Gabriel's Gift

by London, Cait

  Only she could change her life and take what she wanted.

  Miranda looked up to the mountains and knew that she wanted the man there.

  Was she hurt by him? Yes. Miranda slid into Gabriel’s Jeep and knew she was too tired to battle today. But if Gabriel thought he could make all the decisions in her life, he was mistaken.

  Gabriel rubbed the ache in his chest and glanced at the garden seedlings beginning to sprout in Miranda’s window boxes. It was only a few hours since she’d left him and it seemed like a cold eternity. It was for the best, he told himself repeatedly. He shouldn’t have let her see into his heart, shouldn’t have let her know that she’d haunted him all these years.

  He shouldn’t have made love to her. That memory could never be buried or washed away. He’d never forget the way she sighed luxuriously as he tasted her body, the way she moved so easily into his touch, opening to him, giving to him. He’d been careful, mindful of that slender, vulnerable, silken body.

  She was angry with him now, for keeping his secrets. Given time, she would come to know that when they’d made love he’d been greedy for life, for her. But that their lives couldn’t blend—he picked up the intricate Celtic symbols she’d drawn while coming back to herself. Interwoven, they were without end. He drew a fingertip across one design, severing the image of his and Miranda’s lives intertwined. Gabriel shook his head. How could he sever the memory of their passion? How could he not remember the sweet yielding of her body, the softness of her sighs?

  Gabriel drifted the palm of his hand across the dainty seedlings for a garden Miranda wished to make. For once the mountains did not call to him, the winds still howling her name, and having tasted the woman and the dream, he had never been so empty.

  In the new pink dawn, he placed the tomato seedlings on Anna’s step, wanting Miranda to have what she had sowed. The beaded moccasins were products of his hours, trying to stay away from her in his house, giving her time to think and heal.

  On the window above the porch, Miranda watched Gabriel’s tall body stride through the dawn, moving quickly away from her and what they could have had, could have now. Anger quivered within her now, but also excitement. For she had sowed more than seeds at Gabriel’s house…His lovemaking mixed hunger with reverence, tenderness with passion, longing with fulfillment. There was no way she could turn away from that honest, frightening beauty—the insight Gabriel had given her with each touch, each breath. She’d glimpsed more in those few hours than she had in a lifetime and she would grasp it with both fists. She wanted a resolve between them—an equal resolve. “Like it or not, Mr. Gabriel Deerhorn, we are not finished yet. This time, I’m going to be included in the decision-making, whatever it may be.”

  Gabriel ladled water from the bucket onto the hot rocks of his sweat house. Midmorning seemed to hover in the first week of March, tiny slices of day penetrating the cracks between the small building’s overhead boards; outside, blinding sunlight bounced off snow. When the snow melted, the nearby stream would become a small river tumbling down the mountain, feeding Valentina Lake. The weathered gray building, a distance from his house, was scented of the sage and sweet grass he had crumbled onto the coals. Steam slid through the pine boughs placed over the hot rocks and layered the small enclosure. On a plain wooden bench, Gabriel lay naked, sweat pouring from his body, his hands folded behind his head. He inhaled the purifying scents, gave himself to them, and still could not rid himself of the need for Miranda. Miranda.

  She’d been so small and pale, lying in the snow at the foot of her mother’s steps. He’d never been so terrified. She’d seemed empty later, too fragile, mourning her child and her mother. Miranda seemed as if her soul would pass through her skin at any moment, escaping her keep.

  The agony in her eyes as she saw her sister-in-law’s rounding body had been too much for Gabriel. His need to protect Miranda, to keep her from harm, to give her shelter, had been overwhelming.

  Perhaps it was his father’s blood that told him to claim his woman, to keep her near.

  Perhaps his needs were selfish, not only for Miranda’s sake, but for the peace she brought him. Perhaps he took advantage of her—just to scrape that small bit of time from the world and treasure it close against him.

