by Jule McBride
She’d gotten good ones, too, especially of a powwow at a Cheyenne reservation, and of some fly fishers upstate. Now she was all but hiding out in the four-room attic of the ranch house, which contained her studio. Mornings, she’d drive to counseling jobs, and then she’d paint in the afternoons, using the photographs. Some days she braved the cold, sketching the ranch hands as they cut calves from the herd and weaned them, preparing them for the feed lots.
If not for the troubles with Clive, it would have been a wonderful Christmas. The Stop Awhile, so called because it had once been a stagecoach stop, was something to behold, since Tex prided himself on decorating with more lights than anybody else in Wyoming. Fires blazed in a stone fireplace near a ten-foot decorated pine, and scents of Mama’s baking sweetened the air. “Why don’t you take it easy before the wedding?” people kept asking. “Why not enjoy the last Christmas before you get hitched!”
Because the wedding might be canceled.
As far as everybody else was concerned, it was all over except for the shouting. Just days from now, on Saturday, in the Methodist church off Shoshone Highway, she’d marry Clive, wearing a white velvet dress her mama had made. Her sisters were to wear emerald green gowns with red sashes, and a musical trio from Laramie was performing. In order to make Christmas week less hectic, they’d already held the rehearsal dinner.
After the wedding, the Buchanans planned to host an old-fashioned hoe-down in the Stop Awhile’s brand-new hay barn. Both Tex and Mama had begged her to hold a formal reception, but Claire had been adamant, and Clive agreed. By Christmas night, everybody would want to relax, and this would be a party to remember, where folks could be themselves, wear regular clothes and even join in with the band if they happened to bring a fiddle, blues harp, washboard or saw. People from all around Lightning Creek were supposed to come.
Claire hadn’t been able to force herself to send Luke an invitation, even though she knew Clive had invited hands from Cross Creek. How could she? she thought, when regardless of what Luke professed, he cared for her. Not that the invitation mattered now. Her throat tightened as she recalled her and Clive’s explosive fight. Well, she wasn’t about to break the news to her folks until she’d spoken with Clive again, this time more rationally. Maybe things would work out....
Watching the little girl in pink overalls hop onto
Santa’s lap, Claire’s throat got tighter still. The girl’s craggy-faced father watched with proud, shiny eyes that pulled at Claire’s heart.
There was nothing like seeing a proud cowboy.
Or wanting a child of your own, Claire thought, envying the man. Claire wanted babies so badly. Driving over here, she kept traitorously thinking that those
babies should be hers and Luke’s. Of course, she told herself, that was only because she was angry with Clive, and because Luke had once been her fantasy man. Moments later, as the girl jumped down, the elves began cleaning the photo station, preparing for their break.
“What about you, lil’ gal?”
“Me?” Repocketing her camera and wondering if she should give up on Luke, Claire glanced at the old wizened elf.
He winked. “You been here for a spell, eyeing Mr. Claus. Ain’t every day you can git your picture taken with Santa.”
Claire smiled despite the various emotions coursing through her. Had Luke answered the page, seen her and simply walked the other way?
“How’s about it, ma’am?” the elf prompted.
She forced a chuckle. “You convinced me.”
The elf jerked his head toward the throne. “Go on,” he said. “Git. We’re about to go on break, but that other elf’ll take a picture and make your laminated key chain.”
As Claire headed up the stairs to Santa’s throne, she decided Tex would love a key chain with her and Santa striking a pose. Only after she’d decided to slip it into his stocking did she realize she hadn’t even thought to give the key chain to Clive.
If I find him.
Claire managed a smile as Santa waved her onto his lap, but as she seated herself, she felt oddly unsettled. She’d felt a jolt of...what? Electricity. Awareness. Desire. But for Santa Claus? She couldn’t so much as feel the man’s body since it was liberally padded beneath the red suit, and when her eyes darted to his face, she saw little but a fluffy white beard and thick mustache.
His voice was low. “What’s your pleasure, ma’am?”
