To Santa With Love

by Janet Dailey

Without a thank-you or good-bye, Jacquie slid out of the passenger seat, wincing as her thin soles pressed into sharp gravel again. There was a fine film of dust on her light-colored jeans. She slapped it off, wishing perversely it was Choya’s face she was hitting instead of her legs. Refusing to look at the jeep, she stalked toward the gift shop that housed the entrance to the cemetery.

  “Just so you know, one of the things I wanted to do today,” Choya’s low voice came from directly behind her, stopping her short, “was talk to you.”

  Pivoting, Jacquie tilted her head to challenge him. “I can’t think of a thing you could possibly want to discuss with me. I know you don’t intend to apologize for your rudeness yesterday.” But there was a questioning lift to her voice on the last statement.

  “No, I’m not going to apologize,” he answered smoothly.

  Her lips tightened and she spun toward the door. “Then we don’t have anything to talk about.”

  Remote as the possibility of him apologizing had been, she’d felt compelled to ask. Now, if he had said he was sorry . . . well, she didn’t know. She had no idea of what she should do. The man was an enigma and impossible to pin down. Thinking how likely she was to surrender to his next move, whatever it might be, made her uneasy.

  The gift-shop door she yanked open wouldn’t slam shut. It was held by his strong hand. She might not want to hear what Choya Barnett wanted to say to her, but he was definitely following her with the intention that she should.

  In the shop, she stopped, searching impatiently for the exit door to the cemetery. His hand took hold of her elbow and guided her to the right.

  “This way,” he told her calmly.

  Aware of the interested looks from the clerk, who greeted Choya by his first name, and the handful of tourists pretending to examine knickknacks, they made their way to the exit door, Jacquie tried to ease the look of displeasure from her face. Outside, they walked several paces before his hand fell away.

  Taking deep, relaxing breaths, Jacquie resolved to stay as composed and controlled as he was—and as blasé about his presence as he was to hers. At a strolling pace, she started wandering among the tombstone markers, the wind-and-sand-smoothed rocks making an uneven path for her feet. Sage and cactus and twisting, gnarled bushes grew rampant in the graveyard, nearly obscuring some markers.

  The emptiness surrounding the rocky hill where the remains of western frontiersmen lay was overwhelming. It was barren country, virtually unmarked by the passage of time and civilization. In this lonely land, it was easy to believe the legends of Apache warrior ghosts, hidden in the distant mountains that rose into the blue sky.

  Shielding her eyes with a hand against the climbing angle of the morning sun, Jacquie studied the mountain-crested horizon. Choya Barnett was standing behind her and slightly to her right. An inner radar seemed to pinpoint his location when her peripheral vision failed to see him.

  “Those are the Dragoon Mountains,” he informed her, obviously following the direction of her gaze.

  “That’s where your ranch is, isn’t it?” Her gaze ran the length of the mountains, her interest increased in spite of a silent effort to deny it.

  “Robbie told you?”

  “Yes.” Jacquie glanced over her shoulder to bring the impassive face into her line of vision. His measured look was difficult to hold. She turned the rest of the way around, pretending an interest in a plain wooden cross at the head of a rocky grave. “He didn’t say much. What of it?”

  “It’s Robbie I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?” She darted him a cautious look. “What about him?”

  “He’s going to be spending time in town this afternoon. Tombstone is too small for the two of you not to meet sometime.”

  “And?” Jacquie prodded, feeling her irritation beginning to build.

  “I have to be blunt. And I’m not going to apologize for that either. I would prefer that you don’t encourage him to become more friendly,” he stated.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asked him icily. “Tell him to get lost?”

  “I’m sure someone like you can get a kid to leave you alone without breaking his heart.”

  She heard multiple accusations in his words. Where to begin? Should she even respond? He’d fallen silent.

  “Someone like me?” Jacquie said at last. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re a beautiful girl and that alone gets you more attention than you know what to do with.” He held up a hand when she began to protest. “Don’t argue the point.” There was a definite edge to his low voice. “So you’ve undoubtedly had plenty of experience telling admirers to get lost. A little boy should be easy to handle.”

