Hitched by Christmas

by Jule McBride

Suddenly it seemed easier to study her boots than his broad-shouldered, half-naked body, and she toed the dust a second before lifting her gaze again. “Really, Luke... Tex wanted to make a contribution to Lost Springs, and he would have, whether my sisters bought a—a bachelor, or not.” Somehow, calling him a bachelor hurt. Wasn’t Luke ever lonely, living by himself when he could so easily find a woman to look after him? To love him? Glancing away again, Claire supressed the emotions, taking in the soothing wash of pale summer colors she loved to paint—the cerulean sky, the burnt umber and sienna in the bone-dry arid land. “The way I figure it, Claire,” Luke said when she looked at him again, “Tex paid good money for a service so, no matter how we feel about it, we’ve got no choice but for me to oblige.”

  The comment was so unexpected that Claire almost burst out laughing. She didn’t know what possessed her, but she said, “Whoa. Let me get this straight, Lydell. You’re offering stud services?”

  He grinned.

  Her heart did a three-sixty in her chest and she stared at him, wondering if he was serious, and chastising the part of herself that so desperately wished he was. “What?” she continued, knowing better. “You’re seriously saying you want to take me out for a fling?”

  Luke was still studying her, and when he spoke, his voice sounded strangely neutral. “Are you looking for a fling?”

  Years ago that was exactly what she’d wanted from him. Now some perverse streak made her simply say, “Oh, always.”

  With a mock look of shock, he placed a hand on his bare chest, over his heart. “Thought you were engaged.”

  “A fling,” she repeated. “With my fiancé.”

  His eyes sparked again with humor. “Sure you’re not just afraid?”

  “Of you? Never.”

  “Positive?”

  “Lydell,” she shot back. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  The slow way his eyes drifted over her body said he’d noticed. “Is that right?”

  Her heart lurched again. For a second, his eyes seemed so intent that she thought he was going to close the distance between them, but he simply turned away. The words were out before she thought them through. “If you insist on doing something for the money, come by the ranch tomorrow. You can do some chores.” The missed beat of her heart told her how much she wanted him to come.

  “Maybe I will.”

  That was just like Luke, she thought with a touch of anger. Noncommital. He always left her dangling.

  As he took the T-shirt from the seat of the Harley and tugged it unceremoniously over his head, she watched the play of sunlight on his strong bare back. The shirt was red. Given his fine dark hair, it was a good color for him, not that Claire imagined he paid much attention to his wardrobe. He didn’t bother to tuck the shirt in, but threw one of those long, limber legs over the motorcycle the same easy way he’d mount a horse.

  It’s a wonder you can find the keys, she thought. As she watched him dig them from the front pocket of his sinfully tight faded jeans, Claire allowed herself one final second of blissful longing. If the truth be told, she’d thoroughly enjoyed the performance he’d given on the auction block. Sure, she’d wanted him—what woman wouldn’t?—but years ago he’d rejected her, and after that, she’d forced herself to quit dreaming of him. In fact, he hadn’t plagued her thoughts for years, and she certainly wouldn’t be thinking of him on Christmas, when she married Clive.

  So, you did good, girl. He’s driving away. Claire sighed again, now with relief. She and Clive were a good match; in fact, he was one of the most desirable men in Lightning Creek. He lacked Luke’s undeniable ability to stir her deeper passions, but Clive was even-tempered and good-looking, tall and lanky with dark blond hair and a moustache. Firmly, she told herself Luke was a first crush, nothing more.

  But why wasn’t he leaving? With her patience now wearing dangerously thin, Claire kept waiting for the familiar roar of the Harley’s motor. She knew the sound well. It had grated on her nerves for years, every time Luke brought the bike to town instead of his Jeep. She’d heard its ridiculously loud revving from inside the Roadkill Grill while she was trying to eat lunch, and while she was getting her hair trimmed at Twyla’s Tease ’n’ Tweeze, and renting videos in the general store.