Claire’s heart stuttered. For a second, she could swear she was staring into Luke’s eyes, but then, a lot of people—Santa Clauses included—had blue eyes. “Pleasure?” she managed to say.
“What would you like for Christmas?”
Smiling for the elf with the camera, Claire said the first thing that came to her mind. “To find Luke Lydell.”
She didn’t know what happened next. Suddenly, the whole mall seemed to spin upside down.
“My pocketbook!” a woman shouted.
“Git that ornery varmint!” the old elf yelled.
“There he goes!” added the elf photographer.
Santa had already risen to his feet. Tumbling off his knee, Claire landed unceremoniously on the floor, smack on her butt on her parka. From there, she watched in stunned fascination as Santa gave chase, grabbing a teenage boy who turned out to be the purse snatcher. A second later, a mall security guard took over, marching away with the boy.
To a round of adult applause and delighted squeals from young fans, Santa turned around and headed back to the throne, stopping only to lift Claire’s key chain from the photo station. Reaching her, he stretched down a long red-velvet-clad arm. Just as her fingers closed around a dark, strong hand that was covered with calluses, Santa yanked, hauling her to her feet. Since the white fur ball of his long pointed cap was resting against his chest, and since Claire had bounced against him, the fur ball teased her nose. She sneezed.
“What?” he teased. “You have an allergy to Santa?”
Those blue eyes were only inches away. Her heart missed a beat. “Luke?” she ventured, keeping her voice low so the kids wouldn’t hear.
“Heard you were looking for me, Claire,” he returned. “So, I guess you just got your Christmas wish.”
* * *
IN A BACK ROOM AT HILLS, Luke swiped off the Santa hat and tossed it atop a box containing bulbs, tinsel and wrapping paper, then he started unbuttoning the red velvet jacket. If Claire insisted on watching him undress, it was fine with him, but he wasn’t going to stand around here, feeling like a fool, decked out in a Santa suit. Casting a glance toward where his jeans and plaid flannel shirt were folded, Luke shrugged out of the jacket, then a padded vest.
“You have to take the case.”
Claire’s soft, persuasive voice was barely audible over the nearby sound of shoppers and piped-in Christmas music, but Luke figured he’d be hearing it when she realized she wasn’t getting her way. Stepping over a string of lights on the floor, he blew out an exasperated sigh. “There is no case, Claire.”
“But Clive’s disappeared.”
Luke didn’t buy it. “You said you saw him yesterday.”
“He’s disappeared since then.”
Claire had already filled Luke in, scant though the details were, and now he bit back a groan of annoyance. If Claire really thought Clive was missing, she would have called the cops. What was plain as a pikestaff was that Claire wasn’t going to leave Luke alone. Ever. When he was younger, Luke had hung on to bucking broncs until he felt his brains loosen inside his skull, but nothing had ever shaken him the way Claire did. He guessed having her get married on Christmas would have been way too easy.
“Darlin’,” he said, “you shouldn’t have come here.” Not after the way we kissed last summer.
For an uncomfortable second their eyes met, and Luke became aware they were stuck in a room no bigger than a horse stal
l. Even worse, they were surrounded by boxes of Christmas decorations, and Christmas wasn’t exactly Luke’s favorite time of the year.
“I had no choice,” Claire assured him.
He scrutinized her. A black turtleneck hugged the slender curve of her neck, and against the dark cotton, her poreless skin looked doubly pale. Either winter or the weak light of the room made her eyes look lighter, too, like blue ice. Realizing his gaze had remained on the soft pout of her cranberry mouth a second too long, Luke came to his senses and nodded toward the door. “Claire,” he continued, “if I were you, I’d step outside.” He really couldn’t believe this. If nothing else, the way they’d parted last summer should have stopped her from coming here.
She didn’t budge. Whatever he did, Luke reminded himself, it was for her benefit. Come Christmas, she’d be hitched to one of the richest, most upstanding cowboys in Lightning Creek. Luke frowned. Unless Clive really had disappeared. Feeling angry with himself for letting her arouse his interest, Luke wordlessly rested a hand on the zipper of the velvet pants.
