The Marshal's Surrender (Holidays in Mountain Home Book 3)

by Kristin Holt

  She had him there. He didn’t care if Christmas came and went without so much as a howdy-do. Let the flurries of the holiday pass him by without recognition. That would suit him fine.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Caroline stepped closer, the fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon clinging to her clothes. “And it must cease.”

  He tried not to flinch. This woman who knew too darn much, given her son, new daughter-in-law, and newest grandbaby played starring roles in his tragedy.

  “It’s time to put the past to bed.” She touched his cheek. A soft, motherly cupping of his jaw, like he’d seen her do to express both concern and love for her sons, her husband, even a hired hand or two. The gentle touch shocked him down to his boots.

  That touch gave her the too-intimate ability to stare him straight in the eye and he wanted nothing more than to look away and hide his soul from her penetrating gaze.

  “You have far too much living left to do, August Rose, and watching you pining for might-have-beens breaks my heart.”

  His jaw clenched beneath her hand—he couldn’t help it. What business was it of hers if he pined over Effie? He’d never act on it.

  Effie was married. Completely untouchable. Again.

  Really, did this woman think he’d stoop so low as to tempt Effie away from her husband?

  “Careful—” He sounded a mite too fierce, so he clamped his jaw, silencing the threat.

  “Shh.” She swept fingertips over his whiskered cheek, then patted his shoulder like every time she brought platters to the table and brushed behind one of her children. The woman showered love on her offspring and their spouses.

  What would it be like to belong to her family?

  What would it be like to belong?

  The craving swelled, as if he could be hungrier for maternal affection.

  Only, he surmised, because he’d never known a mother’s love. And now that he’d lived beneath the Finlay roof for one day, he’d glimpsed what it could be like.

  He clenched his jaw tighter, to prevent swearing up a storm and tempting Mrs. Finlay with her bar of soap. He wouldn’t put it past her to mother him, too, lumping him together with her grown sons.

  He couldn’t help but smile, despite the warring sides within him.

  “Go find Noelle,” she ordered. “Finish the cookies. You’re supposed to be spending time right beside her, to protect her. Remember?”

  Oh, yeah. He remembered. He glanced toward the doorway that lead to the hall and staircase. He knew she was upstairs with her sisters, changing bed linens and sweeping floors.

  Maybe she would like to bake cookies, rather than spend the morning in housework.

  “What if they’ve already stripped your bed? What will you do then?”

  “Nice try, Sheriff. I won’t have a lick of trouble making up the bed with fresh sheets—I’ll be done before you get the first tray of gingerbread into the oven.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The first gingerbread cookies came out of the oven when Noelle’s experienced eye said so.

  The heady aroma of cloves, cinnamon, and ginger made Gus’s mouth water.

  But he couldn’t keep his gaze off the woman as she slipped a spatula beneath each cookie and moved them to a wire rack to cool.

  She looked cute in her mother’s frilly calico apron. And a smart dark brown suit that showed off her figure to fine advantage.

  And he looked ridiculous. Who said he needed an apron? This get-up, though simple and unadorned muslin, was still an apron. U.S. Marshals did not wear aprons.

  Ever.

  But Noelle had slipped it over his head, spun him around and tied it at his back. Those fleeting moments with her hands on him had stolen the fight right out of him.

  If his deputies could see him now, they’d laugh him to scorn.

  He’d never see the day when they didn’t crack jokes about a cream-colored muslin apron, and the pretty young woman who’d crooked her finger and reeled him in.

  He propped a shoulder against the door frame and watched Noelle work. She moved about the kitchen with an ease that captivated him. The mere homey sight cut straight through his good humor and stabbed his tattered heart.

  His kitchen hadn’t had a woman’s touch since he’d moved in last winter. Yeah, he used it, just to rustle up eggs and coffee in the morning, but the spacious room had seen better days. He ought to sell it to someone who’d appreciate it. Use it, not shut a dozen doors and ignore all but two rooms.

