Caroline Lee's Christmas Collection: Six sweet historical western romances

by Caroline Lee

  After three years of waiting, here she was. They were standing in the same room, he was actually looking at her. He could take her in his arms any time he chose. He could kiss her, like he should have done before she left. He could show her what her absence had done to him.

  But his pride wouldn’t let him do any of those things until he knew why she’d cut him off. Why she was so diminished, so drawn. Why she’d been avoiding him for the last year.

  “Wendy, I…” I’ve missed you. But how was that going to help? It wouldn’t; it would just make her more withdrawn. Wasn’t there something he could do to remind her of their friendship?

  He never got the chance to find out, though. The door suddenly opened, and a tall woman with a sharp nose and chin swept into the room. Wendy jumped, as if guilty, even though she was sitting on the other side of the room from him.

  “Just what is going on here?” Judging from this lady’s commanding presence, this had to be Mrs. Blakely. She glared down her hatchet-shaped nose at Nate, as if he was something rotten the dog had dragged in from the yard.

  He felt his jaw hardened, and opened his mouth to respond to her rudeness. But before he could think of what to say, Wendy interrupted. “Mrs. Blakely, this is Nate Barker.” She’d stood and gestured towards him. “My sister’s brother-in-law. You’ll remember that she married Ash Barker, who owns a ranch in Wyoming? Nate owns the other half.”

  Swallowing his bitterness, Nate nodded as politely as he could. “How do you do, Mrs. Blakely?”

  Her lip curled slightly as she looked over his dirty duster and muddy boots. Then, dismissing him, she turned back to Wendy. “Miss Murray, you never mentioned that your sister married an Indian. How could you possibly neglect to tell us something so dreadfully significant?”

  Now it was Wendy’s turn to be speechless, and Nate couldn’t blame her. He’d heard a lot of vitriol in his life, but never from someone who’d dismissed him as something sub-human. He wanted to tell Mrs. Blakely that he was adopted, that Ash was a fine white man, and didn’t deserve to be tarred with the same brush. But before he could, Wendy saved him. Again.

  “Because, Mrs. Blakely, I hardly thought that my personal family history had anything to do with my ability to tutor Jeremy.” Her shoulders had straightened, and Nate could see a flash of the old fire in her dark blue eyes.

  “On the contrary, Miss Murray. Your ability was based on your history with the Mulligans, the school, and teaching your sister. Had I known that your family was associated with common heathens—”

  “My older sister’s marriage choices have nothing to do with how or what I taught my younger sister. Have you been satisfied with my results thus far?”

  Nate felt impotent, standing by and watching Wendy fight for him, but he had to admit that she looked more alive now than she had a moment before. And the simple fact that she was defending him meant that she wasn’t as indifferent to him as he’d feared.

  Mrs. Blakely harrumphed, and raised her chin even further. “No. You have worked wonders with Jeremy. He’ll be ready to be sent to school soon.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But that doesn’t give you the right to invite whomever you want into my home.” Her gaze slanted back towards Nate, and he raised a brow at her. His response seemed to fluster her. “In the future, do your socializing outside of this house.”

  Wendy scoffed. “You can’t be serious, Mrs. Blakely. Nate has traveled close to a thousand miles to visit me, and as I am living here now, I should have the right to entertain him—”

  “Absolutely not. Someone—the children, even!—might see him.” Then she relented a bit, with one more haughty glance at Nate. “But since tomorrow is Sunday, you are—I suppose—free to go where you’d like.”

  Nate could tell that Wendy was furious, just from the pink tint to her cheeks, and the lightning in her eyes. He used to say that she could curdle milk when she was livid. But it seemed like she’d gotten some control in the years she’d been living in this fancy city; he didn’t think Mrs. Blakely could even tell how angry Wendy really was. Of course, Mrs. Blakely didn’t seem to be the type to notice much beyond her own nose.

  That Wendy was angry on his behalf made him so pleased that he pushed Mrs. Blakely’s hatred and bigotry aside. In fact, when the older lady glanced at him, he even gave her a bit of a mocking smile. Her eyes opened wide in shock, and she flounced out of the room as quickly as she’d come in.

