by Linda Warren
“I’m here to see Ellie Kincaid,” he said. “I’m Santa Claus.”
Marisa just stared at him. He was in his seventies and fit the Santa persona to a T, including the rounded stomach and red cheeks, although he wasn’t wearing a costume. But that was minor. The store had done a great job in hiring someone so authentic.
He sat down on one of the office chairs and Ellie climbed onto his knee. “What did you want to see me about, little angel?”
“I wrote you a lot of letters asking for a mommy, and you never sent me one.”
“Don’t fret, Ellie,” he said. “You’ll have your mommy before Christmas.”
Ellie threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” She leaned back and tugged on his beard. “My friend Lori says you’re not real and that your beard’s fake, but it is real, just like I told her.”
He stood, setting the child on her feet. “Yes, I’m real. Never be afraid to believe, Ellie. It’s a very powerful emotion.”
The man walked to the door and then stopped. He touched the back of his hand to Marisa’s face. “You’re never too old to believe, Marisa.”
She was so surprised by his touch and the sincerity in his eyes that words eluded her. What did he mean? And how did he know her name?
Dear Reader,
Fifteen years ago I had an idea for a book. At the time I was recovering from several surgeries and my mind was clouded by medication. That’s my only excuse. But I’d read Harlequin romances for years, so I was sure I had an understanding of what was required in a story. Even today as I think about my stupidity, it’s hard to keep from laughing.
I started writing longhand in a spiral notebook. I wrote every day and soon I had a stack of notebooks. My husband bought me an electric typewriter, and it took me several months to type and edit my story into manuscript form.
When I finished, I mailed my treasured work to Harlequin. I promptly got a rejection. Then another. And another. One editor sent me a nice two-page rejection letter. Ten years later I made my first sale (a Harlequin Superromance novel called The Truth about Jane Doe) to that editor. In one of our talks a while back, she asked me about my first manuscript. I was stunned. She suggested I write another proposal based on that idea. I did. She bought it. The Silent Cradle from long ago is now The Christmas Cradle for American Romance.
This book is very dear to my heart and I hope you will feel some of the real emotion that went into its creation.
Warmly—and with best wishes for a wonderful Christmas,
Linda Warren
P.S. I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at [email protected] or visit my Web site, www.lindawarren.net or write me at P.O. Box 5182, Bryan, TX 77805. I will always answer your letters.
THE CHRISTMAS CRADLE
Linda Warren
To Paula Eykelhof, who gave this book a second chance
and
to Beth Sobczak. Without your loving generosity,
this book would never have been published. Thanks.
Acknowledgment:
Thanks to Carolyn Lightsey and Brenda Mott for sharing your knowledge of horses and the rodeo. And to Amy Landry, pediatric nurse, for the crash course on childbirth.
Any errors are strictly mine.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Dear Santa,
I’ve been real good this year, but could you please send Daddy and me a mommy for Christmas? Someone who’s nice and pretty and likes dogs and horses. That’s all I want for Christmas.
Love,
Ellie Kincaid
Ellie was stuffing the letter into an envelope and licking the flap as Colter Kincaid walked into the room.
“What are you doing, angelface?”
“I wrote a letter to Santa. Could you mail it for me, please?” Her bright green eyes waited for an answer.
A knot formed in Colter’s stomach. He knew what she’d written because this was the same letter his daughter wrote every year—asking Santa for a mother. He’d helped her when she was three and four, but after that she’d printed them herself.
She was seven now, a mother was all she ever thought about. Instead of enjoying her childhood, Ellie spent her time thinking of ways to get a mother; she’d landed him in a few embarrassing situations by asking women out to the ranch.
He didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d never fall in love again and that she’d never have the mother she wanted. Life was cruel and love was painful, but he wouldn’t tell his daughter that. She’d learn soon enough.
“First thing in the morning,” he replied, taking the letter from her. “Now it’s time for bed.”
Ellie made a face. “Why do I have to go to bed at nine? I don’t have school tomorrow ’cause it’s Saturday. We’re going shopping with Aunt Becky in Dallas.”
“Because we have rules around here.”
“Tulley doesn’t obey the rules. He goes to bed when he wants to.”
Colter pulled back the covers. “When you’re Tulley’s age, you can go to bed when you please.”
“Oh boy.” Ellie crawled into bed. Her dog, Sooner, jumped up beside her. “How old is Tulley? How long do I have to wait?”
“Tulley’s seventy. You do the math.”
Her face fell again. “I’ll never be that old.”
Colter gathered her in his arms. “Yes, you will, but you’ll always be my little girl.”