  Sometime in the past year he’d settled on the inevitable—he’d live alone and he’d die alone. He’d never marry, never have sons, never settle down like he’d once believed he would.

  Just wasn’t the life for him.

  He’d spent a year bedding down in the housekeeper’s bedroom just off the kitchen. He saw no reason to trudge up the stairs to the master bedroom past all those empty rooms he’d hoped to fill with children.

  Why torture himself?

  And why had Mrs. Finlay reminded him of his pining heart? He liked holding that betrayal close to his aching heart. After all, his heart was lost and he’d never get it back.

  “Gus.” She waved a dainty hand in front of his face, as if this weren’t the first time she’d called his name.

  Tired of the morose cloud hanging over him, he figured laughter was the best antidote. He caught both of Noelle’s wrists in his hands and pulled her close. She came willingly into what might have been an embrace, had he not clutched her arms.

  “I’ve got you now.” He waggled his brows.

  Her peal of laughter did interesting things to his insides. They seemed to rearrange themselves, tingling a bit too pleasantly as she pushed up on her toes and…?

  “What are you doing?”

  “You have flour on your nose.”

  “I do not.” He probably did, but couldn’t make himself care.

  She giggled, a throaty, heated melody, reminding him of the finest brandy…and not sounding one bit like a girl. This young lady, this woman, was full grown, whether he’d noticed or not.

  He’d noticed. Run him out of town on a rail.

  He glared at her sparkling eyes. “Did you just attempt to lick flour off my nose?”

  She wiggled her fingers, clutched close as they were to his chest. “I haven’t the use of my hands.”

  That would be, of course, his cue to release her. But he found this play too much fun. He liked holding her close. “It’ll just have to stay.”

  Mischief brightened the spark in her beautiful eyes. “I like the sound of that.”

  His stomach tightened. Her skirts brushed his pant legs, and the curves of her figure suddenly seemed way too close. He ought to make an excuse and edge away. He had a dozen reasons all ready to fire: he shouldn’t ignore their surroundings displayed through the kitchen windows, her parents wouldn’t approve, the next sheet of cookies needed to go into the oven before the fire cooled.

  Instead, he found himself holding on. “Like the sound of…what?”

  Her pink tongue darted between her lips, swept over the plump lower curve of her smile. “You’ll just have to stay.”

  He couldn’t wrench his gaze free of her mouth.

  “You said, ‘I’ll just have to stay.’” She drew a deep breath. “I like the sound of that.”

  His brain seemed to catch on her words. You’ll just have to stay.

  He hadn’t said that… Had he?

  This woman, Noelle, may well be the only gal he’d spent time with—other than Effie, of course—who’d shown genuine interest in the man. Not the badge. Not the appearance of money the Abbott mansion gave. Not the glamour—unbelievable, but true—of his profession.

  Her fingers found his chest, teasing, caressing. Her touch skimmed over his vest and encountered the derringer holstered in the leather braces that held up his trousers. He expected her to flinch as she discovered his hidden pocket gun—ladies always did. But not Noelle. She seemed far more interested in exploring his contours.


  Somehow, his hold on her wrists had loosened. His thumbs stroked her palms. As if he’d do anything to prevent her from pulling away.

  In that moment, he couldn’t see anything wrong with that idea.

  Noises throughout the house reminded him they were far from alone. And this young woman wasn’t his. Her parents, brothers, sisters—shoot, anyone—would take exception to the way she’d pressed her body along his. Not the most proper batch of cookies he’d ever baked.

  “We ought to make some icing.” Was that his voice? Sounded breathless, as if he’d already kissed her.

  What would her father do if he overheard?

  Her gaze remained locked on his mouth, her cue as strong as any he’d ever seen. She’d welcome his kiss. He half expected she’d kiss him first, given half the chance.

  He liked the idea of her kissing him first.

  Did a whole lot to boost a man’s sense of welcome.

