Snowflakes on the Sea

by Linda Lael Miller

  The tiny pearls stitched to Pat’s gown and veil caught rays of stray sunshine from the fanlight window high on the wall behind her and transformed them to tiny rainbows. Even their splendor could not compete with the happy glow of the bride’s face or the shine in her eyes. “Mall,” she choked softly, “oh, Mallory, I’m scared!”

  Mallory embraced this woman who seemed as much her own sister as Nathan’s. “Take a deep breath,” she ordered with mock sternness.

  Pat complied, but her blue eyes looked enormous and a visible shudder ran through her slender lace-and-tulle-clad figure. “What if I faint? Mallory, what if I can’t remember what to say?”

  Mallory chuckled. “You’re as bad as Nathan. You’re not going to faint, Pat, and you know your vows inside and out.”

  Pat shivered. “We shouldn’t have written them ourselves!” she cried in a small rush of last-minute panic. “We should have let Pastor Holloway read from his book! Then it would only have been a matter of repeating what he said—”

  “Patricia!”

  Pat closed her eyes tight and swayed a little inside Mallory’s hug, but then she opened them again and smiled. The first strains of the elderly church organ wafted into the little, sunlit room.

  “Mall—we’re on!”

  Mallory laughed. “Knock ’em dead, McKendrick,” she said softly, and then she led her trembling sister-in-law outside into the fragrant spring day and around to the front doors of the church. There, she surrendered Pat to Nathan.

  Being the matron of honor, Mallory walked proudly down the sun-and-stained-glass-patterned aisle, on the arm of Roger’s best man. She thought what a picture she must present, with her flowered hat, flowing dress and bulging stomach, and bit her lip to keep from giggling. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the occasional reporter scribbling on a notepad, but there were no bursts of blinding light from flash cameras—Nathan and Pastor Holloway had seen to that personally.

  At the orchid-strewn altar, Mallory and the best man parted ways, both turning, as Roger did, to watch Pat’s magnificent entrance.

  Mallory’s heart ached in her throat as Pat and Nathan proceeded slowly toward the front of the church—his face with a touching, concentrating grimace, hers hidden beneath the glistening white net of her flowing veil. When Nathan’s sleeve brushed Mallory’s, she looked up at him and winked discreetly, in silent reassurance. He grinned in response.

  “Who giveth this woman in marriage?” Pastor Holloway demanded, raising his bushy white eyebrows and bending forward slightly to stare at Nathan expectantly.

  Nathan drew a deep breath, and his arm slipped casually around Mallory’s waist. “We do,” he said in a clear voice, and, at the pastor’s crisp nod, he withdrew to take his place in a front pew.

  Mallory was still grinning at the way Nathan had included her in that important moment when the minister began to speak. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here—”

  The house and garden at Angel Cove were positively overflowing with wedding guests and those who had been invited to the reception. Mallory’s feet were throbbing, and she was beginning to feel cornered and slightly frantic when Nathan suddenly appeared beside her and took her arm. He ushered her into the outer hallway with dignity, but, there, he swept her suddenly up into his arms. “I think you’ve had all the celebration you can take in one day,” he announced in a gruff yet tender voice.

  Mallory started to protest that Pat would expect her to stay, but her husband’s determined look silenced her. She was very tired, and she longed for a little quiet solitude, so she didn’t challenge him.

  Without drawing any apparent notice from the crowds gathered to wish Pat and Roger well, Nathan carried Mallory out the front door, down over the lawn and onto the wharf. When he finally set her down, it was on the deck of his impressive cabin cruiser, the Sky Dancer.

  “What—” she muttered, looking around in amazement.

  Nathan grinned and deftly freed the cruiser from its mooring. “We’re escaping,” he said.

  And only minutes later the boat was cutting majestically through the Sound, casting wakes of diamond and sapphire behind her. Mallory sat patiently in the seat beside Nathan’s, filled with a sort of amused wonder.

  At last, the Sky Dancer’s powerful engine died, and they dropped anchor in a secluded cove they had visited many times before. Gently, Nathan gripped Mallory’s arm and led her below into the vessel’s well-appointed cabin.

  It was even more well-appointed than usual, that day—the covers on the wide berthlike bed were turned back to reveal inviting pink satin sheets, and a pine-and-sea scented breeze billowed the new white eyelet curtains covering the portholes.

  Nathan gestured grandly toward the bed. “Much as I’d like to undress you,” he said with a speculative lift of one eyebrow, “I don’t dare. I’ll be back in five minutes, Mrs. McKendrick, and when I return, I expect to find you sleeping.” With that, he turned and left the cabin.