  Two mornings ago Gabriel had wakened with her in his arms. Was that a dream, the soft fragrance of her haunting him? In her, he’d seen his eternity and his essence, in that flashing pinpoint before his desire came flooding into her keeping. He’d known that he was meant to hold her, to give her his child, to keep her safe until the winds took away their breath—together. She’d burned a path to his heart, and that soft scar hurt him more deeply than those of the flesh.

  Flesh? She was more—a part of him now, inside him, moving in his blood, heating it, the fever for her—Gabriel hadn’t been aware of the power of a woman’s calling to him, and he wasn’t certain about his strength against it now—now that he had tasted Miranda. He was angry with himself, and with her. She’d torn away the pretense and exposed his need, his dream of the woman in the smoke.

  Bitterness curled from the scented steam into him. He’d reached and taken. He’d tossed away reality and devoured the few hours with her, reveled in them. Perhaps when the winter years came to him, he would know that it was a dream, and that he did not have the right to touch her. Miranda was probably safely on her way now…away from him.

  Gabriel rubbed his hands over his damp face. What had he been thinking?

  Outside, Fletcher barked happily, probably chasing a rabbit. Gabriel frowned; his house was no longer barren, but softened by her woman’s touch. The bedroom she had used, carried her fragrance.

  He would not expose himself to her again. He would retain what little pride he had left.

  Gabriel reached for the ladle and just as he was to pour it on the hot stones, the door of the sweat house jerked open. A shaft of blinding midmorning sunlight hit him, outlining a woman’s long legs and curved body.

  The steam shifted, and catching the sudden sweeping blast of fresh air, the coals ignited, tiny flames dancing around the pine needles. Then the door closed and Miranda eased onto another bench, lying down on it, her hands behind her head.

  The slice of sunshine passing through the boards on the roof softened as it fell on her long, curved body, the dips and curves and fullness that marked her as a woman. Scraps of lace covered her breasts and hips.

  Perhaps he was dreaming; Gabriel lifted the ladle and poured the water over his head. He tried to remain calm, to cover his emotions while his heart leaped at the sight of her. “I suppose you think this is funny.”

  She turned slowly to him. In the half-light, her green eyes burned through the layers of steam to him, her face pale amid that shifting silky black hair. “I saw no reason to disturb your meditation. Please go ahead.”

  “You’ve come for your things. I will bring them back for you.” He hadn’t been able to stand the thought of wrenching her presence away from him.

  “Don’t you dare…. You talk too much.”

  Gabriel inhaled, the gentle verbal slap unfamiliar to him. He had always been a quiet man. He had—the steam had dampened the lace covering her, clinging to her, and Gabriel tried to remember what he had been about to say.

  Miranda closed her eyes and placed her arms at her side, lying still, breathing slowly. Gabriel tried not to trace that long, soft body, the flow of her breast, the dip of her stomach, the jut of her hipbones and the slender strength of her thighs. He remembered the clamping pressure of them along his hips, the ebb and flow of her body against his, the cries that seemed drawn from her soul—

  Gabriel rubbed his head and sat up. He poured water onto the rocks and fought his dancing nerves as the steam hissed. He rummaged for a logical protest and managed, “This is a man’s place,” he managed finally, firmly, in his best eviction notice.

  She squirmed slightly on the wooden bench. The movement was sensuous, feminine and caused Gabriel’s throat to tighten. Sh
e smiled slightly, drowsily as if settling into the steam and comfort. “Mmm. I know. It feels like you.”

  She was too quiet and Gabriel resented the question erupting harshly from him. “Why are you here?”

  Miranda took her time in answering. “To set the terms.”

  Again, he was forced to pursue her. His mind cautioned, but he could not resist. “Terms?”

  She stirred luxuriously, a strand of black hair clinging damply to her smooth cheek. “I have my pride. You have yours. Mine is no less than yours, Gabriel. It’s time you recognized that.”

  “Pride does not come into this.”

  “So says you.”

  Gabriel frowned at the challenge, so unlike sweet teenage Miranda. She had crossed into a woman and he realized from experience with his mother and sister that feminine emotions were as safe as a lake’s thin ice, or a wildfire searing the tops of the pines. Her gaze slowly took in his body as he sat, frowning at her. That dancing of his senses told him he wanted her, here and now. That primitive beat pounded him relentlessly.

