Christmas Star (Contemporary, Romance)

by Roz Denny Fox

  Harrison seemed willing to change the subject. “If we can believe the weather bureau, your idyllic mountain vacation is almost over. They’re predicting a mass of warm air blowing in from Baja and snow should melt in lower elevations tonight. It’ll hit you by morning.”

  “Vacation?” snorted Clay. “This is hardly Club Med.”

  Harrison laughed. Clay saw Starr signaling him, so he clicked off for a moment.

  She came back and took the mike again. “How is SeLi?” she asked a bit wistfully. “Is she where I could talk to her?”

  “I don’t quite know how to tell you, Starr, but I don’t think she even misses you.” Harrison laughed, sounding his old self. “I’m out in Hank’s office. SeLi and Morgan are up at the house writing letters to Santa. I tell you, Starr, those two are acting just like brother and sister. She’s been good for Morgan.”

  Starr was positive the color left her face. But maybe not, as Clay took the mike without giving her an I-told-you-so look. She clenched her fists. SeLi and Morgan were nothing alike. They weren’t!

  “We’ll sign off now,” Clay said. “Call if you hear of any change in the weather.”

  “Roger. Say, if that woman calls back, what shall I tell her?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Clay said. He didn’t want Harrison brooding over it and perhaps remembering Wanda’s voice. “If we get a Chinook, maybe Starr and I’ll poke around some more out where I found her. I started thinking. What if it’s fumes of some kind? Maybe Calexco’s flunkies didn’t cap their test well properly.”

  Harrison didn’t reply. Clay tried to make contact several times and finally gave up. “Guess we lost him. Must be the storm. I’ll buzz him back tomorrow.”

  Starr sighed wearily. “It’s not fumes.” She slumped into one of the two kitchen chairs, dropped her head and began to rub her temples. “I’m not sure what chemical action takes place. Somehow, when Drixathyon is mixed with water its properties change.” She shook her head and sat upright. “Did you get the feeling that bunch at Calexco thinks wildlife is dispensable? I don’t understand people like that.”

  Clay’s heart twisted. She was such a compassionate person. Animals. Kids. She’d been giving as a lover, too. Only too aware he shouldn’t touch her when he was in this frame of mind, Clay walked up behind her and began to slowly massage her neck and shoulders.

  “Would you tell me again everything you know about this Drixathyon?” Tilting her head back, he smiled down into her eyes.

  Although her headache was subsiding under Clay’s hands, a different type of tension had built. She reminded herself she didn’t want him picking her theories apart.

  But even after she told Clay she didn’t want to go back over old ground, she hadn’t counted on his persistence—or his magical fingers.

  Her head lolled back and she groaned.

  “Please.” He kneaded her shoulders and smiled that engaging smile again.

  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if they batted it around. After all, he might pick up on something she’d missed. Bit by bit, Starr went over what had happened from the time she left the ranch.

  Clay’s fingers tightened when she told him how she felt after drinking from the stream.

  “That’s basically all there is to tell,” she said, pulling away. She stood up and crossed to the kitchen to brew a new pot of coffee.

  “Not much solid evidence to go on.” Clay carried their cups to the sink and rinsed them.

  “Enough for me. I’m sure it’s Drixathyon. I just don’t know how it got in the stream. I hadn’t realized they used it in drilling on land. To be truthful, I didn’t dream I’d ever run across it again. If I knew more, I might have saved those last two ewes,” she said sadly.

  Clay slid his hand beneath her chin and turned her face to his. “Don’t blame yourself. You did everything possible given the weather. If it clears tomorrow, as Harrison said, we’ll go find that stream and take a look around.”

  “I will. You should go back to the ranch. This is my job, not yours, Clay.”

  “Nonsense.” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “That stream originates underground. Maybe the drillers accidentally blundered into it. Do you have any idea what we’d be looking for? Pellets? Granules?”

  Starr gazed at him helplessly. “On the offshore rigs it was liquid. They pumped mud or sludge through the Drixathyon. The way I understood, it changed color if the properties in crude oil were present. On land, I honestly don’t know how it would work. And I’ve turned it over in my head so many times I feel like my brain’s going to self-destruct.”