  Feeling lushly loved and shamefully pampered, Mallory removed the dress she’d worn in the wedding, along with her fussy picture hat and the dainty shoes that had been cutting into her swollen feet without mercy. Her tired flesh hungering for the restful, cool smoothness of those satin sheets, she took off her under things, too, and crawled into bed with a sigh of fathomless contentment.

  Nathan returned, as promised, in five minutes, and he frowned sternly when he saw that Mallory wasn’t sleeping.

  “My feet hurt,” she complained.

  He sat down on the end of the bed, still clad in the elegant shirt and trousers he’d worn in Pat’s wedding ceremony, and deftly brought both Mallory’s feet onto his lap. When he began to massage them with strong, gentle hands, she sighed with sheer pleasure.

  In spite of the cool breeze of the day, a powerful heat surged through Mallory’s body as he caressed her toes, her heels, her aching arches.

  “Make love to me, Nathan,” she said in a sleepy, languid whisper.

  “Wanton,” he teased. “You’re too tired and too pregnant.”

  “Too fat, you mean,” she pouted.

  With a sudden motion and a comically evil laugh, Nathan was standing beside the bed, leering. “Too fat, is it?” he boomed, and then he flung back the covers, baring her pear-shaped form, and knelt to kiss her satiny knees tantalizingly, first one, and then the other.

  Mallory moaned, lulled by soft, insistent passion, by the delicate scent of the summery breeze from outside, by the caress of the smooth sheets and the gentle rocking of the boat itself.

  Nathan’s lips travelled up one thigh to the small mountain that was her stomach, scaling it with a series of soul-jarring, butterfly kisses.

  “Nathan—”

  His hands stroked her stomach gently, possessively. “No,” he said.

  “You made me want you,” Mallory argued. “How do you expect me to sleep now, you brute?”

  Nathan laughed gruffly, but one of his hands was already caressing the silken vee between her thighs. “Too much lovemaking is bad when you’re so tired.”

  Mallory tilted her head back, wordless with weary need, and, of their own accord, her hips rose and fell in rhythm with the motion of his hand.

  Nathan swore hoarsely and, with gentle fingers, bared the pulsing bud hidden from all eyes but his. Mallory cried out and entwined her fingers in the richness of his hair as he pleasured her.

  August. Nathan could hardly believe that so much time had passed so quickly.

  He stared at the squalling infant beyond the thick glass barrier, searching the tiny, crumpled face for some subtle resemblance to himself or Mallory. As far as he could tell, the kid looked like Don Rickles.

  “Well?” Mallory prodded from her wheelchair beside him. “What’s the verdict?”

  Nathan smiled at his wife, at the returning light in her fatigue-smudged eyes. Delivering their baby had been difficult for her, and Dr. Lester had recommended rather forcefully that they forget having more.

  Mallory had take
n that decision hard, though with typical courage, and there were now faint traces of color in her pallid cheeks and a quickening flickered within her spirit that Nathan could feel in his own.

  “Who does Baby McKendrick look like?” Mallory pressed, looking up at him, a mischievous twitch pulling at the corner of her mouth.

  “What kind of name is ‘Baby McKendrick’?” he stalled.

  “Nathan.”

  He turned to study the child again, ponderously and at great length.

  Persistent to the end, Mallory tugged at the sleeve of his corduroy suit jacket. “Say it. Your daughter is a dead ringer for Ike Eisenhower.”

  Nathan laughed uproariously, but when he looked at Mallory’s face, her eyes were serious again, and wretched. He ached inside, all his amusement vanishing like vapor. He squatted beside the wheelchair to cup her trembling chin in one hand. “Come on,” he teased hoarsely. “She’ll grow out of it.”

  Mallory sniffled miserably. “There won’t be any more babies,” she reminded him in broken tones.

  Nathan released her chin to smooth back a tendril of her taffy-colored hair. “What are you, woman—greedy? We’ve got Ike!”

  Mallory’s smile was like the first glimmer of light in a dark sky, shimmering and brave and full of hope. “And each other.”

  He kissed her briefly, tenderly. “And each other,” he confirmed.

  Mallory stood in the sound booth, Brittany perched on her hip, and watched the darkened stage below with as much anticipation as any of the other thousands of fans packing the Kingdome that rainy February night. When the stagelights were turned up to reveal Nathan, the auditorium rocked with a roaring, pounding welcome.

