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

by Caroline Lee

  “You do that.” Draven unfolded his arms and stepped beside the door, as if ushering Mr. Stiles out. “And then get the hell out of my town.”

  “Dr—Horatio!” Pearl thrust herself out of her seat, worried Draven was going to ruin the town’s chances by being rude to the Denver and Pacific’s representative. “There’s no need to be inhospitable.” She softened her rebuke with a smile. “Not when Mr. Stiles is a guest in Noelle.”

  Draven didn’t look away from Stiles. “Where are you staying in town?”

  The man’s mustache twitched on a huff. “I hardly think that’s any of your business, sir.”

  “Everything’s my business in this town.”

  When Draven leaned toward him slightly, Mr. Stiles was obviously intimidated. He wrenched open the door and hurried out, without even putting his gloves back on.

  Draven slammed the door behind him and turned his thunderous glare on Pearl.

  “What the hell were you doing?”

  Chapter 7

  Draven slammed the door behind that cagey sonuvabitch and whirled on Pearl. “What the hell were you doing?”

  Her jaw dropped open, and her obvious confusion just pissed him off more.

  “You thought it would be alright to just flounce around in front of him?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He actually wasn’t sure, but couldn’t admit that. Instead, he thrust a hand out, angrily gesturing at her gown, her hair, her beauty. “You can’t expect a man to think clearly when you’re standing there looking like that.”

  She looked down and ran her palms along her sides and waist in a way that almost made him groan with longing, remembering touching her the same way last night.

  “What’s wrong with the way I look?” There was a hesitation he hadn’t heard in her voice before.

  “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

  She met his eye again and cocked her head to one side while she studied him. Finally, she raised a brow. “I still don’t understand. I like this dress. Birdie gave it to me.”

  The knowledge didn’t ease Draven’s frustration. He’d run into Birdie and Jack just an hour ago, while looking for Stiles. They’d been riding back into town looking so damn in love, it had made his chest ache. It’d taken everything he had to sit and talk to them about bounties and Birdie’s past, when all he’d wanted to do was hit something.

  He stomped past Pearl on his way towards his room through the backdoor. If he took the time to let his anger calm, there’s no telling what he’d do—picking her up and tearing that purple dress off her was a very real possibility.

  She followed, obviously not knowing when to let a man be.

  “Draven?” she asked softly, closing the door behind her. “I can’t believe you’re angry about my dress. Please tell me what I did wrong.”

  Hell.

  The uncertainty in her voice was his undoing. He groaned, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, not looking at her. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Pearl.”

  You didn’t do anything wrong. I did. I fell in love with you.

  It had been absolute hell, to watch her sit there and lie. Not that he didn’t approve of the reason behind it, but he hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling of… danger. He’d been trapping animals and men for well over twenty years, and he knew when to trust his instincts.

  And his instincts had spent that entire interview on high alert. It was why he’d insisted Stiles meet them in the sheriff’s office, why Draven had claimed to be the sheriff. He hadn’t wanted Pearl anywhere other than under his complete protection, and he wanted Stiles to know that.

  Something had been off about Anthony Stiles, but Draven wasn’t sure what. Penworthy had sworn he’d telegraphed the Denver and Pacific Railroad, who’d vouched that Stiles was one of their representatives.

  So why did the man’s face raise Draven’s hackles so much? And why had he been so damn worried about Pearl?

  She’d handled herself well, but he hadn’t been able to shake the near-overwhelming worry, seeing her sitting there with Stiles, acting like everything was right in the world.

  Stiles seemed innocuous, but Draven’s instincts had never been wrong. Was today the first time? Had his feelings for Pearl overcome whatever common sense he’d had?

  That must be the explanation; there was no other reason for the way he was acting now. No other reason for this frustration and anger—half at her, half at himself.

  Hellfire, he was in trouble.

  That’s when he felt her small hand on his arm. “Draven? Please talk to me.”

  He whirled, but when he realized how close she was standing, he took a step back and tried to concentrate on her expression, rather than how desirable she was. There was hurt there in her eyes.

  He’d hurt her.

  Draven cursed under his breath. “I’m sorry. You look real nice today. That’s a pretty dress, and I’ll tell Miss Birdie so next time I see her.”

  Pearl didn’t seem fooled by his attempt to change the subject. “Do you not think I was convincing enough? I know it would have helped if I looked more like Maybelle.”

  “Hell, no.” The denial burst out. “You’re far prettier than she could ever hope to be.”

  Her pale blue eyes widened, and he watched a blush creep up her cheeks.

  “You really think so?” she asked shyly.

  He had to clear his throat before he could answer. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I don’t know if you were convincing enough to fool him, but you sure looked the part.”

  “But you don’t think he believed me? Us?”

  “At this point, I don’t think I care what he believed.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What? How can you say that?” She stepped closer to him, as if she was about to touch him. “We need Mr. Stiles to believe us, so he’ll give the town until the deadline.”

