Maybe This Christmas: A Sweet Historical Western Holiday Romance Novella (Holidays in Mountain Home Book 2)

by Kristin Holt

  It was full dark by the time Luke reached the outskirts of Mountain Home proper. Moonlight reflected off drifted snow, illuminating the terrain. His breath showed in puffs of white.

  He nudged Domino down the frozen, muddy street to Pettingill’s. Light streamed through the windows. Luke had no intention of losing Mrs. Effie O’Leary to anyone.

  He dismounted and tossed the reins over the hitching post. He patted Domino’s spotted neck and stepped onto the boardwalk. He stomped off the slush and mud, mindful of Effie’s shining floors.

  No small crowd had gathered to peer in her windows at the two wire dress forms proudly displaying a woman’s woolen suit in brown, trimmed with black piping and matching buttons. The dapper style looked just like an image in her New York catalog. The second form presented a man’s three-piece suit, fit for Sundays or a prosperous businessman. A little dashing for a rancher like him, but someone in town would look mighty fine.

  Mrs. O’Leary had a gift for tailoring.

  Gifted or not, Christmas season or not, far too many customers crowded her shop. Luke entered, setting the bells to jingling.

  Nearly a dozen shoppers browsed the various fabrics lining the shelves and gathered in knots of two or three, their heads close together in whispered conversation. Others lined up at the counter, evidently to place orders. But Luke caught tidbits of conversation and realized these ladies congregated under the pretense of looking over newly delivered fabric and placing yet another Christmas order…but they were obviously here for details.

  They’d heard all about a stranger, tall, impossibly handsome, dark—if the murmurs could be believed—and his most familiar and romantic kiss. They wanted to know more.

  He didn’t like it, but understood their need for information.

  He scanned the shop for this mysterious, tall, and handsome stranger. No one fit the bill. Good.

  Behind the counter, Effie had a pen poised above her ledger, prepared to jot down Mrs. Whipple’s order. Every glossy blond hair was in place, but her posture seemed stiff and her trademark dimpled smile conspicuously absent. Her hand shook as she wrote, and worse, she trembled like an autumn leaf in the wind.

  Must’ve been some kiss.

  Pain shot through Luke’s jaw. He’d clenched his teeth—again. He shook it off, determined to do something, step in, create order from chaos, and help with Effie’s crush of customers. If he’d already declared himself, he might have put two fingers in his mouth, whistle long and hard, and order everybody out.

  For all he knew, Effie wanted every last penny these shoppers would spend in their quest for gossip. She wouldn’t appreciate him herding her paying customers out the door.

  So he assessed what he could do.

  With all the comings and goings, the door was open more than it was shut, so he headed to the potbellied stove. He eased between clusters of ladies, murmuring apologies, and checked the fire. He fed it two logs, latched the door, and pulled off his coat.

  Just as he hung it on a peg, the shop’s door opened and a man came inside with a rush of frigid air.

  The chattering ladies quieted one by one. Every last eye seemed to turn toward this unknown man…the stranger who’d swept in on the four o’clock and kissed Effie.

  Luke’s trusted brother-in-law had seen it with his own two eyes. This wasn’t hearsay. Thinking about it curdled Luke’s easy-going nature. He straightened—no sense slouching when sizing up the competition.

  The stranger was, indeed, tall. Luke grudgingly admitted that to some women, he might be considered handsome with dark hair curling nearly to his shoulders and a well-trimmed beard fringing a prominent jaw. Luke disliked him on sight. Or on principle. Or both.

  “Evening, Ladies.” The man greeted the crowd as he kicked the door shut. He balanced two covered plates on gloved hands. “It’s dinnertime for Mrs. O’Leary. You won’t mind if we close up shop now, do you? Come back tomorrow.”

  Luke shot a glance at Mrs. O’Leary. Did she want this stranger ordering everyone around, sending her clientele away, and…and feeding her?

  Her trembling worsened and she fumbled the ink bottle. She seemed both unwilling to look in the stranger’s direction and unable to pull her attention away. This was not the Effie he knew and adored, a woman who spoke her mind and stood up for herself. This stranger made her anxious, wary, and…afraid.