  Clay led her to the kitchen table, pushed her lightly down into a chair and returned a moment later with a steaming cup of coffee. He ruffled her auburn curls. “Why don’t you relax? I’ll see what Paul-baby has stashed for supper. There’s nothing we can do until it stops snowing. Might as well make ourselves at home until it does.”

  Starr didn’t return his smile. “Clay, if you’re suggesting we play house...”

  “I wasn’t. But I’d certainly entertain the idea.” He bent and brushed a soft kiss on her forehead.

  She pulled back. Even the rough texture of his shirtsleeve where it touched her cheek was much too appealing.

  However, Clay read the truth in her eyes—that she was just as affected by the kiss as he. Gently he pulled her from the chair and settled a real kiss on her lips.

  Their two bodies fused perfectly. On a sigh, she rose up to kiss him back.

  Groaning, Clay took the kiss deeper. All at once a gust of wind rattled the door. It blew open and the chair that had been tilted beneath the knob fell to the floor with a crash

  They sprang apart.

  Starr licked her lips. “Clay, we can’t do this,” she said.

  “If we don’t, it’s going to be a long night,” he muttered, dashing over to right the chair and close the door.

  When he came back, expecting to take up where he’d left off, she reached up to touch his face. “Listen to me, Clay. I didn’t have anything in the way of birth control. We took a chance this morning.”

  “I see.” He cupped her hand. “Everything happened so fast I didn’t think.” Truth was, he wouldn’t mind if she was pregnant. He wanted her to be the mother of his children. Obviously she didn’t feel the same way.

  “Maybe we should eat,” he said gruffly. Leaving her hand hovering in midair, he turned and stalked to the stove. He savagely ripped the top off a box of macaroni and cheese that he’d set out earlier, filled a pan with water and slapped it on a burner. “Rifle through those cupboards under the shortwave and see if you can come up with a deck of cards or something,” he growled without looking at her. “We’re gonna need something to occupy our time.” He grabbed a packet of skim-milk powder. “Should never have started this,” he muttered. Should have waited, he meant, until circumstances were better.

  She gazed at him steadily. So there it was, plain as day. He regretted their lovemaking. Sex, she corrected. If he didn’t care for her the way she cared for him, it reduced what they’d shared to a one-night stand. Meaningless sex. One-morning stand, she thought hysterically.

  If Clay had the faintest idea what was going through Starr’s mind, he might not have been so desperate to focus on the recipe for macaroni and cheese. What kept getting in the way of his reading the fine print was the knowledge that if she didn’t find something to keep them entertained—and his mind off making love to her—Clay thought he’d have to spend the night in the shed with the horses.

  Maybe he should do that, anyway, guilty as he felt. This was the first time in his life that he hadn’t taken responsibility for protecting his partner. To make matters worse, the issue between Starr and him was a whole lot more complicated than sex. And dammit, they still had some unfinished business to clear up before he could, in good conscience, declare his love.

  Just then the water boiled over, sizzled and spat against the hot burner. Clay leapt back and swore. Earlier, when he’d been chopping wood,
he’d planned out how he’d court her. She deserved candlelight, wine and bouquets of flowers. All the traditional symbols of romance. He finished preparing the powdered milk and poured some over the macaroni.

  What if she won’t have you? a little voice jeered. After all, Starr didn’t seem to need a man in her life. Clay scowled and stirred the cheese in so hard it flew up all over the sides of the pan and out onto his shirt.

  From across the room, Starr sneaked peeks at him as she got down on her hands and knees and searched the cupboard he’d suggested. His horrendous frown and the way he was beating up that pasta spelled only one thing to her. Clay McLeod was no longer interested in having her as his lover—or, as he’d offered earlier, his mistress.

  “Mistress, indeed!” She dug out a dusty checkerboard tucked deep in a corner of one shelf and slapped it down on the floor. She yanked out a box of checkers, and the lid flew off the box, raining checkers everywhere. It matched her bad mood perfectly.