  Draven should’ve stepped back. He shouldn’t have let her reach out and lay her hand on his arm. Shouldn’t have let himself give into her allure.

  But he did.

  So maybe his voice was even gruffer than usual when he said, “The whole thing was damn suspicious, is all I’m saying.”

  “You think so?” She frowned slightly, but didn’t pull her hand off his arm. “Is that why you’re acting so edgy?”

  Edgy? “It’s my job to keep the peace.”

  “So you sometimes see threats when there aren’t any?”

  He snorted and stepped towards the bed, which was a mistake. “When it comes to keeping you safe, Pearl, I’ll be permanently on edge.”

  Her brows wrinkled and her frown deepened. “Why?”

  “Why?” he repeated. Because I love you!

  “Yes, Draven.”

  She stepped forward yet again, and he imagined he felt like one of those animals in his father’s sights must’ve felt. She was stalking him across his own home, and she wasn’t done.

  “Do you know, in all of the time I’ve known you, I don’t know your first name? But it didn’t really matter.” Another step. “I just thought it interesting that we all call you by your last name, and I realized that I’ve never even heard your first name.”

  She took two more steps.

  He stumbled back, wondering how long his good intentions could last. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. I’m just hoping I can distract you enough you’ll tell me why you were so angry at me.”

  Lord almighty, he felt lower than a worm.

  “I wasn’t angry at you, Pearl. I was angry at—” I was angry at myself. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  “But why?” She wasn’t going to drop the subject. “Did I do something wrong? Why would you—?”

  “Because, woman!” He ran both hands through his hair, the ring on his small finger catching the light from the lamp. “Because I can’t look at you without remembering what we did last night, and that just makes me want you more.” He tugged a
t his hair in frustration. “Don’t you understand?”

  Her eyes widened at his crass admission, and she placed her hand against her chest as if she had to hold onto her heart. The expression on her face made her look like an innocent debutante, which just made the whole situation that much worse.

  She obviously didn’t understand.

  “Look, Pearl.” His breath hissed out from between his teeth. “I’m trying my damnedest to keep myself in check. You don’t need some slavering, one-eyed monster of a fool after you. There wasn’t a need for you to lie to Stiles.”

  “Lie about what?”

  Dammit, she was going to make him say it, wasn’t she?

  “About me being handsome.” When she’d uttered that lie, he’d felt his heart clench. He thought he’d known her well enough to be certain she’d never stoop to making fun of his face. “Maybelle would never say a thing like that, because she wasn’t blind. I know I’m ugly as sin and twice as mean.”

  He’d heard it said too many times to count.

  Slowly, her hand crept up to her throat, then to her mouth. Her fingertips pressed against her lips, and for the first time in a long while, he found himself praying. Praying she’d say something. Praying he hadn’t read her wrong.

  It wasn’t until her eyes—those beautiful, perfect eyes—filled with tears that he felt a stab of remorse. He shouldn’t have accused her like that.

  “Pearl, I—”

  “You’re not ugly to me!”

  They both froze, her words hanging between them.

  “What?” he whispered.

  She winced and dropped her hands to knead the fancy material of her skirts. Her eyes were locked on his chest, and he wondered why it was too hard for her to meet his eye now.

  “Draven, I…” She had to take a deep breath before she could continue. “When I came to work at La Maison, I heard what the girls said about you. I heard them call you ugly and mean. But you…”

  That’s when she met his eye, and a bolt of desire coursed through him. His trousers were suddenly much too tight.

  “You were different, Draven. I’ve always known I’m just a whore, I’m nothing special. But you… You made me feel special. You made me feel beautiful.”

  “That’s because you are beautiful.” He was the one to close the distance between them this time.

  Her hand came up to rest on his chest. Could she feel his heart pounding so hard?

  “And you are beautiful, to me. Inside.” Her fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt. “I didn’t lie to Mr. Stiles, because I think you are the most handsome man in Noelle. You make me feel cherished, Draven, and I would do anything in my power to prove that you are a good, honorable man, worthy of—of love.”

  Love.

  Unable to stop himself, Draven grabbed her beautiful cheeks with each of his callused palms and crushed his mouth to hers. And when she stretched up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his waist, his heart sang.

  He wanted to yell at her, You’re more than a whore! He wanted to tell her, I’d spend the rest of my life making you feel special!

  But all he could focus on was her taste, and the way she was wrapped around him.

  It was later, when they were lying together in bed, that he realized how he could prove her worth to her. The tools were out in his office right now, thanks to Horatio. That ass had left town so quickly—probably never intending to actually have to work again—that he’d left his hectograph and supplies right where he’d always published his paper.

  Because Draven had seen the man’s process every week for a year, he knew how to use the hectograph to print, and he knew exactly how to make copies of an existing sketch. Tonight, after Pearl fell asleep, he’d get out her beautiful sketch of Noelle at Christmastime, and make enough copies to share with the new brides. They were the ones who’d prove her worth to her. Prove she was more than just a whore.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Pearl's question startled him, and he had to grin ruefully. There was a time when nothing startled him, but he supposed lying in bed, half asleep, with an armful of beautiful nude woman, could make any man less vigilant.