  That got Luke’s goat. Couldn’t anyone else see how this man…this interloper…affected Effie?

  Now he didn’t merely dislike the other guy—he had good reason to distrust him.

  Luke bit back a growl. He’d ridden five miles on a bitter winter night to say what he needed to say, and by golly, he would say it before he turned tail and went back home. Right after he dispatched Mr. Interloper.

  He waited for the tittering and skirt-swirling ladies to head on out the door.

  He knew the embroidered pale blue towels and fancy dishes Mr. Interloper set on the counter. He peeled off his gloves and coat, and tossed them on the end of the counter top.

  Luke caught sight of a emblem pinned on the vest. U.S. Marshal. Nothing to get excited about.

  Pistols rode at each hip in a finely tooled holster. He wore citified clothes that must’ve been tailored with only him in mind. Lean, brawny, broad, and hard.

  A formidable opponent.

  Who was he?

  Luke rather liked that the stranger was on the customer side of the counter, while he stood behind the long bar with Effie. He took his place at her side. A simple message that didn’t need words: I stand with Mrs. O’Leary and you don’t belong here.

  “Evening.” The man offered a big hand in greeting.

  After a hesitation, Luke accepted. “Evening.” He squeezed just enough to show he wasn’t put off by the badge. He’d wrangled cattle since he could walk and figured he could toss this fellow, if need be.

  “August Rose.”

  August Rose? What kind of a name was that? His parents must not have liked him much.

  Neither name nor badge answered the burning question—what was this guy, to Effie?

  August Rose’s grip was firm and nearly joint-cracking. “You are…?”

  “Luke Finlay.” He withdrew and casually put his arm about Effie. He felt her trembling and gave her a little squeeze for strength. If Rose couldn’t see how edgy he made Effie, he must be blind.

  “Well, Mr. Finlay, it’s a pleasure, but you’d best be going,” Rose said. “Our supper’s getting cold.”

  “Go ahead and eat. I’ll stay.”

  Rose shrugged. “I brought only enough for two.”

  “Don’t mind me. I didn’t come for supper.”

  Luke held Rose’s gaze, irritated by the condescension he glimpsed in the competition’s eye.

  “Suit yourself.” Rose came around the counter, took a plate in one hand and Effie’s elbow in the other.

  Luke let her go, but he didn’t like it.

  He watched as Rose ushered her to a chair in the corner where Noelle often sat to ply a needle in finish work. Once Effie sat, he handed her a plate and fork.

  Rose claimed his dinner plate, leaned against the counter, and crossed one boot over the other. He dug into fragrant roast beef, boiled potatoes drenched in gravy, roasted carrots with butter and herbs, and a golden roll.

  Luke’s empty stomach rumbled. If he’d stayed home, he’d have joined the family at the table long before now. He crossed his arms and willed his stomach to quiet down. He caught himself grinding his molars and forced his jaw to relax—this confrontation wasn’t worth a trip to the tooth-puller.

  He waited. Ranching had taught him a good deal of patience.

  Rose had consumed half his meal while Effie picked at hers. She may have taken a bite of two but it was hard to tell if she actually ate anything. This wasn’t the happy, joyful, confident woman who relished a home-cooked meal at his mother’s table. He’d seen her eat plenty of times…she wasn’t eating now. She seemed frail, fragile, like a stiff wind woul
d knock her over.

  Time to see August Rose to the door. “You’re passing through town, I see.”

  “No.” Rose dredged his roll through gravy. “I’ve come to take Effie home. With me.” He popped the rest of the roll in his mouth and grinned.

  Effie’s throat closed.

  I’ve come to take Effie home…with me.

  In chains? To stand trial?

  Since Gus’s threatening arrival, this was the first time they were alone…or nearly alone. Those gathered outside her shop’s window had witnessed that shocking kiss and applauded with vigor. The commotion had distracted Gus, so she’d wriggled free and unlocked the door. He’d erred in admitting he wouldn’t handcuff her before an audience.

  The bells on her door kept tinkling and the precious audience grew…and brought dozens of questions and abundant curiosity. They’d wanted to see this stranger for themselves.