  Silence descended with her retreat. Wendy looked at him, and then looked away. Remembering the way she’d stuck up for him, Nate smiled, and then started chuckling. She glanced back at him, quickly, worry evident in her expression.

  “Nate? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” His chuckles subsided. “Just that I’ve missed your temper. I’ve forgotten what a sight you are, when you get all fired up like that.”

  She flushed, and glanced towards the door. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but her narrow-minded opinions have always made me so angry.”

  Feeling bolder now, he crossed the room, and took her hand in both of his. “Thanks for standing up for me, Wendy.”

  Her eyes were a blue a few shades darker than Annie’s. They’d always reminded him of the sky right as the sunrise started chasing the dark away. To Nate, they seemed full of possibilities, just like each dawn. And now, after so long, they were staring up into his, separated only by a few panes of glass.

  “Nate, I…” She trailed off, as her gaze switched to his lips. He wondered what she was thinking. Was she thinking about him kissing her? Because that’s for damn sure what he was thinking about.

  “Yeah?” They were leaning towards one another, and Nate’s drawl was a mere whisper. He could feel her breath on his lips, and his heart started beating faster. More than anything else, he wanted to taste her, to find out if she was as good as he’d imagined all these years.

  “I…” Suddenly, she blinked, and pulled away. Taking a step back, she pulled her hand from his, and clasped it to her waist. Now looking at anywhere but him, she turned away. He saw her take a deep breath, and then another. He was doing the same thing, trying to rein his arousal in after that almost-kiss.

  “I think you should probably leave, Nate.”

  He narrowed his eyes. This entire visit had just been a series of ups and downs, hadn’t it? Did she have any feelings for him? Did she want him gone from her life? Were they still friends? Between her awkward reception, her defense of him, and that… that… whatever the hell that almost-kiss was, he had more questions now than when he’d left Cheyenne.

  He didn’t say anything, though. Just crossed back to his things, and jammed his hat back on his head. Turning to find her holding the parlor door opened, he made sure to brush past her as close as possible. He hoped that little shudder he saw wasn’t in his imagination, because it meant that she wasn’t as immune to him as she was trying to be.

  Halting in the foyer, before the main door, he turned. “I’ll come in the back way, tomorrow, Wendy. Because I am coming for you. If you’ve got the day off, you’re spending it with me.” After this meeting, he needed some kind of context, to figure out what was going on in her head.

  Thankfully, she didn’t argue, but only nodded. “Yes. That would be…nice.” She glanced over her shoulder once, and then turned a hesitant grin on him. It wasn’t the Wendy smile he’d remembered for three long years, but it was a start. “Ten o’clock, by the back door. I’ll be waiting for you, Nate.”

  It wasn’t until the door had closed behind him and he stood in the middle of a snow-covered St. Louis sidewalk that he’d realized he’d been hoping to hear those words. I’ll be waiting for you, Nate. Had she? Had she been waiting for him?

  Thinking of that smile, he had to wonder. What had happened to her, in the last three years, which had made her change so much? What was she scared of? And could he help her?

  Because more than anything, Nate wanted the friendship, the trust, back. And once he gained those
things, he could work on her love.

  Chapter 5

  One thing Wendy had learned after a year of living with the Blakelys was that she couldn’t afford to be distracted by private thoughts. Mrs. Blakely was like a bloodhound, in her efforts to sniff out what she thought were secrets. So Wendy pushed her thoughts of Nate—and his return to her life—from her mind as much as possible. She’d have the chance to pull out her memories of him standing there on the porch later, when she was alone.

  For now, she focused on her sessions with Jeremy. He really was coming along wonderfully, and would be ready to go off to one of the private schools within the year. Wendy knew that the Blakelys wanted the best for their youngest child—born to them late in their lives—but didn’t know how exactly to do that. Jeremy would almost certainly be bundled off to a school for the deaf in Boston or Philadelphia, where someone with more skills than she had could teach him how to speak with the new oralist techniques Serena had written about. But it would be a hard transition for a boy who’d spent seven short years surrounded by a large and overbearing family.