  Looking splendid in his flashy red shirt and tailored black slacks, he raised both his arms in response to their greeting and lowered his head slightly. The gesture was both triumphant and humble, and Mallory felt tears of pride and wonder burn in her eyes. Their carefully considered decision had been the right one; she knew it in that moment as never before. Nathan McKendrick was back where he belonged.

  At his almost imperceptible signal, the regathered band, which had been rehearsing at Angel Cove for a full month, began a skillful introduction to Nathan’s greatest hit of all time, a throaty, sensuous love song. He sat down casually, on a high stool, and reached for his guitar. When he began to sing, the crowd was finally silent.

  Mallory swallowed hard. He’s mine, she exulted silently. He’s mine.

  Brittany babbled happily and pointed toward the distant stage.

  Mallory chuckled and then whispered, in order to avoid bothering the technicians working in the booth. “Yes, that’s Daddy.”

  One of the sound men looked up at Mallory and grinned, shaking his head. “One song and he’s got them on their knees,” he marveled.

  Mallory only nodded, since the man was wearing earphones and probably wouldn’t hear anything she said anyway.

  Nathan was clearly in command, clearly glad to be performing again. Throughout the long concert, he wove his singular spell. During the livelier numbers, the audience clapped and stomped and sang along, while the ballads stilled them to a silence Mallory wouldn’t have believed possible.

  By the end of the performance, Nathan’s face shone with sweat, as did the ample, darkly matted portion of chest revealed by his half-open shirt. Once again, he had given everything, and the massive audience roared its appreciation.

  When he sprinted offstage, they summoned him back. The adoring mob clapped and shouted and stomped their feet. As was his custom, Nathan did not reappear.

  Mallory could envision him backstage, toweling his face, his neck, his chest, congratulating the band. She felt the distance between them keenly, but did not leave the sound booth. She had promised Nathan that she and Brittany would remain in that remote bastion until the crowds had dispersed and someone came for them. He had not forgotten the mood of the audience at the last concert, and he was taking no chances.

  The friendly sound man removed his earphones and stood up. “Hi,” he said, chucking Brittany’s plump little chin. “That daddy of yours really brought down the house, didn’t he?”

  Brittany’s Nathan-brown eyes widened, and her soft, dark hair tickled, fragrant, against Mallory’s cheek. A moment later, she tossed back her head and began to scream.

  “What did I say?” The sound man grinned, looking a bit abashed.

  Mallory shook her head in reassurance and went to the back of the booth, where there was a narrow bench. From the looks of things, there were still a lot of people milling in the aisles below. It might be a while before they could leave.

  Brittany was sound asleep when Pat and Roger and two security men came to claim them. They rode to the penthouse in a limousine, Pat protectively holding the sleeping baby, Mallory anxious to change clothes and rejoin Nathan.

  The two security guards were waiting discreetly in the lobby when Mallory hurried out of the elevator again, feeling beautiful in her slinky powder blue dress, strappy shoes and silver fox jacket. By their own choice, Pat and Roger had stayed behind in the penthouse to look after Brittany.

  Her escorts delivered her to the door of the private hotel suite where the party was to be held and left her only when Nathan pushed his way through the crowd of promoters, musicians and press people, grinned, and held out his hand.

  Mallory McKendrick’s heart sang a sweet song of its own as she hurried toward him.

  The “First Lady of the West,” #1 New York Times bestselling author

  LINDA LAEL MILLER

  brings you to Parable, Montana—where love awaits

  Sheriff Boone Taylor has his job, friends, a run—down but decent ranch, two faithful dogs and a good horse. He doesn’t want romance—the widowed Montanan has loved and lost enough for a lifetime. But when a city woman buys the spread next door, Boone’s peace and quiet are in serious jeopardy.

  www.LindaLaelMiller.com

  Available wherever books are sold

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  The daughter of a town marshal, Linda Lael Miller is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than one hundred historical and contemporary novels, most of which reflect her love of the West. Raised in Northport, Washington, the self-confessed barn goddess now lives in Spokane, Washington. Linda recently hit #1 on the New York Times bestseller list for the fifth and sixth times with the first two titles in her Big Sky series, Big Sky Country and Big Sky Mountain.

  Linda has come a long way since leaving Washington to experience the world. “But growing up in that time and place has served me well,” she allows. “And I’m happy to be back home.” Dedicated to helping others, Linda personally finances her Linda Lael Miller Scholarships for Women, which she awards to those seeking to improve their lot in life through education. More information about Linda and her novels is available at www.lindalaelmiller.com. She also loves to hear from readers by mail at P.O. Box 19461, Spokane, WA 99219.

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-1939-0

  Snowflakes on the Sea

  Copyright © 1984 by Linda Lael Miller

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