  The crash had Clay glancing up from placing the macaroni dish on the table. He was treated to a view of Starr’s derriere in the air as she dived after a checker that had rolled under one of the daybeds.

  Clay almost dropped their meal. “Leave those, for Pete’s sake. Come and eat while it’s hot.”

  Hurt by his surly attitude, Starr stood and slammed the box of checkers down on the cabinet so hard it bounced off again. “Don’t take your bad temper out on me, McLeod. I don’t like being here any more than you do.” Feeling mutinous, she stormed over to the sink to wash her hands—missing the pained expression that crossed his face.

  They sat and consumed their meager supper in total silence.

  When he’d polished off the last forkful, Clay cleared his throat. “I, uh, made a worthwhile discovery. Old Paul had a sparkling wine hidden up on the top shelf—and a very good year.” He rose, draped a tea towel over his arm and returned with a slender green bottle, which he placed before Starr with all the flourish of a wine steward.

  Reluctant at first, she soon grasped it as a lifeline. “Bless old Paul,” she joked. “And here I thought he only hung out with a blue ox. Champagne and checkers in front of a roaring fire. Why, I know people who pay hundreds of dollars for such luxury. We have it free. What more could a woman ask?”

  Clay might have mentioned a few things, but didn’t.

  Starr read the message his eyes telegraphed and imagined the obvious addition to the picture she’d unwittingly painted. That of two lovers sharing a soft rug in front of a cozy fire.

  Shivering, she said his name, half-begging, half-panicking, as she jumped to her feet. Afraid he understood the part she’d left unsaid, she murmured lightly, “I’m no good with corks. You do the honors and I’ll see if old Paul has wineglasses.”

  She found only water glasses. But that way, it didn’t seem quite so...romantic.

  The wine was relaxing, the fire soothing. Their natural competitiveness soon edged out the wariness with which they’d entered the game.

  After two games that both ended in a dead heat, they moved from the table to the rug. When they’d reached a three-game tie, both were feeling quite mellow. Enough to joke about skipping the tiebreaker. Suddenly a log fell, scattering sparks across the checkerboard.

  The wine hadn’t dulled Clay’s reflexes. He bounded up, yanked Starr aside and thrust her behind him all in one motion. Then he shook the board and stamped out a few glowing embers that hit the rug.

  “You didn’t get burned, did you?” he asked her anxiously.

  “No.” She ran a hand through her hair and laughed nervously. “But that definitely decided the fate of the last game.” Her teasing glance followed the flight of the checkers, one or two still circling on the floor.

  Clay shrugged. “It’s late.”

  She nodded and yawned.

  He looked at his watch, reluctant to call an end to the day. “It’s after eleven. Where’s the time gone?” he murmured. “We haven’t solved even half the world’s problems.”

  She smiled. “I can’t believe we agreed on as much as we did. I enjoyed myself. Did you?”

  Clay smoothed a hand over her springy curls. “Very much.”

  Starr felt the quiver of his touch clear to her toes. Retreating, she knelt and began gathering the game pieces.

  “I’ll do the dishes while you take a turn in the bathroom,” he offered. “Don’t rush. I need to check on the horses and see what the weather’s doing.”

  “Okay, but which bed do you want?”

  Her husky question was almost more than Clay could handle. He turned toward the sink. With his back to her, he said, “You take the one we, uh, the one you... Hell, just pick one. Toss half the blankets on the other. I gave you most of them last night. You won’t find me so generous tonight.”

  “Ha! This morning you had them all.” Silence fell as Starr realized what she’d said.

  Clay studied her as she bent over to put the board away. Abruptly, he turned off the water, snatched up his jacket and strode outside.

  Starr resisted the urge to run to the door and watch his progress. She couldn’t, however, take a chance on his glancing back and seeing her. Each time their eyes met, she longed to be in his arms. If she could have one more wish on SeLi’s Christmas star...

  Afraid to linger in case he come back too soon, Starr took a quick turn in the bathroom. Then, fully clothed, she dived under the covers. With luck, maybe she’d be asleep when he returned.