  For now, all she could do was focus on his reading and writing, and help him modify his ‘language’ of signs the Blakelys had made up to help him communicate.

  After his afternoon lessons, Wendy bundled up Jeremy for their constitutional walk around the nearby Lafayette Square. Even then, he was active enough that Wendy couldn’t let her mind wander back to Nate. No, Jeremy was a handful, probably a result of being the youngest of seven children, and often used his deafness as an excuse not to follow directions. Wendy knew that part of Mrs. Blakely’s expectations for her was to drill some discipline into the boy. It wasn’t easy, but Wendy still preferred it to the frustrations of dealing with an entire classroom of children.

  After saving the boy from a near-miss with a carriage, and explaining emphatically—sometimes she wished there was a way to yell while using sign—that no, he couldn’t go out to test the ice on the fishing pond, Wendy brought Jeremy home for dinner. She shared it with him and his next-oldest sisters, Stephanie and Laura, and their nanny Miss Dunn. They ate in the dining room, and it was, as always, a somber and boring meal. Miss Dunn, an elderly schoolmarm of a woman, had raised all four of the Blakely daughters to be as humorless and haughty as their mother. Between the two of them, it was no wonder that Wendy had never been able to befriend the third sister, Jean, before she married last July. So each evening, she sat quietly beside Jeremy and listened to Miss Dunn lead Stephanie and Laura in conversations about Psalms or bonnet fashions. Whenever Wendy tried to start a discussion about the latest newssheet article she’d read, Miss Dunn would glare her into silence. And she was rarely allowed to translate for Jeremy, since Miss Dunn viewed “all that ridiculous hand-waving” as a distraction from digestion.

  As always, Wendy excused herself immediately after dinner. Jeremy had such little time to himself as it was that she knew he liked reigning over the nursery until bedtime. He was reenacting Wellington’s victory at Waterloo with an ancient set of wooden soldiers that Wendy’s nephews would probably kill for, and she wished him well at it. He was an active boy, surrounded by a family who didn’t understand him, and sisters and a nanny who wanted to stifle him. If bombarding Napoleon’s forces in his own weird, broken language would make him happy, then she wished him well of it.

  Normally Wendy dreaded retiring so early to her orderly little room, especially with the early darkness the winter brought. But today, she’d been looking forward to savoring her memories of Nate. As soon as the door closed behind her, she let her shoulders slump out of the prim and erect posture Mrs. Blakely insisted ladies employ, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  He was here. He was here. He was here! He was here!

  She hugged herself, and gave a little dance around the room, careful not to let the giggles that had threatened every time she thought of Nate slip free. He was actually here, in St. Louis, at the Blakelys’ house, and she was going to see him again tomorrow.

  Nate had come for her. She sighed. He was her oldest… well, he started out as a friend, but then became… a comfort. A champion. She’d first met him the Christmas of ’75, when she and Annie had traveled to Cheyenne to find that their sister had married Nate’s brother Ash. Ash was a good man, who made them all part of his family. But still, Wendy had been terrified—although she’d never show it—of her new world, her new life. And when she’d met her new family, she’d been even more shocked. There was no way she’d be expected to live with someone as disarmingly handsome as Nate Barker.

  But then she had gotten to know him, the real him. Knew his uncertainties, his fears of inadequacy. Knew his kindness and bravery and sense of humor and strength and ambitions. And suddenly he was so much more than a handsome brother-in-law. He was her friend, her confidant, and he taught her so much.

  She’d let him see her true self, and she thought she’d seen the real him. Around strangers he was reserved and suspicious, but when he was with his family he was outgoing and full of laughter. But seeing him today in the Blakely parlor, he seemed to be more like his brother; so serious and reticent. He looked like he’d become used to hiding his thoughts and feelings, and that saddened Wendy. What had changed him? What had happened to him in the last three years since she’d seen him? In the last year since she’d stopped writing?