  Without realizing he’d released one of her hands, he found his right palm cupping her cheek, his fingers thrust into her hair. He pushed deeper, cradling her head and wanting nothing more than one kiss.

  Just one.

  Before he could act on it, though, she pulled away, stepped out of his reach, and twirled toward the cabinets. She stretched up on her toes, treating him to a view of the long lines of her back and a peek at her shoe and ruffled flannel petticoats beneath the hem of her skirts. She took down a mixing bowl and opened a drawer for a whisk.

  He scrubbed his hand, still tingling with her heat, over his bearded face.

  What on earth had just happened?

  Really?

  She’d decided to take him up on the idea of making icing?

  He wanted her kiss. Real bad.

  And by the heat sparking in her golden-brown eyes, she’d toyed with him.

  The tease!

  He growled, low in his throat, flipped the apron away from his holsters, and stalked toward her. His hands hovering over twin Colts.

  She giggled.

  He kept his features in a mask of determined focus. A predator. A gunman facing his quarry at high noon on a dusty Wild West street.

  She backed up a step.

  He took a long stride in her direction.

  Her laughter doubled and she plunked the mixing bowl down on the table. She tossed up both hands in surrender. “I give up, I give up!”

  His boot thumped, and he could almost see the imaginary dust plumes of that lonesome street in his mind’s eye. He narrowed his gaze, pinning her to the spot.

  So near, all he need do was reach for her. She’d willingly step into the circle of his embrace, tuck her head beneath his chin.

  One reach.

  Their gazes snared, and for the longest moment, he drowned in the depths of her eyes…and his broken, lost, hand-me-down heart rolled all the way over.

  His heart, so long lost to Effie, had changed course. Abandoned the past and somehow let go.

  Unbelievable.

  Impossible.

  Never once, not before, during, or after Effie’s marriages had his heart longed for anyone but else.

  Until Noelle.

  After supper dishes were washed, Noelle put on her scarf, coat, hat, and mittens. If she didn’t find five minutes to clear her head, the crazy longing Gus stirred up would boil over.

  Twice, already, she’d caught herself staring at him, basking in the joy of having him near.

  Foolishly, impossibly, hopelessly pretending he was hers.

  “Hold up, Noelle.” Gus leaned a heavily muscled shoulder against the door. “You know you can’t go outside. Not alone.”

  Light from the kitchen lamp spilled into the hallway. The slice of light revealed his aggravation.

  “Must I take two sisters with me to the necessary?”

  “I’d prefer you don’t go out at all.”

  Grim determination showed in the set of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes. Those beautiful eyes, wholly focused on her.

  This near, he smelled of coffee and tobacco, and lingering hints of gingerbread cookies. He’d eaten four cookies, slowly, as if maximizing the enjoyment of the run-of-the-mill dessert.

  He’d loved the cookies. She’d loved watching him enjoy them.

  She really needed a break.

  From him.

  Gus reached past her with a long arm to grab his coat from a peg. Almost an embrace. “If you’re determined to go out, I’ll accompany you.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll be less than five minutes.”

  He didn’t speak as he donned his coat. How could she witness his stubbornness and still feel so drawn to him?

  Once outside, she noted his careful scanning of the yard, the darkened space between the bunkhouse and barn, the path to the milk house. His attention was everywhere but on her.

  Why was she entirely focused on him?

  “I heard you arguing with your mother before supper.”

  She clenched her jaw and stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets. The discussion hadn’t really been an argument…

  “You’re fighting the bit,” he told her, the base notes in his voice making her shiver. “Don’t go and do something foolish just ‘cause you’re aggravated by lack of privacy.”

  “I’m not fighting the bit—” She halted, whirled to face him. She sucked in a deep breath of air so cold her lungs burned.

  “I think you are.”

  Did the man want a fight? “What do you know about me, August Rose? Have you ever once stopped to ask, to open your eyes and really see me?”

  “I’m asking now.”