  “I like Robbie. And he’s not an ‘admirer.’ He’s a friendly, openhearted kid who likes a lot of people.” Troubled, she moved on to the next rock-mounded grave. What a place to have a conversation like this. “And you don’t.” She couldn’t resist the jab. “You especially don’t like me.”

  “That’s neither here nor there.” His jaw tightened. “Listen to me, Jacquie. My son sometimes forms intense attachments to people and he expects them to feel the same way. When it’s someone like Mrs. Chase or Edwina—”

  “Who on earth is Edwina?” she asked, puzzled.

  “She’s a waitress at the restaurant where we all ate.”

  “Oh. The one in the pink uniform who brought your food?” Jacquie remembered her now.

  “That’s her. He’s known and loved both of them since he was a baby.”

  “Mrs. Chase seemed very nice,” she said acidly. “And so did Edwina. They both certainly seem to think the world of you too.”

  “Yeah, well—that’s neither here nor there. They’re friends of the family and they live around here and probably always will. But you’re just passing through”—he hesitated—“at least I think you are. You haven’t said.”

  “Correct. Good guess. Like you care one way or the other.”

  “Never mind that. Robbie is another story. I’ve never seen him light up the way he does around you.”

  She knew what he was talking about, but dismissed it instantly. “What of it?” she said casually. “Little boys have crushes on girls and grown women all the time. Anyway, he hardly knows me. He’ll forget about me in less than a day after I go.”

  “I don’t think so. You remind him too much of his mother.” Choya stopped, looking at her.

  Jacquie wasn’t quite so quick to reply to that. She had thought of that possibility herself. But she shook her head. “He told me he doesn’t remember her.”

  “Not consciously. But it’s just that—look, Jacquie, for some reason he just keeps talking about you. And you’re leaving tomorrow or the day after at the latest. He’s not going to understand that—or why he’s been rejected.”

  Jacquie hesitated. Only Choya could answer her next question but she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask it. “Do I really resemble his mother that much?” Her questioning eyes met the piercing alertness of his without flinching.

  Surprisingly Choya was the first to look away. His profile was sharply defined by the blueness of the sky. Yet he didn’t seem disturbed or disconcerted by her guess.

  “I suppose Robbie told you about Rosemary too,” he said quietly.

  “He didn’t mention his mother’s name.” An intense curiosity seized Jacquie. “Am I very much like her?” she repeated.

  His topaz-bright gaze focused on her again, moving over her features in quick assessment. Jacquie discovered she was holding her breath. A protest welled inside that she could look like anyone but herself.

  “No,” he said in a quiet but emphatic voice. His attention shifted to a strand of pale golden hair that had fallen over her shoulder, and which contrasted with the lightweight blouse that was the same brilliant turquoise color as her eyes. “Your hair is the same color. Moonbeams trapped in a mountain pool,” he murmured almost absently.

  Jacquie didn’t take those poetic words as a compl
iment. He wasn’t really talking about her.

  His gaze was hard when it slashed back to her face. “But the comparison ends there. My wife had brown eyes and freckles sprinkled across her nose. She was small and delicately built but every inch a tomboy. None of those descriptions would fit you.”

  “No, they don’t. And I get the point,” Jacquie answered, taking a deep breath and turning away. She had always been proud of her just-right height and definitely curvy figure. He made both sound like drawbacks. As far as being a tomboy, she had never caught frogs or climbed trees. As a very little girl, she’d gone for plush toys in pastel colors that matched her canopy bed and frilled curtains. However, she’d never been a goody-goody. In time, she’d had adventures of her own—the suburban kind. She’d scared her parents half to death the night she’d decided to sleep under the stars by herself. In a deep vee of the roof, where they couldn’t find her. And that wasn’t the only thing that got her grounded, sometimes for weeks.

  She’d outgrown all that years ago. Kids outgrew everything. She didn’t understand why Choya was so worried about his son.

  He interrupted her thoughts in the same controlled tone. “I don’t know if I’m explaining this right.”