  Exhaustion caught up with her. Constant fretting wore her so thin she feared the fabric of her being would split at the seams. She needed to know why he’d come…and what prompted his unwelcome kiss.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against a resurgence of panic. The scuttle of wind against the frame building and scrape of Gus’s utensil upon china chafed her raw nerves. Her dull headache flared hot.

  Luke must leave. She needed privacy to demand answers of Gus.

  Mere seconds had passed since Gus’s statement—he intended to take her home—it seemed an eternity.

  Luke shifted his weight. A floorboard squeaked beneath him. “Is that right.”

  “Yes.” Another scrape of fork against china.

  “I don’t like,” Luke stated, “the temperament you bring out in Mrs. O’Leary.”

  Gus chuckled.

  Don’t ask, Luke. Don’t.

  “You frighten her and I don’t like it. Who are you, exactly?” Tension coiled in Luke’s thick shoulders.

  “Just who I said. August Rose.”

  “A United States Marshal.”

  Gus held Luke’s gaze and finally nodded. “Yes.”

  “Just as I said, I don’t like the temperament you bring out in Mrs. O’Leary.”

  Why must he choose now, of all moments, to nominate himself her protector? She needed him gone before he learned too much. She swallowed to moisten her mouth. “It’s okay, Luke. I’m okay. I’m simply tired.”

  Luke kept his attention on Gus and barely acknowledged she’d spoken. “Why, exactly, are you here? What do you want?”

  “An old friend,” she blurted. “He’s an old friend.”

  Luke studied her, taking in far more, she feared, than she wanted to disclose. Then to Gus, “What kind of old friend?”

  Gus folded his arms, leaned a hip against the counter. “Why, the kind of old friend she’s happy to see.”

  “Doesn’t look that way to me.”

  Effie split a glance between the two men. Luke’s jaw set like granite. Gus’s eyes darkened.

  “I’m just tired.” Go, please. Leave. “It’s been a very trying day.”

  She stood and set her dinner plate on the cutting table.

  Luke held her gaze, and she fancied she glimpsed more than neighborly protectiveness. His concern felt wonderful…and undeserved.

  “You want him to go?” Luke gestured to Gus with a nudge of his jaw.

  If she said yes, Gus would morph into August Rose, U.S. Marshal. “No. I’m sorry, Luke. I need you to go. Gus and I have matters to discuss.”

  Disappointment and confusion marred his handsome features. “If that’s what you want.”

  Gus tossed the towel over his empty plate and waited in expectant silence.

  She willed Luke to understand. “It is what I want.”

  Yet there was no way he could understand—but he would. By tomorrow night, the gossip would reach every ear in town and every soul in the valley by week’s end. He’d hear all about it soon enough.

  This was goodbye.

  She reached for his hand.

  He accepted the invitation, his large, warm, callused fingers closing about hers. Distrust of Gus registered plainly on his face…and deep hurt. He didn’t understand.

  Anguish squeezed her throat. How it hurt to see the pain she’d caused.

  She swallowed hard. “Thanks, Luke.” Thanks for the friendship, companionship, and laughter. Thanks for trying to help me.

  She’d miss him.

  He released her, shrugged on his coat, buttoned up and pulled on gloves. Raw injury darkened his expression and his pain became her own.

  She hated herself for hurting him, sending him away when he clearly wanted to support and protect.

  From this, from her own doing, Luke could not save her. No one could.

  He strode for the door and jerked it open.

  She expected him to slam the door, and braced for it. With complete and utter calm, he closed the door.

  He did not look back. A rush of white-hot pain seared through her heart.

  Gus turned the key in the lock. “Let’s find ourselves some privacy, away from prying eyes.” He put out two of the three burning lamps.

  She nodded in mute acceptance.

  He carried the last lamp to the rear of the shop and opened the door to her private room. He held the light high as if expecting a crowded storage space. The room ran the width of the shop, but had a depth of only seven feet. The headboard of a narrow bed resided in the corner furthest from the door, and one trunk in the nearby corner. One bedside table, one chair, and pegs on the wall for her clothing. A door, flanked by a single window, led out back to the necessary.