  “Just wondering if there's any of that apple pie left from yesterday.” He ran a hand over her bare bottom. “I really don't want to get out of this bed until tomorrow.”

  When she giggled, he felt it in his chest. “I think pie for supper sounds like a wonderful idea. Truthfully, I'm not in any rush to leave you either.”

  He grinned at the double meaning to her words.

  “Good,” he said, feeling more than a little smug.

  “You know, with Mr. Stiles still in town interviewing the other couples, we’ll have to keep up this pretext of being married.”

  Pretext. He was beginning to wonder why he didn't just make it official. After what she said to him this afternoon about her feelings…

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Oh no,” she was quick to say, lifting her head off his shoulder to look into his face. Her expression was earnest, and made him want to smile.

  “I have to tell you the truth, Draven. The last few days, living with you, have been like a dream come true. Thank you for letting me share this with you, even if it's just for a short time.”

  Something seemed to be clogging his throat. He had to swallow twice before he could answer. “You must have some mighty odd dreams.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Her fingers were now tracing the swirls of hair on his chest. He clamped his free hand down over them to keep them still.

  “I just mean,” he said gruffly, “that living with a one-eyed old badger like me shouldn't be any woman's idea of a dream come true.”

  Something in her expression shifted, and he didn't like it. He knew he wasn't worthy of a woman like her, but he also didn't like to make her sad.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  That's when she rolled on top of him. Bracing herself on either side of his shoulders, her blonde hair swung down the sides of her face and draped on each side of his head, making a little cave for just the two of them. She smiled.

  “I've been in love with you for almost two years, Sheriff Draven.” Her lips seemed to caress the words as she whispered them. “I just wanted you to know that.”

  She...she loved him?

  Even with his reputation? Even with the way he looked?

  He lay there, stunned, until she bounced a little and he remembered the joys of having a nude woman over him.

  “Well? Aren't you going to say something?”

  His mind worked frantically. He had to say something to prove how he felt about her.

  “Gilder.”

  She blinked down at him. “Gilder…?”

  “That's my name.” He took a deep breath. “Gilder Draven. I've never told anyone else that.”

  She smiled slightly, as if she understood the value of his confession. “That's a nice name. Gilder.”

  “It's a dumb name,” he scoffed. “But it was my mother's family name, and I was her only child. As she was dying, she put her ring on my finger, and told me to never forget who I was.”

  Balancing her weight on one arm, he felt her take his left hand in her free one. Her fingers traced the gold band on his smallest finger, without looking away from his face.

  “And who was that?”

  “Her Gilder. Her golden child.” Draven remembered the way his mother would stroke his hair and call him that. “She died before that grizzly got me, before everything in my life turned dark.”

  Pearl’s fingers threaded through his, and she shifted so she was straddling his hips. A bolt of desire lanced through him, even though he’d so recently been sated.

  “Is that what you think?” she asked. “That everything is dark?”

  He felt himself smile. He’d smiled more in the last few days than he had in the last twenty years, and it was all thanks to this woman. This woman who could match him passion for passion, and who could t
each him things about himself. This woman he loved.

  “Well,” he drawled, clamping his free hand on her waist and pulling her against him. “Not everything.”

  She was laughing when their lips met, and the sound of her joy made his heart soar.

  Chapter 8

  The fifth day of Christmas

  December 29th, 1876

  Midday on December twenty-ninth, Pearl hummed while she swept the wooden floor of Draven's home, once again wearing the amethyst dress that made her feel like a real lady. She’d been surprised to find the well-used broom in a corner in his office, but when she thought about it, she realized he kept his space neat. In fact, despite his scarring—which often made him look disheveled or unkempt because his beard couldn’t grow straight—he was always neatly groomed.

  It was actually one of the things that had attracted her to him when she first arrived at La Maison. Unlike many of the other male residents of Noelle, his clothes were regularly laundered, and he never stunk of unwashed flesh. It was why she was glad to welcome him to her bed, when the other girls shuddered at his appearance. But when she’d discovered what a fine lover he was, she’d made sure to stake her claim on him from that day forward.

  And after the last two nights here in his arms, Pearl had no regrets. Cooking for him, keeping his home, and finding joy in his arms each evening; she hadn’t lied when she’d told him it was a dream come true for her. Oh, she knew she could never be his wife—or anyone's wife, for that matter—thanks to the things she’d had to do to stay alive. But the last few days have given her hope that maybe the life she'd always wanted wasn't impossible. If he would be willing to allow her to stay with him, if he would be willing to be associated with her, despite her past…

  But how could she leave La Maison? How could she leave the girls, who always seemed to rely on her, who came to her when they needed to talk, or a shoulder to cry on? If she wasn't there, Madame would run roughshod over all of them.

  Pearl swept a little pile of dirt out the door into Draven's office. She'd stopped humming, and was now chewing on her lip.