  Sometimes, Claire could swear Luke had bought that motorcycle solely to remind her that they were both still living in Lightning Creek. Fortunately, it worked like a cowbell, and Claire could hear him coming and get out of his way.

  Now she thought of Clive and felt a twinge of guilt. But she was mad at him, too. Clive had a mind for only two things—ranching and programming computer software, which was his hobby. Mama said Claire should view his interests as an asset, since Clive was so obviously intent on building the combined fortunes of the Stoddard and Buchanan ranches, but he often broke their plans at the last minute. If Clive had come to the bachelor auction as he’d promised, none of this would have happened.

  Luke was straddling the bike and staring at her, his dark hair and lean body making him look like the consumate warrior, his blue eyes looking even darker now in the sharp summer sun, even from this far away.

  “Good seeing you, Luke,” she called.

  He gunned the motor. “Sure you don’t want to take a ride?”

  “And where would you be taking me?”

  “Around the block.”

  She knew that was a lie. Nevertheless, reason fled and she unexpectedly found herself walking toward him with a slow, rolling stride, as if going to him were as natural as breathing. Resting a hand on his shoulder for balance, she felt the hot summer sun and the quiver of muscle beneath his shirt, and then she simply, wordlessly slid behind him on the seat, hugging his thighs with hers.

  A second later, he gunned the motor again, and it roared through her blood. Just as the breeze lifted his shirt, her arms circled around his waist, and her hands landed where they’d secretly wanted to be—on his bare skin.

  * * *

  LEANING BACK IN A BOOTH in the diner, Luke watched her eat. He’d known better, but he’d ridden like hell for leather, with the Harley’s wheels eating up the highway. He hadn’t bothered to wonder what in blazes had gotten into him; he’d just ridden into the setting western sun like some wild outlaw, with Claire hugging his waist. He’d imagined loving her from now until Christmas morning—so thoroughly that she’d no longer want to marry Clive Stoddard. But that was just a crazy impulse, one Luke would never heed. When he’d felt Claire relax against his back, he’d known he’d ridden long enough, and that whatever flinty energy lay between them had finally spent itself on the open road.

  Of course by then they’d gone all the way to Casper.

  They’d been taking it easy ever since, shooting the breeze instead of eyeing each other like frisky horses in springtime. He took a toothpick from a dispenser and chewed on it, staring through a plate-glass window, into the deepening orange twilight until the rattle and clank of the crowded diner drew his attention back inside.

  “Meg Ryan,” Claire was saying. She was wedged into the corner of an orange booth opposite him, and she was digging into a plate that could easily satisfy three hungry ranch hands. Luke glanced over the fried potatoes and eggs, which she’d doused in ketchup, the stack of flapjacks, which were drowning in blackstrap molasses, and the strip of steak, which she’d brushed with A.1 sauce, using the back of her spoon.

  “Did you get enough to eat?” she asked, catching his eye.

  He nodded, thoughtfully rolling the toothpick over his tongue. Somehow, the ice had broken, and they were talking to each other like two human beings. They hadn’t done it in years. “You always this easy to get along with when there’s a heapin’ plate of grub in front of you?”

  Claire merely lifted a biscuit, swiped it with butter and stared back pointedly. “Meg Ryan,” she repeated.

  Luke had no
idea what she was talking about, but he was beginning to realize that dinner conversation with Claire Buchanan wasn’t necessarily linear. “You mean the one in the movies?” Luke thought he’d seen her in something at the Isis Theater in Lightning Creek.

  Brushing stray wisps of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, Claire made a small sound of irritation. “In the bachelor auction brochure, you said you thought the perfect woman was cute, sexy and smart.”

  If he didn’t know Claire was marrying Clive, Luke would have thought she sounded jealous. “I did?”

  She nodded, licking molasses off her fork without a touch of guile. “Yeah.”

  Changing his mind about the toothpick, Luke took it from his mouth and tossed it onto his plate. As he stretched his long legs under the table, still trying to get the road kinks out of them, he pushed the plate aside and squinted, trying to remember. Then it came to him. “Lindsay and Rex made that up. They needed bio materials for the brochure, and I couldn’t think of anybody.”

