Christy

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Fond?” Bridget challenged in a taut whisper. “You’re going to be sharing his life. His bed. And believe me, fond ness will be small comfort—”

  Christy put her hands over her ears. “Stop.”

  But Bridget went right on. “Have you ever experienced passion, Christy? Have you ever thought you’d lose your mind over a certain man’s kisses and caresses?”

  “ Stop.” Christy was pleading by then. She had dreamed of just such kisses and caresses, it was true, but lately in her imaginings, the man holding her in his arms was Zachary Shaw.

  “I won’t,” Bridget persisted. “What I’ve found with Trace—when we’re alone together, I mean—is, well, it’s magical. It’s intoxicating. I never imagined—” She blushed. “I married Mitch McQuarry because I liked him so much, because I thought somehow having a wife and family might keep him home from the war. What I’m trying to say is, it wasn’t like that with Mitch. It was tender. It was fond . And now that I understand what love—real love—between a man and a woman can mean—”

  Christy looked away, still hugging herself, nearer tears than ever. She was innocent of any man’s touch, fond or otherwise, but she grasped what Bridget was saying only too well. “I’d better send Megan to the creek for more water,” she said, out of pure desperation. “The men will be needing lots of it, I think, working so hard in this heat.”

  “You’re not going to listen, are you?” Bridget’s voice was quiet. Angrily resigned. “You’re just going to go charging right ahead and ruin not only your own life but Jake’s, too. And probably Megan’s for good measure. Well, don’t come crying to me when you’re trapped in a loveless marriage and wanting Zachary every day and every night until the day you die.”

  Christy stared at her cousin. “How—what—?” “How did I know you were sweet on Zachary? I’ve got eyes in my head, Christy. I saw the way you look at him. And, I might add, I saw the way he looks at you.”

  Christy’s traitorous and undisciplined heart skipped over a beat and landed, skidding, upon the next. She could not keep herself from searching Zachary out with her eyes, finding him. Sure enough, he was watching her. Standing stock still, with his hands on his hips and his blond hair shining and his expression solemn. Even sad.

  “I’d best get home,” Bridget said, rising with some difficulty from her perch on the mossy rock. “Noah is probably running wild, and poor Skye is so smitten with the little stinker, she’ll be letting him get away with murder.” She paused. “Think about what I said, Christy,” she warned. “Think about it.”

  Christy did not answer. Couldn’t answer. It was as though she and Zachary were linked by some fierce and fiery current; although well out of earshot, and certainly beyond his reach, he might have been touching Christy. Might have been caressing her cheeks with the sides of his thumbs, getting ready to kiss her—

  With a violent effort, she wrenched her gaze free of his and turned away, bent on fetching more water, having completely forgotten that she’d meant for Megan to do that chore.

  Dear God, Zachary wondered, why did he keep letting himself in for the kind of trouble a woman like Christy McQuarry could stir up? If he didn’t stay away from her, he was bound to do something downright stupid, like haul her into his arms and kiss her so she stayed kissed. She’d probably shoot him for it, once she recovered, but it would almost be worth it.

  He rubbed the back of his neck once, before turning to his work again. In the process, of course, he’d lose one of the best friends he had—Jake Vigil. For Jake was plainly just as taken with Miss McQuarry as he was.

  For the remainder of that long, long day, he steered clear of Christy, working on top of the roof, once the joists and ridgepole had been lifted into place, on the strength of muttered curses, mules, steel cable, and a pulley the size of a wagon wheel, pounding nails with more force than the task required.

  In the end, it was all for nothing, though, because when he climbed down the ladder, aching in every joint and longing for a hot bath and a double shot of whiskey, she was standing right there, with a ladle of water in one hand and fathoms of sorrow in her gray eyes. Without speaking, she handed him the ladle, and he took it and drank.

  He nodded his thanks, and they just stood there, staring at each other, for a long time. And suddenly, he realized just how deep it went, what he felt for her. How it had taken root in his very soul.

  “Mr. Shaw—I—”

  He waited; he wanted to hear what she had to say, and, besides that, he was so shaken by his own realization that he didn’t trust himself not to trip over his own tongue if he opened his mouth.