  “There’s nothing here now but you and me,” she said softly. “There is nothing else to consider. There is no past and no one else involved. Just you and me,” she repeated.

  “You know this isn’t right.” Gabriel scrubbed his shaking hands over his face. In another minute, he’d be moving over her, in her, that dark fever escaping his tethers—And where would it lead? Nowhere. Nothing had changed. Miranda was meant for one world, and his path was set for another, just as it was years ago. “What do you want?” he repeated darkly.

  “I want the courting time we missed.”

  Gabriel shook his head and droplets of water sprayed across the layers of steam. Miranda’s eyes were narrowed now, pinning him. “I have my pride, too. You took me in, gave me shelter at a time when I needed it. But I’m past that now, Gabriel, and you’re going to have to deal with what has happened—will happen—between us. You can’t shove me away. You cannot make my decisions for me. If you didn’t want me, that would be one thing. But you do. It’s in every look and touch—now that I see exactly how much you’ve withheld from me.”

  His answer was blunt and from the truth he knew. “It won’t work.”

  “Well, for appearances at least, it’s going to work for a while. I’ve already explained to Fidelity Moore and the ladies that I am handling you gently. In Freedom, you’ve apparently set an image for yourself as a confirmed bachelor. I simply explained that I wanted to give you more time to adjust to life with me, and that for a time, I wanted to court you, living at my house at times, easing you into a situation—”

  “Dammit, I’m not to be trained. And I am not delicate.”

  Miranda’s summation of him was concise and slashed with anger. “No, you’re just arrogant, hardheaded and need bringing down a notch. You think you can set terms? You think you can just waltz up to my home at dawn and give me the most beautiful, thoughtful, most romantic gift I’ve ever had, and then not take the consequences? You think you can come for me in that lovely old-fashioned way that meant so much to you—then discard me?”

  “I did not discard you.” Gabriel did not like the picture she presented. Freedom Valley had known he’d given the bridal price for her, that he’d come for her in the traditional way of his father’s people. “The customs of Freedom Valley allow for a couple who try, but cannot weave their lives together.”

  “It’s difficult to weave when you gave me nothing of yourself. Yes, you gave me a place to heal and the comfort of safety nearby. But you gave me nothing of what runs inside you, all that river of feeling that your eyes express and your body told me was the truth, not some cold excuse. You’re afraid of me, Gabriel. You’re afraid of intimacy with me, of giving me my due—that which is in your heart.”

  The challenge spread across the steam to him. Gabriel refused to answer her goad, to clash verbal swords with her.

  Miranda sat up, frowning at him and Gabriel tried not to look at the dark, nubby circles outlined by the damp lace of her bra. He stared at the hot stones, which seemed more safe than Miranda just now. Still, he couldn’t resist answering her taunt. He slapped the basic facts into the steamy enclosure. “How many degrees do you have, Miranda? How many do I have? What lifestyle suits you? What place? I can’t see you living here with me, the hardships and—”

  He glanced at her, that shaft of midmorning light cutting through the steam to capture Miranda’s pale body, gleaming in the shadows. The need to take her, to claim her was too fierce, pounding at him. Taking a deep breath, Gabriel prepared to leave, and then Miranda’s slender hand reached to flatten on his chest.

  He trembled with desire, some inner instinct that told him to take her. Without force, that pale feminine hand over his heart tethered him. “I’ve come to court you, Gabriel,” Miranda whispered softly. “Do you refuse me?”

  Could he refuse the air coming into his body, sustaining him? Could he refuse the sun that heated the earth, the rain that nurtured it?

  Could he refuse the woman he loved as she shed the damp lace and moved sleekly, damply, warmly into his arms?

  Then the fever and the hunger that was Miranda took Gabriel Deerhorn, leaving him no defense, no logic. Their bodies slid together as if they were meant to be—

  In his house, forty-five minutes later, Gabriel shook his head as Miranda emerged from her shower wearing only his chambray shirt. Folded turban-style, the white towel around her head emphasized her brilliant green eyes. She found him in the shadows of the kitchen area and her brisk efficient movements slowed, her gaze slumberous as it strolled over his bare chest and jeans. “Why, Gabriel. I do believe you’re sulking,” she murmured.

