Hero for Christmas

by Pierson, Cheryl

  Because of Lina. Beautiful, perfect Lina. She'd been young, and maybe that's what had scared him. Seventeen. Trusting. Too trusting, as it had turned out, he thought with a pang of regret. He should've done better by her. He'd been young, too, but he knew the difference between right and wrong—and wrong was seducing her, taking her virginity, and leaving like he'd done.

  She was everything good and wonderful in the world. Everything he wasn't. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Juan whom she'd married, but they were nearing the boarding house and there was no time. Aching regret wrapped around his heart and twisted, till the regret became disappointment and disillusionment in himself, and what he hadn't done.

  Juan knocked on the wood paneled door, and after a few moments, it swung open slowly.

  The twisted, snarled emotions in Miguel's chest exploded into a jagged spear of fire. Catalina stood looking up into his face, five years older, five years wiser, and five years sadder. But for one brief instant, the shadows fled, and in her eyes he saw what he'd remembered for five long years. Love. Still. He could scarcely breathe. When he moved toward her, she stepped back, lowering her head. He must have been mistaken in what he'd thought he'd seen. She took a deep breath as if steeling herself for the confrontation of her life.

  He didn't want it to be this way. Dammit. Dammit! Was he going to ruin everything and everyone he ever cared about? Why hadn't he come back for her?

  The question flickered in her eyes as well, then banished just as quickly. When she met his stare once more, it was with cool aloofness. "Good afternoon, Senor Rivera. It has been a very long time."

  A knife couldn't have cut deeper. But, he figured, he deserved it. "Yes," he said, after a moment. "Yes, it has." Too long. My fault.

  Juan wasn't entirely successful at keeping the smirk from his face. "Lina, Senor Rivera will be needing a room for the night. He'll be staying a couple of days."

  "Through Christmas?" she asked quickly, not looking at Juan.

  Miguel could read nothing in her expression, or her tone. But he knew what he'd seen earlier for one short moment—desire, hope, and love all rolled into one brief glance.

  "Yes. Through Christmas," he answered. If nothing else, he owed her an explanation—if he could come up with one.

  She stepped back to admit them, closing the door behind Miguel, her arm brushing his. She gave a sharp gasp at the contact. Jesus, he'd felt the same way. She looked up into his face as she turned from the door.

  "I shouldn't let you stay—" she began. "There are no other boarders right now."

  Miguel didn't say anything for a moment. His heart plummeted at her words. Why had Juan arranged this, with no one else here?

  "I'll go. I can stay at the hotel." His mouth felt dry as sawdust.

  "Nonsense. That hotel is a fleabag, and Lina cooks much better," Juan said, putting a staying hand on Miguel's shoulder.

  "Yes." Lina gave a smile at her cousin's words, but it was strained. "That's true—their food isn't good and you need a good meal or two before you leave again." She said it glibly, but Miguel's heart clenched at her words. No doubt she was remembering the last time he left just as clearly as he was.

  "I don't want to make things hard for you, Lina," he said quietly.

  A small smile played about her full lips. "You don't want to make things hard—" She broke off, and Miguel could've sworn she was trying to keep anger at bay. Why? He was missing a huge piece of the puzzle.

  He shot Juan a glance, but Juan studiously pretended to ignore him, turning for the door.

  "Gotta get going. You never know who might come into town, this being Christmas Eve and all." He winked at Miguel, handing him his saddlebags. "La noche des milagros. It's started already. Here you are." He took Miguel by the shoulders, his eyes shining. "After five long years, here you are." He clapped him on the shoulder once again, and opened the door. "Don't worry about Lightning. I'll take good care of him."

  The door closed behind him, and Miguel turned to face Lina in the open foyer. The same feeling he always got just before facing an opponent in a gunfight seared through his belly, leaving a calming trail of cold ice in its wake. Somehow, standing here with Lina was worse than any of the calculating men he'd fought and killed. He was unsure of himself, for the first time in a long time.

  Chapter Four

  But Lina took matters into her own hands, turning from him, smoothly leading the way down the spacious hallway. She passed two rooms on the right and one on the left, going to the last door on the left. She unlocked it with a key from her ring and pushed the door open.