  Her heart pounded as if she’d run around the pasture twice, carrying a twenty-five pound sack of oats. Every bit as foolish an exercise as this conversation.

  “Suppose you tell me what has you riled.”

  “I don’t need your counsel, Sheriff. Mother and I have things well in hand.”

  As if he’d forgotten his vigilant perusal of the property, he folded his arms, settled into his stance, and waited.

  All puff and bluster and male posturing.

  She could be every bit as aggravating as he. She mirrored his posture and waited him out. A girl didn’t grow up with too many brothers to count on the fingers of one hand without learning a thing or two about how the male mind worked.

  He smirked. “You want me to guess.”

  “I prefer we don’t discuss it at all.”

  “That’s not gonna happen. You’re disquieted. I can’t protect you when you’re itching to run about like a chicken with its head cut off.”

  A most unflattering comparison. “I am not disquieted. Thank you for comparing me to poultry at the chopping block.”

  “What did you and your mama argue about, if not the plan for your safety?”

  How much had he overheard? No sense giving away more than he already knew. Maybe she wouldn’t tell him a thing.

  But the thought of a shared secret, an intimacy between them, tantalized and drew her in. She wanted to tell this man her secrets, ask his advice, lean on his broad shoulders, if only for a little while—

  No.

  That wasn’t quite right.

  She wanted to lean on him more than just tonight, or this week.

  Given the choice, she’d keep him.

  That sole reason had led her to maintain the job at the tailor shop. The U.S. Marshal had shown up in Mountain Home seeking Effie, who’d bought Pettingill’s Tailor Shop and ran the place, so he was in there on a regular basis. Noelle might have quit her job long ago, especially since the wedding. If Noelle stopped going to town, where and when would she see Gus?

  She preferred the natural, easy, chance meetings. Not the contrived, over-bearing, constantly overbearing efforts made by Virginia and Belle. Anyone with a lick of sense could see those two chased Gus with intent to lasso him and drag him before the preacher.

  Maybe Noelle needed to be a touch less ladylike.

  But according to Mother, Noelle already was most unladylike.
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  Ladies do not stare at gentlemen, Noelle. You risk appearing as though you welcome inappropriate advances. With him staying in our home, your behavior must be above reproach.

  The heated rush of anger, and double-helping of embarrassment at the unspoken accusation that Noelle had inherited unseemly characteristics—

  The recollection stoked her aggravation. She raised her chin and met Gus’s eyes in the near dark. “That was a private conversation.”

  “If you two know something you’ve not disclosed, you must tell me.”

  A woman was entitled to her secrets. Her secrets had nothing to do with the Ruffian Gang and therefore were none of Gus’s business. “On my way to the necessary?”

  “You don’t need to relieve yourself. We both know that.”

  This man aggravated her past the point of endurance. She wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. Or maybe whirl about and slam her bedroom door in his face. Or hug him tight and never let go.

  Every time she envisioned herself alone with him, her daydreams were never like this. Cold, dark, on the path to the privy, and voices raised in accusation.

  Gus nudged her chin higher, the leather of his gloves butter-soft against her chilled skin. Oh, how she wished—like in her stupid imagination—to feel the touch of his hand.

  She tipped her head back and looked up, up, to meet him eye to eye. He seemed ever so much taller this close.

  With the snow-covered fields reflecting light spilling from windows in the house, barn, and bunkhouse, the cloudy skies seemed more white than black. Just enough light to imagine she could see her reflection in Gus’s eyes.

  This, she had imagined. A perfect moment when she consumed his attention.

  He touched her back, wordlessly nudging her closer. Her heart leapt.

  Was this that perfect moment? When he truly saw her as a woman?

  Was he filled with affection, warmth, and love?

  He’d intended to kiss her in the kitchen—she’d known it. But Mother had appeared in the doorway and that had set off the vocal battle before supper.

  Could it be he still intended to kiss her?

  “When were you going to tell me,” he asked, “that Caroline Finlay isn’t your mother?”