  Gabriel was methodically making sandwiches and trying to assemble what had happened. With one touch, Miranda had destroyed his vow to separate his life from hers, freeing her. He was still stunned at how he’d taken her there in the sweat house, on the floor covered with toweling. This time had been different, for Miranda’s fever fed his own, her teeth nipping at his shoulder, her fingers digging into his back. He rolled a shoulder, suspecting the marks she had left, the pleasure that had riveted him as she came into that trembling pulse of her release. Gabriel prowled through his thoughts carefully: he suspected that Miranda’s passions could tear away his leashes, his intentions to be gentle with her. Just there, with her tossing beneath him, fever hot, their bodies sliding, he’d held her, possessed her, dived in to take what was his. A controlled man, Gabriel had held her hips and lifted them—He closed his eyes, the primitive scene locked in his mind. And as he held her, she held him, a match for the fiery need. He shouldn’t have handled her so roughly—cupping her hips, finding her breasts with his lips, tasting her…

  His hand trembled as he sliced tomatoes for the bacon sandwiches. “I have the feeling you just counted coup—won a small victory and scored a point for your side.”

  “I love feeling like a woman. You make me feel, Gabriel.”

  He studied this woman who could seem so delicate and yet he recognized her inner and physical strength—she could be both fierce and sweet when making love.

  Miranda stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against one corner of his lips and then the other. Gabriel held onto the counter to keep from floating as she slanted him a look and placed a strip of bacon into his mouth. “I drove your Jeep up here with one of your horses tied behind it. I’ll be riding the horse back down.”

  Gabriel tensed, the image of the big cougar he’d seen slashing through his mind. “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m staying in Freedom Valley, Gabriel. I’m not running away and I won’t be pushed away. You’re going to have to deal with me.” Those clear meadow-green eyes searched his face. She skipped from the argument he was prepared to meet into another dazzling realm. “You either lock me out in defense, or run. And I want all of you. I don’t want you to protect me, to think of my best interests, to feed me, or anything else, unless it’s a policy that can be returned in kind. See th
at you let me carry my share now, will you? Are you going to let me court you?”

  Miranda placed her forehead against his shoulder in the old, trusting way and Gabriel fought yielding to the sweet enticement. “It’s a silly thing,” he said finally, his senses reeling with the fresh scent of her. “A woman should not court a man.”

  Then Miranda lifted her mouth to his and the searing hunger drove all else away. Each time he touched her, the need rose more quickly. He couldn’t resist looking down at the soft body resting against him, and unbuttoned her shirt. Her breasts came into his hands as if they belonged in his keeping. The taste of them curled on his tongue, demanding more.

  His hands swept down the indentation of her waist and opened to lock onto her hips, the veed shadows of her womanhood beckoning to him. He thought of the woman in the smoke: Miranda softly curved with his child and he pushed the treasured dream away. She trembled, and worried that his obvious need frightened her, he scanned her expression. Miranda’s smooth hands framed his face, her thumbs soothing the corners of his mouth. Her eyes were clear and green as summer grass. “Love me exactly how you feel,” she whispered. “No pretenses, no logic, no fear of hurting me. In this, give me honesty, what your senses tell you is right.”

  He closed his eyes and her flowing Celtic symbols came to him, the strength and the curve and the endless need that had increased with each touch.

  Later, he drove her to her home, met the softness of her lips, and then alone again in his barn, wondered what he had done. He rubbed the ache in his chest, and shook his head. Miranda’s courting of him chafed, the roles reversed. Freedom Valley was based on women taking the lead in dating customs and that put him at Miranda’s disposal. He wasn’t certain if he liked that or not. It was only a temporary game, he decided, Miranda’s mind and body coming alive…nothing could come of it and then she’d be gone. Miranda…. “Maybe I am delicate,” he admitted and wondered what her next move would be.