  Her cheeks turned a delicious shade of apricot, and her eyes were the color of a cloudy sky. “I just wanted to tell you that—well—there’s a whole pig cooking over at Bridget and Trace’s place.” She paused and flushed again, plainly at a loss. He wanted to grin, didn’t dare. “There’s going to be an outdoor supper. For everybody who helped with the roof.”

  He nodded, waited. A gentleman would probably have gotten her off the proverbial hook, but he was no gentleman and had never pretended to be.

  “You’re invited.” She didn’t look all that pleased and added reluctantly, “Same as everybody else.”

  He chuckled, thrust one hand through his hair, which was full of sweat and sawdust. “Well, now,” he said, surprising himself that he could speak at all, let alone in a slow drawl, “I guess I’ve had more enthusiastic invitations in my time, but I do favor roasted pork, and I am about as hungry as I’ve ever been.” He sketched a slight bow, one that would never pass muster in the gracious drawing rooms and parlors of the fancy folks back east and in England. “Thank you, Miss McQuarry. I’ll be honored to attend.”

  She turned on one heel, without so much as a parting word, and walked away.

  Damnation, he thought, enjoying the sway of her rounded hips and the fire of a dying sun in her ebonydark hair. Here he’d made himself a sensible plan—to stay away from Christy—and as soon as he found himself face-to-face with her, he turned witless as a post. As for that other part, the part that would have him on one knee proposing marriage, well, it showed no signs of waning.

  He was still watching her and pondering his own contradictory and misguided nature, when a hearty slap on the shoulder snapped him out of his reverie.

  Jake Vigil laughed, a sound that had been known to set boulders rolling downhill, but there wasn’t a whole lot of humor in his face. In fact, his usually friendly eyes were cold as high-country creek water in January. “Looks like you and I have taken a shine to the same filly, my friend,” he said.

  Zachary almost conceded the match, then and there, for he knew he’d been dealt a losing hand when it came to Christy McQuarry, but there was something inside him that wouldn’t stand still for that. He’d lost one woman, one he’d loved very much. He hadn’t had a chance then, but this time he did, however slim. However fleetingly, he’d known when he looked into Christy’s eyes that she was drawn to him. “Looks like it,” he agreed grimly. “I don’t mind saying I wish things were different, though.”

  Jake’s gaze was following Christy as she went to each of the workmen, shook his hand, and extended smiling thanks. It made Zachary’s gut clench, seeing her smile like that at anybody who wasn’t him; he felt like a buck in springtime, looking for a fight.

  “You’ll find yourself a wife in time,” Jake said, and his tone was not without sympathy. The West was a lonely place, and the companionship of a good woman was no small consideration. A beautiful, intelligent, and spirited one, like Christy, was of infinite worth. “I mean to have Miss McQuarry there gracing my front parlor before the first snow.”

  Zachary had a few thoughts along that line himself—places Christy might grace—and none of them had to do with a parlor. Not that he had one, living at Miss Nelly’s the way he did. He put out a hand to his friend. “I wish you the best of luck,” he said.

  Jake frowned, shaking Zachary’s hand in a distracted way. “But you don
’t mean to back down, do you?”

  Zach grinned. “I’m sorry. That’s something I never really got the knack of doing.”

  Jake’s responding grin was genuine if a little slippery. “Me, either,” he said. “Now, I believe I’m going to have myself some of that roast pig over at the Qualtroughs’ place.”

  Zachary retrieved his hat from the low branch where he’d left it and settled it on his head. “Sounds good,” he answered.

  After everyone had eaten all the pork they could hold, seated around the big bonfire in front of Bridget and Trace’s house, Malcolm Hicks brought out a fiddle and began to play. Christy had never seen such a transformation in a man. Dour and silent before, Mr. Hicks became animated the instant he lifted his bow; his teeth flashed in a brilliant smile, and his eyes danced with enjoyment.

  Soon another man joined in, pulling a harmonica from his shirt pocket. Members of the gathered crowd, tired from their hard work and sated by a delicious meal, clapped in time and tapped their feet. Trace swept a laughing Caney into his arms and waltzed her once, twice, around the fire, double-time. Then Megan whirled by, beaming, with young Caleb. Christy took a step forward, only to find herself whisked into the embrace of Zachary Shaw, going for a dizzying spin.