“I love you, Daddy.” She gave him several loud kisses.
He kissed her soft cheek. “I love you, too, angelface.”
No matter what happened in his life, this child would always be the center of it, and he would do everything in his power to ensure her happiness.
And that meant he couldn’t tell her the truth about her mother.
MARISA PRESTON SAT at her desk and wondered what she was doing in her Dallas office on a Saturday afternoon. She didn’t usually come in on weekends, but today she had to stay busy, to keep from thinking. She got up and headed down to the busy hub of Dalton’s Department Store. The firm she’d hired to do the Christmas decorations had done an outstanding job, or so her secretary and father had informed her. Maybe looking at the decorations would inspire a little Christmas spirit. This time of year always left her with a lonely, empty feeling that was hard to shake.
She found herself in the gift section full of special items they’d gotten in for the holidays. Her eyes went to it immediately—the Christmas Cradle. They had one every year. A man who lived in Austin designed and crafted them, and each one was made from a single block of wood. He didn’t use a single screw or hinge. His wife sewed the delicate bedding of white silk and lace. It was an antique design, and the wood was stained, not painted. All the intricate designs carved on the cradle denoted “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” making it one of a kind.
Unable to stop herself, she walked over and touched the beautiful cradle. As it rocked gently, she suddenly felt suffocated. Closing her eyes, she drew several deep breaths, but she couldn’t block out the sound—the sound of her baby crying.
She was powerless to halt the memories. This was the day she’d met him. She remembered it vividly; her friends, Stacy
and Rhonda, had wanted her to go on an adventure to Las Vegas early in December. Back then, she’d lived in a New York penthouse with her mother and adhered to a strict regimen of training to be a concert pianist. While her mother was away in Europe, she had the opportunity to escape. She’d yearned for fun and freedom.
The National Rodeo Finals were taking place, and Stacy and Rhonda wanted to attend some of the events, to get a glimpse of a real cowboy. Once they were sitting in the audience, all of Marisa’s attention was on one cowboy. He wasn’t bigger or taller than any of the others, but he rode with such self-assurance and confidence, and he seemed to have a genuine respect for the animal he was riding.
He was the best and they all knew it. Not only had the announcer said he was the top rider in the country, he had numerous awards to prove it.
He’d been very impressive to a young girl from New York. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. Once, when he’d finished a ride, the pickup riders let him down right in front of where she was sitting. He’d bent to retrieve his hat and as he straightened and slapped his hat against the side of his leg, he’d looked directly at her.
He had the most unusual green eyes. They were light green, the color of grapes in summer. She remembered that first stirring of desire she’d experienced gazing into those eyes, and she’d known he would be far more stimulating than any nectar grapes could produce.
And he was. He was a true-blue Texas cowboy, with a brooding look that could make a young girl’s heart flutter. He was handsome, exciting and very much a man. She’d fallen in love with him instantly.
If her mother… She exhaled a painful breath as other emotions crowded in—the shock, the heartache that followed. But those were only minor compared to the pain of her son’s birth and his death. She still wasn’t over it, and she believed a woman never got over losing a child. She hadn’t. The memory of her son was always with her.
That was why at Christmastime she always managed to find her way to the cradle. It would soon be sold to a lucky expectant mother, but for a moment she could imagine… No, no, don’t.
Shoving the memories away, she glanced around the large store, its merchandise and salespeople upscale and the very best. Dalton’s was important to her and her family. Her grandfather, her mother’s father, had started the business in the 1930s, and today it was one of the most successful family-owned chains in Texas. This was her heritage and she was proud of it.
She just wished she felt more enjoyment, more pleasure in her work. What she actually felt was trapped. As senior vice-president, she should have more responsibility for making decisions, but her father, Richard Preston, was the driving force behind Dalton’s and nothing was ever done without his approval.
The decorations were perfect, she thought, studying the beautiful gold and silver bells and garlands and the red accents that seemed to reflect the cheer and enthusiasm of the busy shoppers.
Several of the employees watched her, but none spoke. She hated her father’s rules: no fraternizing with the staff and vice versa. She’d been reprimanded more than once for speaking to employees while on the floor. If she had something to say, her father had told her, she was to summon that person to her office. Since her best friend worked on the floor, it was hard to follow the rules, but then, her father didn’t need to know every little detail of her life. Although she resented his rigidity and control, she’d always be grateful to him because he’d been there when she’d really needed someone. Her mother she refused to think about—especially today.