Claire eyes widened. “Oh, you mean I should step outside because—”
When he started pulling down the zipper, she did exactly what he expected—bolted like a startled mare. The next time she spoke, it was through the half-open door. “But I need help,” she said, her voice sounding inexplicably tremulous, not that wheedling would work on Luke. “And you owe me.”
His lips parted in astonishment. “I what?”
“Owe me. You were supposed to stop by the ranch last summer and do some chores in return for Tex’s contribution to Lost Springs.”
She knew damn well why he hadn’t shown up. “We never had any real agreement, Claire.”
“Tex made his contribution,” she reminded him firmly. “He held up his end of the bargain.”
“And you’re going to collect mine six months later?”
“Better late than never.”
Stepping out of the black boots and velvet pants, Luke grabbed his Levi’s and put them on. Then he shoved his feet into some old Justins he’d worn because salt had already marred the leather. It was snowing today, and he didn’t want to mess up his Tony Llamas.
Through the door, Claire said, “Your pants are on, right? I heard the zipper again.”
Woman, you must have ears like a bat. “What have you got?” Luke shot back. “Zipper sonar? I’m still dressing.”
Two steps of her long, jeans-clad legs brought her back inside the room. “You look dressed to me.”
Steadfastly ignoring the startled, half-dreamy gaze now aimed at his bare chest, Luke stretched a long arm past her and snatched the flannel shirt. Shrugging into it, he slowly buttoned and tucked it in. Claire had quit talking and was merely watching him.
His eyes caught hers. “Quit staring.”
“I’m not staring.”
But she was. Grabbing his Stetson, Luke ran a habitual finger over the black brim, then eyed a waist-length shearling jacket he’d left hanging on the doorknob. He sighed. “Look here, Claire. I’m sure Clive’s—”
“Gone,” she ventured again. “And something could have happened to him.”
The soft catch in her voice wasn’t lost on Luke, and his gaze sharpened as it traced over the diamond on her finger. “Happened? What aren’t you telling me?” Was Claire’s fiancé really in some kind of trouble?
Claire looked wounded. “I’m not witholding information,” she declared.
“As if this is a federal case,” Luke muttered. Shrugging, he situated the Stetson on his head, working it back and forth to ensure the high winds outside wouldn’t blow it off. “’bout ready?” he asked, nodding toward where she was blocking the door. “I’m aiming to leave, Claire.”
“You can’t.”
Wrong, darlin’. He had to get out of here, even if it meant moving Claire’s sweet little butt himself. After all, he was beginning to suspect he knew the real reason Claire was here. Just lay it on the line. “Claire,” he said, thoughtfully chewing the inside of his cheek. “I know you’re getting married on Christmas, and it’s natural if you’re getting nervous. Maybe you’re thinking about that summer we got to know each other, or about last June, after the bachelor auction. Maybe you’re wondering about us. Maybe—”
“Maybe you’re crazy, Luke!” One of her hands, the one with the engagement ring, unwrapped from the parka and landed on her hip. “What makes you think...?”
That you still want me? Luke eyed her a long moment. This. How the tiny room pulsed with the attraction, and how often he’d pushed her away without her taking the hint. Feeling frustrated, he slipped a hand inside his shirt pocket, drew out a toothpick and poked it between his lips. His mouth set grimly around it. “When I saw you out there in the crowd,” he said, “I should have known you weren’t here doing last-minute Christmas shopping.”
“I finished shopping in August.”
He shot her a droll glance. “With such a big family, I guess there’s a lot to buy.” The implication was that he was orphaned and alone, and only when he saw her guilt-stricken expression did Luke realize he’d gone too far.
“That’s not exactly why I did my shopping early.”
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Why did you?”