  She felt as if she’d taken a particularly bad spill from a horse; there was no breath at all in her lungs, and she was a little dazed into the bargain. She hadn’t the sense to protest and wasn’t sure she would have done so, even if she’d been able.

  In a moment, they were outside the rim of firelight, in the darkness, and the sounds of the party seemed to come from far, far away. Without any warning whatsoever, Zachary pulled Christy against him, bent his head, and kissed her. She squirmed at first, but then she was lost, returning the kiss, responding shamelessly, body and soul.

  Finally, he set her away from him, though his hands remained on her upper arms. “That’s all I wanted to know,” he said. Then, hoarsely, “Christy?”

  She drew a deep breath in an attempt to steady herself, but she was hopelessly adrift. The kiss, like the dance, had sent her spinning. “Y-yes?”

  “Remember that.” Then, as though he hadn’t behaved badly enough already, he kissed her again, as soundly as before and at greater length. “And that,” he said, gasping a little, when it was over. Then he simply walked away, leaving her standing there in the tall grass, every part of her still pulsing with a desire that would never be fulfilled. And at last, at long, long last, Christy McQuarry broke down and cried.

  “It’s good to have a proper roof over our heads again, at least,” Caney remarked that night, when she and Christy and Megan had returned to the lodge. They all regarded their hay bale beds without enthusiasm, though, and Christy couldn’t help remembering crisp linen sheets and feather mattresses and plump pillows. The fire burned low, flinging shadows onto the log walls of the lodge, and, far away, a coyote called a plaintive song to the moon.

  “Umm,” said Christy, who did not want to talk. Her eyes were still puffy, despite all the icy creek water she’d splashed onto her face, and she was afraid something in her voice would betray her feelings if she said too much. She undressed as far as her bloomers and camisole and laid herself down with a sigh.

  “We got a door, too,” Caney went on. “Fancy that. Up to now, an Injun or an old bear could have walked right in here and said how-dya-do.”

  “Um-hmm,” Christy replied.

  Megan, too, had gotten hastily into bed, and within a few moments, she was snoring delicately, all danced out.

  “He’ll make you a fine husband.”

  If Caney didn’t get an answer of some sort, she’d just go right on chattering, half the night. “Jake?” Christy asked sleepily.

  “Zachary,” Caney said with surety.

  Christy’s eyes flew open. “Nonsense. You know how I feel about him.”

  “Exactly,” came the satisfied response. “I saw you go off in the dark with that marshal. So did most everybody else, I reckon. Did he steal a kiss?”

  Two, Christy thought, reliving them both in the space of a moment and fairly melting in the heat. That’s all I wanted to know, he’d said.

  “Of course not,” she lied.

  Caney chuckled. “Well, he might as well have, ’cause everybody thinks he did. Jake Vigil was fit to bite nails in half, and there were a few other unhappy fellers in the crowd, too.”

  Christy’s face flamed in the darkness. It was morti fying to imagine the others gossiping about her, even though the rumors were true. And if she’d ruined her chances with Mr. Vigil, she would never forgive herself.

  Saturday took its sweet time coming, but it finally arrived, and Christy was ready for the party long before it was time to leave for town. Caney and Megan had fussed all afternoon with her hair, and she’d taken in her mother’s yellow silk, the French design with the daring neckline and sumptuous lace, so that it fit her perfectly, showing her figure off to best advantage. Caney was wearing her “church dress,” a black bombazine, its austerity partially relieved by a modest pendant her late husband, Titus, had given her. Megan, with her auburn hair, ivory skin, and meadow-green eyes, looked like a visiting angel or a wood nymph in her gown of lightweight wine-colored velvet, also salvaged from Jenny’s wardrobe.

  “Skye and I have been perishing to see the inside of Mr. Vigil’s house!” Megan confided, flushed with excitement at the prospect of a social evening. It had been a long time since either she or Christy had attended any sort of dress-up affair. “It looks so grand from the outside.”