  If she hadn’t felt guilty before, she did now. He’d been her friend. That first winter after she and Annie had moved to Cheyenne, he was the one who taught her that she would survive out in the middle of the Wyoming Territory, and that she could let down her guard and share her fears with someone. He taught her that she could rely on him, and that he would be her champion. And in return, she taught him about her world; her world of books and stories. They spent many hours during the long evenings of that first winter, reading to one another.

  She’d met Serena Selkirk, the daughter of the neighboring rancher, the following spring. Wendy and Serena had forged an immediate bond, and soon became best friends. Every young woman needs a girlfriend outside of her family, to share in her hopes and loves and giggles. Wendy sighed. Good Heavens, she’d been so naïve and silly then. She missed those days with all of her being, wishing she could go back to the carefree and happy girl she’d been then.

  Nate hadn’t begrudged her friendship with Serena. No, far from it, he seemed happy to see her spreading her wings and becoming so comfortable in her new home. Between the two of them, Serena and Nate taught her to love the rolling hills of the ranch, and the feeling of rushing across them on a fast horse. She’d grown to love the sunsets and the flowers and even the snows. And during the next winter, when she was stuck inside with her family and adorable baby Pete, Wendy renewed her friendship with Nate. He’d been there all along, happy to spend time with her when she was able to make it.

  He’d always been there, waiting for her.

  Arms still wrapped around her middle, Wendy sunk to the bed. He’d always been there, waiting for her. She’d been afraid that he’d keep waiting when she’d left. And he had. Oh, she’d seen it, in his letters, but had ignored it, had hoped he’d find a more worthy woman to lo—

  She didn’t let herself finish that thought.

  Oh God. Her stomach heaved. She was so selfish. She’d ignored him in her quest to fulfil her own needs and desires, to see more of the world. And then, when she thought she’d found her place, she’d tried to cut him off. But it hadn’t worked; he’d kept writing.

  Kept waiting.

  She’d known. She’d always known. Just like she’d known that she was doing what was best for her by coming to St. Louis. But she’d been wrong about that, too.

  She squeezed her eyes shut on the tears that threatened and took a deep breath.

  He was here. He was coming back tomorrow. After three long years of not seeing him, after well over a year of not writing to him, he was here.

  And tomorrow, he’d expect her to explain why she’d cut him out of her life. Explain why it was
for the best that he not think about her anymore. Explain why she couldn’t be his friend.

  Wendy took a deep breath, held it, and then slowly let it out, forcing herself to relax. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. All she knew was that, despite her intentions, despite her actions, she was inexplicably happy to see Nate, and was looking forward to spending time with him.

  Would she be able to explain? Would she be able to hurt him even further? If she told him the truth about why she’d stopped writing, he wouldn’t be hurt. He’d be… furious, probably. If she explained that he was far too good, too noble, too admirable for someone like her, he wouldn’t believe her. And then she’d have to convince him, which would be painful for both of them.

  Perhaps the best option would be to stall, to give him half-answers and redirection, until he went home. After all, he was just visiting. There was no need for her to pour out all of her horrible secrets, to burden him with them. She could convince him that she was happy here, and he could go back home and tell her family that. It would be better for him if he thought she was where she was supposed to be… like she’d told him last year, when she stopped writing to him.

  Writing… she’d feel better if she could manage to lose herself for an hour or so before bed. If she could immerse herself in her latest story. Wendy knew that she sometimes ignored the reality around her to focus on her story and characters, but she allowed herself to do it because it worked. After writing, she always felt better, and could often think more rationally. And now that she was getting paid for her stories, she felt justified. After all, it was her job to write, now. Besides, she could often find a way to pour her emotions and worries into her stories, making them more realistic and giving her a kind of catharsis.

  Resolved, she crossed the room to her organized, over-filled bookshelf and found the journal with her latest story. She sat at the small table, and pulled the small old-fashioned lady’s lap desk towards her. She’d purchased it here in St. Louis, having fallen in love with the scrollwork on the top, and often used it here in her room, where writing surfaces were limited. Lifting the lid, she found a sharpened pencil, and opened the journal.