  The room was significantly colder, without stove or hearth. Gus set the lamp on the table.

  He remained standing, so she did, too. “Tell me what you meant.”

  “Meant by what?”

  “You said you’re here to take me home. With you.” The words tumbled free, rushed and panicked. She hated feeling so unsettled, so trapped…so like…before.

  “I meant exactly what I said. I’m here to take you home with me.” He gripped her shoulders in unyielding hands. “It’s time to come home.” A smile formed on his lips, as if he believed everything would be okay.

  Nothing could be okay, would never be okay again. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Arrest? No.”

  “I can explain. I want to explain.”

  “Effie, listen. He’s gone—”

  “Who’s gone?”

  He chuckled. “You’re just as impatient as always.” Without warning, he gathered her close. “I missed you.”

  His embrace seemed both suffocating and oh, so wonderful. How long had it been since a man had hugged her with joyful affection? She squirmed.

  He didn’t release her. “Reuben Carmichael is dead.”

  She stilled and closed her eyes, grateful Gus couldn’t see her expression. Oh, yes, she most certainly had known he was dead—she’d been there.

  His big hand swept up her back and cradled her neck. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

  “It’s not okay.” Breathless, she tried to draw in air. “I must explain.” Panic flared, this time because she couldn’t breathe. “If you have an ounce,” she panted, “of affection left. Listen. And help me.”

  Gus eased back and searched her gaze in the lamplight. “I’ll listen, but you need to know Carmichael died eleven months ago. Snug in his bed. Pneumonia.”

  Her knees nearly buckled. Eleven months ago. When she’d been long gone and safely disguised as Widow O’Leary.

  With blood rushing through her ears, her heart pounding, she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “Eleven months? You’re sure?”

  “Positive. It was in the papers. I personally saw his body lying in repose at the mansion.”

  She’d run, knowing it didn’t matter one whit whether she’d actually killed Reuben or simply injured him gravely. There had been so much blood. If he’d recovered, he’d want vengeance…if dead, his brother would’ve seen her prosecuted.

  The s
cents of wind and snow, tobacco and man clung to him, achingly familiar and yet new.

  He nudged her chin up. “I’ve searched for you ever since. You hid real well, Effie. It took me longer to find you than I’d thought possible.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled, his visage softening, offering a glimpse of the young man he’d once been. “I’m usually a better tracker than that.”

  “No—why search for me at all? Are you here to arrest me? You’re taking me back to stand trial?”

  “No.” The gray of his eyes clouded over, softened with unmistakable compassion. He cupped her face between hands at once familiar and yet bigger, rougher, stronger. “I had to find you. To tell you you’re free.”

  She’d never be free of the past. The Carmichaels wouldn’t allow it.

  “You know why I left.” Everyone in law enforcement no doubt knew. Reuben and his family would’ve seen to that.

  “I know enough.”

  “They won’t rest. If I return, if I’m anywhere near, they’ll see me punished.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He didn’t know the Carmichaels. “Reuben’s brother is as influential as he is—was. He’ll never forgive bludgeoning his brother with leaded crystal.”

  So slowly, Gus lowered his head, telegraphing his intention to kiss her again. Had he heard a word she’d said?

  She had ample time to turn away, deny him, deny herself. He paused halfway, his attention sliding from her mouth to her eyes as if asking permission. He must’ve seen a yes there, for his lips touched hers in a gentle kiss, sweet and welcoming, reminded her of forbidden kisses in the first blush of adulthood.

  The play of his lips upon hers allowed a glimpse of the youth within the mature lawman. Her heart rolled over—how she’d loved him, once.

  “I’ve come to take you home.” His tone left no room for argument. “It’s time. Without Carmichael and your father keeping us apart, you’re finally mine.”

  “My father?” Her heart pounded and her ears rang. “What do you mean, without my father?”

  Her father had successfully interrupted the only joy in her life…her romance with Gus. He’d chosen Reuben Carmichael because of his position as federal judge. He’d sold her into slavery to purchase security for his unlawful business empire.