She stopped abruptly as she caught sight of a man standing by the gift-wrap counter. No. Her breath congealed in her throat. It can’t be. It can’t be him! Not today.
Was she hallucinating? Thinking about him too much? The tall lean figure had to be a trick of her imagination. But as she took in the long legs in tight-fitting Wranglers, the silver buckle, the cowboy boots, the brown leather jacket, she knew this was real. He was real—as real as he’d been eight years ago.
Colter Kincaid, the man she’d loved so passionately and promised to marry when she was seventeen, the father of her son, was standing a few feet away.
She hadn’t seen him even once since that morning in the motel, but she would’ve known him anywhere: the proud way he held his head, the sharp lines of his face, those broad shoulders. All these things were the same and yet he seemed so different. It was as if time and maturity had added another dimension that she knew nothing about. What was he doing here? Marisa fought an unwelcome surge of excitement as she trembled with an awareness she thought she’d long forgotten.
She felt that awareness like a raw wound, deep in her heart. Her first encounter with love had almost destroyed her. That all-consuming passion had controlled her mind, body and soul, and she never wanted to experience it again.
Yet she couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, was unable to do anything but stare at him. The years had enhanced his appeal, not dimmed it, but there was a hardness around his eyes that she didn’t remember. She had waited so long for this meeting, for a chance to explain about the past. But the words wouldn’t come and she felt as tongue-tied as the first time she’d met him.
COLTER GLANCED IMPATIENTLY at his watch. How long could it possibly take to wrap three packages? God, he hated shopping. That was part of being a parent, though. He did a lot of things he didn’t really enjoy. Like having a multitude of little girls over for a slumber party and listening to them giggle all night, not to mention listening to music that could easily break the sound barrier. But when his daughter put her arms around his neck and said, “You’re the best daddy in the whole world,” it was all worth it. He sighed, checking his watch again.
His impatience vanished as an eerie feeling came over him. He could actually feel the hair on the back of his neck standing up, as if his body sensed danger. Raising his head, he received a jolt that he would remember for a long time. He felt winded and gasped, struggling for breath. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be her. But he knew it was as he looked into the brown eyes of a woman he’d hoped never to see again.
They stood there silently, staring at each other, and against every conscious objection on his part, the years rolled back. He remembered that time in Las Vegas, the love they’d shared, the days and nights of sensual magic only their bodies could create. The happiness and pleasure of those weeks flashed through him, only to be overshadowed by the pain left in its aftermath.
Colter’s first instinct was to turn his back on her and walk away. He didn’t want to acknowledge her presence, but a force deep inside moved him forward until he was standing in front of her.
From a distance he could tell she’d changed, but he wasn’t prepared for the impact of seeing her face-to-face. The young girl he remembered had matured into a beautiful woman. His eyes made a quick, thorough assessment of her, taking in the ash-blond hair around her oval face, the dark eyes that shimmered like brown satin, the delicately carved facial bones and the soft curve of her mouth. His appraisal missed nothing, not the beige linen dress and matching jacket, nor the way she nervously pushed her hair behind her ear. A provocative gesture he remembered well.
She was beautiful; he’d thought that years ago, too. Bitterness quickly filled his mind, reminding him what a fool he’d been—a stupid, infatuated fool. Her beauty was only a facade. She was not beautiful on the inside.
“Marisa Preston?” Her name erupted from his lips and came out as a question, and he couldn’t imagine why, because he definitely knew who she was.
“YES,” SHE ANSWERED with a quaver in her voice, feeling as if her knees were going to buckle. “It’s been a long time. Do you live in Dallas now?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
She shrugged, not knowing how to answer. She’d only been trying to make the best of an awkward situation.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
The bluntness of the question took her by surprise, but she answered without a pause. “I work here.”<
br />
He frowned. “Work? Here?” He made no attempt to hide the incredulity in his voice as his eyes slid over her again.
“In the executive office,” she amended.
“The executive office?” The frown deepened. “I assumed you’d be playing in concert halls all over the world by now. Isn’t that what your mother planned for you?”
“You know I never wanted to do that,” she answered almost inaudibly, wondering if that was what he’d believed—that she’d left him to pursue her career as a concert pianist.
“I never knew what you wanted,” he said in a harsh tone. “I never knew you at all.”
Her stomach tightened. She hadn’t expected him to be so cold, so angry. After all these years, she’d expected idle curiosity about why she’d left him, but he didn’t seem too concerned with her reasons for leaving. Her head began to throb and she lightly touched her temple to ease the ache.
His eyes caught the small gesture. “What’s the matter? Do thoughts of the past upset you?”
