * * *

  Kristen loved him.

  Him, Ryan Roarke, who had once been Ryan Michaels, and who bore all the complications that came with his history. Miraculously, he’d come to Montana and found the one woman who had taken the time to get to know him inside and out, and she loved him.

  They’d spent all week sharing their histories, their feelings, their desires. She knew nothing about the cars he owned or the clients he helped, but she knew his heart. She loved him, the real him, not an idealized image of a cowboy or a rodeo star. He could tell her about his law practice now, and it wouldn’t change anything she loved about him, because she’d fallen in love without knowing about his Hollywood connections or his bank account. When he explained that he couldn’t make it back in December, that there’d be no kiss by the town’s tree, she’d be disappointed, but she’d still love him in January.

  “Speaking of Scrooge,” she said, “there’s something you don’t know about me. Close your eyes.”

  He closed them obediently. He heard the rustle of her bright red coat as she unbuttoned it. His own coat was unbuttoned despite the temperatures staying in the thirties. In only one week, his body had learned to tolerate the cold far better. If he lived in Montana, it would take no time to adjust.

  “Now let me turn you so you’re facing this way.”

  If only he could live in Montana. He couldn’t let his parents down, but he needed to find a way to see Kristen more often. December was impossible, but perhaps he could fly Kristen to Los Angeles, if she could juggle her ranch, her renovations and her teaching job. She’d never want to live in LA, but she might find a visit interesting.