  “Don’t it, now?” Caney ruminated, but she was watching Christy as she spoke, not Megan. “I reckon the bed’s mighty cold of a night, though, if there’s no love there to fill it.”

  Christy glared.

  “What?” Megan asked. Bless her heart, she was genuinely puzzled. When she got no reply, she prattled on. “Skye’s madly in love with Mr. Vigil. I’m not supposed to tell, but there it is, I told.”

  “I reckon that’ll pass,” Caney said, “and Miss Skye will find somebody else entirely.” Her tone was firm, and her gaze, still fixed on Christy, did not so much as flicker. “ ’Fact, why don’t you go and see if Trace is about ready with that wagon, Miss Megan. I don’t fancy walkin’ to town, party or no party.”

  Megan glanced at Christy, then pulled a shawl over her shoulders and went outside to watch for Trace and Bridget, Skye, and little Noah.

  “If you’re about to preach to me, Caney Blue,” Christy warned in a whisper, “you’d do well to think better of it. I have had this argument with Bridget, and I will not have it with you.”

  Caney was a model of exasperated disgust. “You’re a stiff-necked McQuarry, that’s what you are.”

  “We’ve already established that.”

  Caney shook a finger. “Don’t you smart-mouth me, young lady. You don’t choose to argue, that’s just fine with me. But you ain’t got no choice but to listen!”

  Just when the woman would have launched into a loud and colorful, not to mention familiar, sermon, arms waving for emphasis, they heard the unmistakable sounds of a team and wagon, and Megan burst through the door, eyes shining with eager excitement. “They’re here!” she cried.

  Christy hoped her sister’s lively state of mind had nothing to do with Mr. Caleb Strand, though she sus pected he was indeed the reason for Megan’s special, sparkling prettiness. “Thank heaven,” Christy said in the face of Caney’s scowl.

  “You don’t need to think this discussion is over, miss,” that good woman warned forcefully, “ ’cause it ain’t.”

  Christy donned her own shawl, a gossamer affair of filmy antique lace, made for beauty rather than warmth. She picked up the lantern and started for the door. “Let’s not keep the Qualtroughs waiting,” she said cheerfully.

  The bed of the wagon was spacious and padded with fresh straw. Skye and Noah were already seated amid the spiky gold, smiling at the prospect of an evening of fun. Bridget was beside Trace in the box, and once a
gain Christy noticed a glow about her cousin, as though she’d swallowed the moon whole.

  Trace greeted the three women with a grin and a tilt of his hat, then climbed down from the wagon seat to help them aboard. Bridget held the reins competently while he lifted first Caney, then Megan, and finally Christy herself up into the fragrant straw. Noah scrambled up on his own. “We’re going to be late!” he crowed.

  “My goodness,” Christy said, finding a place near Skye in the center of the wagon bed, “we’ll be half an hour picking the hay from our hair.”

  Bridget chuckled but offered no comment. Caney and Megan settled themselves at the edge of the tailgate, which Trace had left suspended from its hinges, their limbs dangling over the ground.

  “I reckon Mr. Hicks is goin’ to be there,” Caney said, making no effort whatsoever to hide her infatuation with a man she barely knew. She was going to get herself a reputation if she didn’t take care.

  Aren’t you a fine one to talk, Christy scolded herself. Heart all aflutter for one man and planning to marry another. “Who will we see at this party?” she asked aloud.

  “Everybody,” Skye answered. She looked very grown-up in her pale blue taffeta dress. Her hair was pinned into a loose knot at the back of her head, and her dark brown eyes gleamed with delight. Christy wondered if her young cousin really was infatuated with Mr. Vigil and if she’d be hurt when he married.

  “Including Zachary Shaw, I reckon,” Caney put in, unsolicited.

  Christy ignored her, or tried to, anyway. Caney Blue was not an easy woman to overlook, even in the best of circumstances. When she was determined to be heard, she was impossible.

  “It’s true that everyone will be there,” Bridget put in, as Trace, beside her again, took up the reins and released the brake lever. “Out here, when there’s a party, it’s just assumed that all and sundry are welcome. You might see anyone from the governor to a fancy woman from the Golden Garter or Diamond Lil’s.”