She didn’t say anything, just swallowed hard. And that was the worst. Suddenly, Claire the spurned woman was gone, and Claire the artist was soulfully watching him, her steady, perceptive blue eyes gazing from beneath pale eyelashes, as if she was now seeing every Christmas afternoon Luke had ever spent alone. Not that he didn’t love his cabin in the far southeast corner of the Lost Springs Ranch, but come Christmas Day, when the other cowboys were with their families, it could get lonely out there with nothing for company but elk and deer. Sometimes Luke wondered at the wisdom of living on land that was a constant reminder his folks had abandoned him. Deep down, he knew he chose to do so because he’d never fully let go of his past. Fortunately Claire’s eyes held no pity. Luke couldn’t have stood that.
“You owe me, Luke,” she continued. “And I need a cop.”
“But I’m not a—”
“Ex-cop. Whatever,” she said. “And you happen to be the only one I know.”
His gaze swept her lips, and his breath caught as he remembered how they’d tasted last summer—wet and warm, like salt water. “You know why I can’t help you, Claire. Call Sheriff Hatcher.”
“This is a...private matter.”
“Then maybe you and Clive should keep it private.” Luke was the last person she should involve. Still, he surveyed her, wishing missing-persons cases hadn’t always stirred his interest. He’d considered looking for his own folks for years. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. Fear of what he’d find, he guessed. Despite himself he suddenly continued, “Clive was supposed to go to a ranch near Douglas to talk about buying some hay, huh?”
Claire nodded quickly. “The Lazy Four lost some hay in a barn fire earlier this year.”
Luke chewed on the toothpick, his mind turning. “I heard.” The Stoddards’ place wasn’t the only one that had such troubles recently.
“After he left Douglas,” Claire continued, “he was going up to Sheridan to take a look at some bulls, and then...” She paused, her frown so deep that the thin lines of her eyebrows drew together. “He was supposed to go to Cheyenne and meet with the beef council, or else to Laramie to see some men about grain prices. I forget which.”
Luke didn’t stop to contemplate the seductive twinge in his voice. “Always pay such close attention to what your fiancé has to say?”
Quick temper flashed in her eyes but vanished immediately. “I’m sorry I can’t remember more, but the point is we had a fight, Luke.”
Luke was starting to feel too curious for his own good. “I figure you two lovebirds’ll work it out when he comes home.”
&
nbsp; “But it’s Wednesday now and we’re getting married Saturday.”
Luke pondered the fact that Clive was still out cowboying so close to Christmas and his wedding. If Luke was marrying Claire, he’d probably be otherwise occupied. Especially since he’d heard the crew hadn’t yet finished the house on the Lazy Four where Clive and Claire were supposed to live. Somehow, Luke assumed Clive would be at the site, motivating the workmen. His eyes narrowed. “Heard your house isn’t finished. Where are you all planning to live, meantime?”
“Really, only the kitchen needs work,” Claire returned. “And most of my stuff’s already been moved there.”
Imagining Claire and Clive living together brought Luke nothing but discomfort, especially since he knew Clive by sight. He was younger than Luke, Claire’s age, and good looking, tall, rangy and blond. Luke chewed another minute on the toothpick. “You taking a honeymoon?”
There was something he couldn’t quite read in her eyes—regret or wistfulness. “We were supposed to go to San Diego.”
We were. The past tense indicated she really thought Clive might be gone. Still, Luke reasoned, maybe Clive was working so he could take extra time off for the trip. Shoving a hand into his back pocket, Luke leaned a shoulder against the wall. “You’re afraid he won’t show? Is that it?” He searched her eyes, looking for hints of emotion, and found himself thinking she had the eyes of an angel. Sometimes soft and deep as water, the irises were starting to darken now like lapis lazuli.
“It’s not that,” she said with a frustrated sigh. “But I don’t want Tex and Mama—”
“You call your daddy Tex?”
His question took her by surprise, and she tilted her head as if considering. “Yeah. We all do nowadays.” She shrugged, squinting as if she were searching for a reason. “I guess Pop just started seeming more like a Tex. His great-granddaddy was originally from Texas, you know.”