  Clay stood in the doorway to the shed for a long time just watching the cabin. The horses were restless from prolonged confinement, just as he was. He tried calming them with soft, meaningless words.

  Apparently the ranger was a smoker; either that, or the guy was trying to quit, for Clay had found an unopened pack stuck in a flowerpot. Clay himself had been doing so well. Now, however, he thought a smoke was just what he needed.

  He tore open the pack and shook one out. Unwilling to leave the shelter, he let it dangle loose and unlit between his lips as he idly stroked the pinto’s neck. A steady drip-drip of water from the eaves told him the weather was warming at last.

  He went back to the door and leaned against the frame. If he could make it through the night, tomorrow they’d get back to the ranch and tie up all the loose ends. Only after the lights went out in the cabin were his hands steady enough to light the cigarette. But as a silver moon drifted between the clouds, Clay dropped the half-finished cigarette and ground it out under the heel of his boot.

  If the thaw continued, allowing them to find the Drixathyon, Starr would pack up and leave. Clay didn’t want that. But if for any reason they had to stay cooped up one more day, he thought he’d lose his mind.

  Taking time to pull a last handful of greenery for each horse, Clay left the shed and jogged toward the cabin. He prayed Starr was fast asleep.

  Inside, he navigated by a single ribbon of moonlight. The fire was down to a glowing bed of coals. He added two logs, then made short work of his nightly routine. He passed Starr’s bed on tiptoe, taking note that she was curled up facing the wall.

  His boots were wet and he had trouble getting them off. Once that was done, he quietly removed his jeans and shirt and crawled under the blankets Starr had left spread out on his bed. He sighed as he settled into a reasonably comfortable position.

  Starr heard every move he made. She ground her teeth, forcing herself to remain silent. He’d tried so hard to be quiet she didn’t have the heart to tell him she was awake. But knowing he was so close, she couldn’t keep from stirring.

  “Starr, are you awake?” Clay’s gravelly voice came from very near her own pillow.

  Blast! She’d forgotten the heads of their two beds touched. Why hadn’t she slid them apart?

  “Are you cold or what?” Again his soft voice floated over her. She felt his body shift, and though she kept her eyes closed, she knew he’d raised himself up on one elbow to look at her.

  “Hot,” she mumbled, as the flame of desire licked through her
veins. “I’m hot.”

  “No wonder,” Clay chided. “You’re dressed for the outdoors, city girl. The fireplace keeps this room warm. Why don’t you shed half those clothes?”

  Starr flopped over onto her stomach, recalling how she’d awakened this morning nearly naked. Shifting again, she rocked his bed.

  “Will you lie still?” Clay dropped back on his pillow and covered his eyes with a forearm. What control he’d possessed earlier was almost shot to hell.

  Starr knew he was right; she was overdressed. But she’d be darned if she’d give him a peep show in the light of the fire. Lying flat under the covers, she shrugged out of her shirt and wriggled free of her jeans.

  Both beds bounced.

  “Starr—” Clay gnashed his teeth “—stand up and take the damn things off. What do you think? That I’ll attack you?”

  “They’re off.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors.” But he didn’t sound thankful.

  “I wish I had pajamas,” she muttered, wriggling again to get comfortable.

  Clay groaned. “Never thought I’d admit it, but I wish you did, too. Preferably those glow-in-the-dark ones with the feet.”

  She ignored his gibe and pulled a blanket up to her chin. The rough material scratched her skin.

  “What’s wrong now?” he demanded as his bed swayed again.

  “This blanket itches. Maybe I’ll get Paul Bunyan’s shirt to wear. What did you do with it?”

  “It’s on the chair. I’ll get it,” he said quickly. “Stay where you are.” The air left Clay’s lungs as he considered the effect of watching her trot past in her lingerie to find that damned shirt.

  “I don’t need you to wait on me.” Starr stood and marched directly to the chair.

  Clay’s brain was paralyzed. Her skin looked like mother-of-pearl in the flickering firelight. Oh, God, it was pure torture! Swiftly, he turned his face away and counted to ten.