  "Senor Rivera." She nodded toward the inviting interior of the room. The scent of mesquite permeated the air around them from the wood laid in the small fireplace. "I hope you will enjoy your stay. If…there is anything I can do to make your accommodations more comfortable, please let me know."

  As she moved past him, he caught her arm, unable to bear her cool contempt. He met her eyes as she looked up at him from under the thick velvet lashes he'd thought of so often. She was just as he remembered, but older, and more certain of herself. A smile teased at the corner of his lips. Her gaze turned murderous.

  "Something amuses you, El Diablo? Me perhaps? Again?"

  He shook his head slowly, letting the saddlebags slide to the floor beside the bed. "No, Lina. I'm not laughing at you."

  "You've had five years to do that, haven't you?" Her eyes sparked with anger and humiliation.

  "I never—"

  "No. You never." She looked down at where his fingers gripped her white blouse, a loose camisa that contrasted sharply with the dark softness of her skin. Something seemed to change in her black eyes for an instant as he released her. The anger fled, and Miguel's heart skipped a beat at the sadness and wistful hope which took its place.

  There was something else there as well—something Miguel hadn't seen before or since the last time he'd been here in Rio Verde with Lina. Love. This time, he was sure of it. It scored a raw welt in his heart, mending and healing it in the same breath.

  "Lo siento, querida," he whispered. "I'm sorry." How could he have hurt someone who loved him so much? Why hadn't he realized before that Lina did love him? The answer wasn't hard to find, and surprisingly, he voiced it without thinking. "I never deserved you, Catalina."

  She shook her head, and he knew what she was thinking; that he was lying, trying to keep her feelings intact. He reached out and cupped the softness of her cheek, and just for a moment, she turned into his touch, her lips resting against his palm.

  "I never meant to hurt you."

  A tear escaped as she tried to keep them in, squeezing her eyes shut, her chin quivering. "I know," she whispered, her forgiveness thawing out the calm coldness in his gut, leaving an unfamiliar emptiness in its place.

  He swore harshly. He could bear anything but that. Forgiveness was foreign to him—something he neither gave nor asked for. Except for this time. This one time. He had to know she forgave him. It was ridiculous, he told himself, trying to dredge up the anger he was so accustomed to. It wouldn't come.

  In the next moment, somehow, she was in his arms, and nothing had ever felt more right. She didn't turn her face up to be kissed. She pressed close to him, her tears soaking his own shirt. He laid his cheek next to her hair, breathing in the tangy smell of the citrus-scented soap she'd used. He felt her eyelashes, like butterflies' wings, against his throat, and realized all over again what a fool he'd been to ride away from Rio Verde and Catalina de la Vega five years earlier.

  "Why did you go, Miguel?"

  Ah. At last, the question he'd tormented himself with. And why had he never returned before now? He gave a short laugh, pulling back to look down at her. "What could I offer you, Catalina?"

  "Everything," she answered with no hesitation. "You were everything to me, Miguel."

  Irritation and denial surged through him. "I'm nothing!" He let go of her, stepping back. He raked a hand through his dark hair. "I am…a gunfighter. A
hired killer."

  She shook her head. "You pick and choose what battles you fight. I know that much about you!" She took his hand, her thumb tracing the sides of his fingers. "You are a good man, Miguel. You are the only one who doesn't know it."

  He had to laugh. "And you are the only person in the world who'd say that, Lina. "

  "Then I am the only one who matters."

  Her words were softly spoken, but they stopped him from making any further comment. She still loved him. He couldn't bear the thought of her waiting for him to come back for her, bearing the brunt of the teasing and laughter that would have come first, for proclaiming her love for him—and second, when he'd ridden away with no thought of coming back to settle down.

  His head came up swiftly, and he met her eyes, seeing immediately he had misjudged their relationship five years earlier.

  "I am sorry," she whispered. "It's just—"

  He reached for her hand tentatively, enfolding it in his. She placed her other hand around his fingers and pulled it to her cheek, closing her eyes, as she held his skin next to hers.