  “Keep trying.”

  “It’s just that Robbie was too young when Rosemary was killed for him to have any memories of her. To him she’s a beautiful blond woman in a photograph.”

  “Killed?” The word startled her. “How?” The second question was blurted out before Jacquie considered the wisdom of probing deeper into his personal life.

  “A car accident—not that it really concerns you.”

  There was a slight shake of her head in apology. “I’m sorry.”

  “For prying, or that my wife is dead?”

  Jacquie tensed, put off by his tough tone and the words he chose to use. But she knew she’d crossed a line with her blunt query, though she had not meant to trigger what had to be extremely painful memories. She wouldn’t escalate the situation by responding impulsively again. “Hey,” she said softly, “I didn’t mean to pry. And I am genuinely sorry for what happened to you—and to Robbie.”

  Choya gave her an odd look. “Are you?”

  She didn’t need to prove anything to him. The apology had been instinctive and from her heart. To say so might only prompt another dig from him. Still, she had to be tactful.

  Jacquie considered her next words as she spoke them slowly. “I think you’re afraid that Robbie is looking for—I don’t know exactly how to say it, but—”

  “Mother love.” Choya said the words dryly and without a trace of sentiment. “The real deal. Is that what you’re getting at?”

  Jacquie flushed. “That sums it up, yes. And he can’t be blamed for that. And neither can I. If you remember, I just happened to get stuck in Tombstone.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Choya stood before her, his bland expression unchanging as if carved in granite. “I’m merely asking you not to encourage him.”

  “I haven’t. But I have been nice to him. There’s nothing wrong with that.” She forced a confidence she didn’t feel into her voice. “Look at it from his point of view, Choya. With only you and his grandfather, he’s surrounded by men. The solution is simple enough—why don’t you just get married again? He does need a mother. A photograph of the one he had isn’t enough. No matter how much he loved her, he doesn’t remember her. And she’s gone forever.”

  Jacquie stopped, aware that she’d undoubtedly said too much. He was likely to guess that she’d been thinking about him most of the night. At least she hadn’t mentioned the obvious fact that Choya Barnett had loved Rosemary too. Maybe he still did.

  A hard sound almost like laughter came from his throat. “Are you saying I should marry just for my son’s sake?”

  “No. Of course not.” Jacquie’s reply was subdued.

  “You’re awfully young to be giving advice on the subject. What do you know about it?” Choya countered with a watchful narrowing of his gaze.

  “Nothing. I’ve never been married. Or engaged.”

  “Do you want to be?”

  “Some day.” In her mind, Jacquie pictured her parents’ marriage, an unusual combination of endearing friendship, combustible personalities and ready laughter. They were lucky to have found each other and created a lasting love, and they both knew it.

  “Any likely candidates?”

  She glared at him. “Not a one. And that’s fine with me. Can we talk about something else?”

  He didn’t answer right away and she turned her back on him, unsettled by his request that she leave his son alone and the emotions behind it. Jacquie picked her way along the eroded rocks that formed the path at the foot of the graves, concentrating on details of what she saw to distract herself. She noted several Chinese names on the headstones. Others were marked with a name and a date and a few starkly simple words: Killed by Indians. One epitaph drew a shudder from Jacquie. It was the grave of an unfortunate man who’d fallen afoul of the swift and not always sure justice of the frontier west: Hanged by Mistake.

  She could empathize.

  At the tombstones of the Clantons and the McLaurys, Jacquie read the inscription with surprise, then instinctively turned to the man who silently followed her.

  She asked him for an explanation.

  “It says they were murdered. Weren’t they killed in a gunfight at the OK Corral?” she questioned.

  “Yes.” His sun-browned hand cupped a match flame to a cigarette, protecting the fire from the teasing breeze. “But the Clantons were very popular in Tombstone. The same can’t be said for Wyatt Earp and his brothers. For a while there was considerable question as to whether it was a fair fight.”

  “Was it?” Jacquie tipped her head to the side curiously.