  Claire’s plump lips parted to release a low, throaty laugh. “You don’t know who you think is sexy?”

  He shrugged. “Not that Meg Ryan woman. She’s too cute. I don’t go for cute.” No, he happened to go for exotic, long-limbed beauties he could never have, like Claire.

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  He glanced away, thinking she really had no idea what she did to him. He loved everything about her—her husky voice, her swollen mouth, her face that belonged on Paris runways instead of on a cattle ranch in Lightning Creek, Wyoming. He loved the serious, smoldering fire in her eyes, how fast she got riled up...and how much she hated herself for losing her temper. As far as Luke knew, she never understood how kind she really was, since she’d never once had a real run-in with truly mean human nature. The kind of human nature that leaves a baby boy on the snowy steps of a ranch house on Christmas morning. Given that Claire was getting married this Christmas, Luke suddenly realized that would make the holiday doubly bad for him from now on.

  Still looking at her, studying the damp-looking windblown tendrils that were curling against her high, flushed cheekbones, Luke wished that once—just once—he’d seen her hair out of that braid and down around her shoulders. And then his chest felt tight because he was remembering riding here with her hugging his waist.

  “So, do you like Van Morrison and drive a Jeep Cherokee? The brochure said you did.”

  You know I do. He nodded. “Yeah, Claire.”

  She fell silent again. If she noticed him watching her finish her meal, she didn’t show it. He decided he liked her lack of pretension, too. She was, by turns, both funny and serious, and she didn’t bother with makeup, jewelry or fancy clothes, not that she needed to when she looked so good in a man’s white undershirt and jeans. She had both undergraduate and graduate degrees in art and psychology, too, but she’d never started acting like a big-shot. No, she had too much sensitivity to wear smarts and education on her sleeve in a place where so many people weren’t nearly as fortunate. It was hard to believe her pretty, long fingers painted work that was sold in countless art galleries and crafts shops in Wyoming. Or that those perceptive eyes saw a world all their own.

  But they did. Luke thought again of the haunting painting of Lost Springs that hung in his living room, and of how lonely that boy looked, silhouetted against the fiery sky. “How’d your raffles go?” he suddenly asked.

  “They were nice.” She was now polishing off a healthy wedge of apple pie. “Twyla and I made twice as much as I thought we would, but not nearly what you guys got from the auction. You should be proud of yourselves. You pulled Lost Springs out of the hole.” She glanced away, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. “So many ranches are having trouble lately, though. I’ve heard it’s really rough on some of the smaller places.” Carelessly, she swiped a napkin across her mouth. “Anyway, you did good.”

  “Think so?”

  Her eyes met his. “Without a doubt, Luke.”

  The comment made him feel so good that he was half inclined to tell her about the other charitable work he did, including opening Santa mail and delivering gifts to the boys at Lost Springs at Christmas. Years ago, when some of the other guys who’d been at the auction today realized what Luke was doing, they’d begun sending checks to help purchase the gifts. Not that Claire would believe Luke delivered them. Nobody in Lightning Creek had ever guessed the identity of the secret Santa.

  Claire started chatting about Lost Springs, talking about the boys she was counseling there part-time, many of whom he knew. “I keep thinking about Brady Spencer. He’s so cute that I’ve sometimes wished I could adopt him myself. But right now, I’m a little worried about him,” Claire said as the waitress picked up the money Luke left on the check.

  Glancing after the waitress, he said, “’bout ready?”

  Claire nodded, sliding from the booth. As Luke watched her, he fought the feeling that she was sliding right out of his life, and he suddenly remembered the ease of their encounters years ago, during the summer they’d shared. Another sudden urge to claim her welled within him, but he knew they couldn’t go back in time. Besides, he could never offer her the kind of life she was going to share with Clive.