  "I tried to be angry with you."

  He shook his head, standing in the doorway mutely. He hadn't understood a damn thing. He wanted to tell her that women love with everything they're made of, but men weren't capable of such emotion. It would only sound like an excuse. And at this point, that was all he had. No real reason for not coming back, except the one she'd never believe—his own self-doubt.

  "You had every right to be, Lina. I didn't do right by you. But I never meant to make you believe there was anything…permanent…in our future." His mouth was dry.

  She released his hand slowly. "I was young," she said.

  His lips curved upward, and he couldn't stop the smile. "You still are."

  A flash of anger swept across her beautiful features, bringing a deep flush to her cheeks. She lifted her chin. "Not so young, Miguel. You didn't think so at the time."

  He shrugged. "That's my only defense, Lina. Don't strip it from me. I was young, too. Young—and stupid." He put a hand up at the quick resurgence of anger in her face. "Not like you think. I meant I was stupid for not—doing better by you. Lots of things I didn't know. I never thought about you—waiting."

  She swallowed hard and nodded. "You are trying to apologize, Miguel. I understand. You—did not think. Most men do not—they don't realize what a woman's life is like to wait, to wonder to—hope."

  "But you—you made a life here, Lina. Without me. Dios, I'm a gunman—I wouldn't have ever been a good husband—" But even as he said the words they sounded hollow to his own ears, and the reproach was high in Lina's features.

  "You could have been—could still be—anything you choose to be, Miguel. You build the walls of your own prison."

  Her disappointment ran through him with a shudder. If she only knew the truth. But one look at her told him she was not about to see things the same way he did. Her words settled in the pit of his stomach like a stone in water. It hurt, and that surprised him. He made no reply.

  "Have you eaten today?" Lina's practical question brought him back to the present.

  "No. Not really." He glanced at her, smiling at her uncertainty. "Even after all this, you would feed me?"

  "It's Christmas Eve. We must be charitable to all." But the smile she gave him softened her words, and he returned it.

  "Miguel," she said, sobering once more, "You are the only boarder I have. I did not make a large luncheon today, but tonight—I will make something special. A meal to celebrate Christmas, and your return."

  The sudden shyness in her voice was like sunlight in his heart. She was forgiving him, it seemed, although he had not truly asked it of her as plain as he should have. "Thank you, Lina. I'll get cleaned up."

  She shut the door behind her softly, and Miguel began to unbutton his shirt. His mind revisited the irony of the situation. The last time he'd been this close to Lina, she'd been the one unbuttoning his shirt.

  His fingers were still on the buttons. A wry smile twisted his lips. What did he expect? He'd left her without a word five years ago. Yet, now, he expected some kind of feeling from her other than anger? Loathing? Callous, he'd been….but, he hadn't meant to hurt her. She was the kindest, gentlest spirit he'd ever known. Riding away had been the best thing for her, he tried to tell himself. But his thoughts were hollow, and unconvincing.

  Miguel reached for a clean shirt, pulling it on and buttoning it. It was a good thing he'd bought the scarlet ribbons, it seemed. At least, he wasn't coming home completely empty-handed.

  Chapter Five

  As he opened the door, he heard a child's voice. "Mama?"

  His gaze went to the curve of the banister at the end of the hallway, across the front room.

  "Mama?"

  When Lina didn't appear, Miguel pulled the bedroom door closed behind him and started for the staircase.

  "Mama, I heard a voice with you."

  Miguel smiled at the curiosity in the youngster's tone. He took the steps quickly, walking to the second doorway at the top of the landing. It stood slightly ajar.

  Miguel started to push it open when the child's words stopped him. "Please come in—whoever you are."

  Miguel frowned in puzzlement, giving a light tap on the door as he opened it further. A young girl lay in bed in the darkened room, the shades drawn against the late afternoon light from the windows.

  As Miguel entered the room, light from the open door behind him fell across the girl's fine features. She was beautiful! As beautiful as her mama.