  “It depends on whether you were talking to one of the Clantons’ friends or an Earp supporter.” Choya exhaled a cloud of smoke, pinching the match between his fingers. “The general consensus now seems to be that it was.”

  As she digested the information, Jacquie moved toward the entrance to the gift shop. The long cylindrical stalks of an unfamiliar type of cactus caught her attention. Its wayward growth resembled a pincushion, minus the cushion. She paused beside it.

  “What kind of cactus is this?”

  “An ocotillo,” Choya answered.

  “Got it.” She’d picked up on the y sound and mentally spelled it with a double l.

  The faint narrowing of his eyes revealed that he’d guessed she was wondering if it was the cactus he’d been named for. Jacquie only shrugged and didn’t ask. She didn’t feel like baiting him. And fences were a safe subject. He seemed to think so too.

  “As you can see,” he went on, “the fence separating the parking lot from the cemetery is made from the stalks of the ocotillo. It was a common practice years ago to make solid stick corrals from the ocotillo because there wasn’t much lumber around here.”

  “It doesn’t look all that strong.” Jacquie studied it.

  “The thorns are just about as effective as barbed wire.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” She walked on.

  He shrugged and reached around her and opened the door to the gift shop. “By the way, you still haven’t given me your answer.”

  For an instant, the carved male features were close to her own face and Jacquie’s heart turned over. A searing fire flashed through her veins. The impulse again returned with impulsive sweetness to feel the hard pressure of his mouth against her own.

  This time she didn’t give in to the desire as she had done before. They were in a public place and that helped. The totally elemental reaction she had to him whenever he was near was controllable. It took a lot of effort, but she could do it.

  “What answer?” Her blankness was not deliberate. Jacquie was concentrating on letting her senses recover so she could think clearly.

  The clerk in the gift shop glanced up when they entered. Choya smiled slightly and nodded, a fl
icker of impatience in his tawny gaze. There was no one else in the shop by now and Jacquie guessed by his silence that he didn’t want the clerk overhearing their conversation.

  His hand firmly grasped her elbow and escorted her out the door to the parking lot, releasing her immediately. Her skin tingled where his fingers had made their imprint.

  “I asked that you wouldn’t encourage my son, and I want your answer that you won’t,” Choya demanded calmly as they paused beside the jeep. His gaze flickered with buried flame, but there was no other outward display of emotion.

  “If I see Robbie, I’ll be polite and friendly,” she declared. She looked back at Choya’s face, irritated that she could still be so attracted to the man. “But I’ll make it clear that I’m leaving tomorrow—very clear. Does that satisfy you?”

  There was relief in his eyes. “Yes, it does. Would you like a lift back to your motel?”

  Jacquie passionately wished she could tell him no, but the memory of the painful gravel on the roadside deterred her.

  “If it wouldn’t be taking you out of your way,” she agreed with a saccharine smile.

  Now that Choya Barnett had received the answer he wanted, he didn’t appear to think it was necessary to maintain a conversation. The ride was short and Jacquie kept her attention diverted from his strong hands on the wheel—and all the rest of his manly charms—by staring at the unrolling asphalt of the road ahead. Only when he had let her out in front of her motel room did she allow herself to watch him, and then it was from the window of her room as he drove off.

  For nearly two hours, she alternately paced the confines of the small room and lounged on the bed. Her restlessness increased with each ticking second until she felt she would scream if she stayed in the room another minute.

  Her first plan, which was not to appear in town at all, was cast aside. So Choya Barnett wouldn’t like it if she ran into his son in town—so what? She hadn’t promised that she wouldn’t see Robbie, only that she wouldn’t encourage his friendship. There was no need to voluntarily condemn herself into making a prison out of her motel room.

  Sliding her rose-shaded sunglasses onto her nose, she picked up her oversized leather bag and walked out, locking the door behind her. With a map from the motel front office pointing out the buildings of historical significance, she wandered along the old streets for the second time, pausing in front of some buildings and entering others that were open. She avoided the barbershop, where she was sure she’d been the subject of conversation.