  Following her, Luke nodded on the way to the door. “Yeah, Brady’s got some problems,” he agreed, picking up on their conversation. Last year the five-year-old sent a letter asking for Santa to find the parents who’d abandoned him. Luke had pulled out all the stops, using his law enforcement skills to see if he could, but he still had no leads. “But I wouldn’t worry too much,” Luke continued as he held the door open for Claire. “When a kid’s heart’s broken there’s not much anybody can do. Even if it doesn’t always seem like it, those boys appreciate your contributions at the ranch, Claire.”

  She offered a shrug as they stepped into the soft summer night, a teasing light coming into her eyes. “How do you know what I do at Lost Springs, anyway?”

  “I’ve got a cabin on the place.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot.”

  He knew she hadn’t. He got the impression she was pretending to know less about him than she did, so she wouldn’t seem too interested, though he didn’t know why, since she was engaged. “They like having someone looking after the south border of the property.” And Luke liked being there. The Lost Springs land was the closest thing he figured he’d ever have to a birthright.

  “What?” Claire smiled. “You keep out the riffraff?”

  “I don’t know about that,” he returned, shooting her a wry smile. “It’s mostly bears and coyotes.”

  Pausing with Claire a second on the sidewalk, Luke silently watched the last traces of twilight vanish on the horizon. The moon was a glowing white crescent, the stars bright, their constellations scattered across the black sky. No one was outside. Without the air-conditioning and the clatter from inside the diner, the night seemed hotter, darker and more still. Fireflies and crickets buzzed and chirped.

  “Hot out here,” Luke commented.

  “July’ll be worse,” Claire said agreeably.

  “C’mon.” He shouldn’t have, but Luke leaned toward her, anyway, suddenly threading his fingers through hers. If she found anything unusual in the touch, she didn’t let on as they headed around the side of the diner, where he’d parked. As they walked, she talked about how hard it was to make use of her psychology degrees in Lightning Creek. One day a week, she was working at a Planned Parenthood clinic in Casper; on another, she was doing crafts with kindergarten kids. The rest of the time she painted. “Anyway, the point is that I’m lucky to get to counsel those boys and to do some art therapy at Lost Springs.”

  Coming to a standstill beside the bike, Luke let her hand drop and said, “Why didn’t you ever leave town, Claire?” He’d always thought she would. She’d gone to a girls’ school, had opportunities and could h
ave worked anywhere.

  As she glanced toward the back door of the diner, he studied her face, which was almost lost in the night’s shadows. “Lightning Creek’s home,” she said simply. “How about you? Miss being a state cop?”

  He considered a minute. He knew he should get on the bike and get them both out of this dark, quiet alley. With her this close, his mind kept running to forbidden subjects, such as the delicious curves of her mouth. Through the diner’s open back door, he could smell the scents of spiced ham and hear the sizzle of steaks frying. Voices chattered from inside the diner and around the corner, but they seemed far away, serving only to wrap him and Claire in their own world.

  “Luke?”

  He realized he was merely watching her and shook his head. “No, I don’t miss it much.”

  He didn’t want to, but when her voice softened, he heard desire and promise in it. “But you got a law enforcement degree at University of Wyoming, right?”

  His mouth quirked. “Sitting out on the interstate drinking coffee, talking on a CB and waiting for someone to break the speed limit didn’t turn out to be as exciting as I’d hoped.”

  “Are you still trying to work as a P.I.? That’s exciting.”

  She sure knew a lot about him, but then Lightning Creek was a small town. Word got around. “Not in Lightning Creek.”

  She chuckled. “No need there. Everybody already knows everybody’s business. Especially if you get haircuts at Twyla’s.”

  He nodded appreciation. “It’s definitely a one-horse town. But I take cases whenever I can get them. Lately, I’m mostly herding cattle up on Cross Creek.” His smile deepened. “Who knows? Maybe more people’ll start getting divorced over here in Casper and need me to work surveillance.”

  “That’s the trouble with you, Luke.” Claire chuckled impishly. “You need to think big.”

  “Big?”

  She nodded. “Sure. Maybe the folks in Casper’ll start murdering one another. You’d really get some good cases then.”

  He laughed. “Watch it, Claire,” he warned. “Old age’ll make you cynical.”