  As swiftly as a grin touched his lips, it fled. Why had Lina not mentioned that she'd married? She'd had the opportunity. Unless—

  "Hola, senor," the little girl said, gravely polite. "Me llamo es Maria Victoria de la Vega." She raised herself on one elbow, looking past Miguel as she put out her hand. It was then, he realized with a shock, that she was blind.

  Recovering himself quickly, he took her hand in his. "Hola, Senorita Maria Victoria de la Vega. Mucho gusto en conocerle. I'm pleased to meet you."

  She smiled and released his hand, lying back on the bed in the darkness. Her long, black hair shimmered over the white pillow, gleaming in the dim light.

  "I knew you would come," she whispered. "I've prayed too hard for it not to happen."

  Miguel's heart clenched. Who did she think he was? He couldn't let her believe he was someone he wasn't. "Nina, I'm afraid I'm not who you think—"

  "Oh, but you are! You're just like I imagined." She stared sightlessly at the ceiling as she went on. "I knew when I heard you down there, talking to my mama. Your voice is so kind. And you wouldn't have come up here if you weren't him. You came to see me."

  Five years.

  "If I weren't—'him'? Who, Maria?"

  She smiled again, and his heart melted. "Mi padre—eres tu, si?"

  Five years. Maria could not be six yet. Could this be possible? Could he be the father of a miracle such as this child?

  Anger washed over him. Why hadn't Lina sent for him? He would've come back, if he'd known. No matter what, he would never have left her to the public ridicule she must have endured. Even being wed to a gunfighter was better than being alone, and carrying the gunfighter's child.

  He knelt beside his daughter's bedside, the anger leaving him with a fair amount of self-loathing in its stead. No, he couldn't blame Catalina. He should have come back. He'd made her no promises, but she was different, and he'd known from the moment he'd seen her.

  Something had called to him then, and he was beginning to realize no matter the miles or years between him and Catalina, they would always be connected somehow. Especially, now that he knew…

  Blind—had it always been so with little Maria? He reached out and touched her hair, marveling at the silken texture. Her eyebrows were dark, arched like Lina's. But her eyes were his own. Black as night, and fathomless as the ocean. The expressiveness couldn't enter, for her—and wouldn't, for him. Her lips were finely sculpte
d, his again, but her chin was her mother's, and her cheekbones, as well. Such a miracle of blending.

  "Are you?" she asked, bringing him back from his musings. "My papa?"

  "Would you like that?" His heart would shatter if she answered 'no.'

  But the smile lit her face, and the room, and his world.

  "I knew you were," she said. "Of course, I would love it! And I would love you."

  Miguel bit his lip. She would love him, until she realized exactly who and what he was. What had he done? He hadn't told her he was her father, not yet. But could he destroy her happiness? Better now than later, he scoffed.

  He started to tell her he wasn't her father, but he couldn't. When he spoke, he said, "I will love you, too, m'ija."

  He shut his eyes tightly, wondering how cruel it would be, what she'd think of him, when he left this time. In the next instant, Maria's thin arms twined around his neck, her soft skin next to his stubbled cheek, like clouds against a mountain top, he thought.

  "Thank you, Papa. Thank you for coming."

  Once more, shame engulfed him. He had not come because she'd prayed. He hadn't come for her at all, but for some long-ago promise he had given his sister, that he would pass this way to visit the grave of their mother. He hadn't even known Maria existed. She released him, propping her head on her hand.

  Hesitant footsteps sounded on the stairway, and Miguel rocked back on his heels to look through the doorway. Catalina was half-way up the staircase, worry creasing her brow.

  "Mama will be so happy."

  Mama didn't look all that happy right now, Miguel thought, but he didn't reply.

  "Maria?"

  "Mama! Just see who's here with me!"

  Catalina pushed the door open and met Miguel's eyes with an expression he'd never seen before. It was as if she defied him to deny the obvious, while at the same time, hoped with everything in her that he wouldn't dare. He rose swiftly to face her. A lesser woman might have been intimidated, but not his Lina. No doubt she had faced worse—much worse—over the past five years since he had ridden out of her life—and out of his daughter's, as well.