Sullivan's Ridge: A Christmas Tale Page 3

  She didn’t seem to notice his brusqueness, or at least didn’t comment on it. She held court from her father’s chair, presiding over what turned out to be a really nice meal. The men were a little ill-at-ease, especially when they saw how Nick wasn’t participating in the conversations. But she’d held Timmy in the palm of her hand since that morning, when she’d sat beside him on the way from town. Old Abe—who wasn’t really that old, truth be told—quickly became a conquest, when he realized that she really did know her way around ranching and Sullivan’s Ridge, and would make a fine boss. They quickly became more comfortable around her.

  Red, however had barely glanced at Connie. Nope, he had eyes only for vivacious Maggie, and judging by her blushes, she appreciated his interest. Even Nick chuckled when it took Connie three tries to get his attention to ask Red a question, and he had a good-natured laugh at himself.

  After dinner, the big Irishman challenged “Mrs. McFadden” to a game of checkers on the front porch, and she accepted with a happy blush. Timmy and Old Abe headed back to the bunkhouse, and Nick started to clear up.

  On his second trip back from the kitchen, Nick was surprised to find Connie still in the dining room, collecting the utensils. She dumped them all in the water pitcher, just like Billy used to do, grabbed a few cups in her other hand, and breezed past him into the kitchen. He tried not to notice how good she smelled, or the way her hips swayed.

  He left her to finish clearing, and filled up the wash basin. Then, as she brought him the dirty plates and serving bowls, he rolled up his sleeves and started washing. He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t turn, and neither said anything. What started off as an awkward silence mellowed into a companionable one. Soon, it began to feel like those long evenings he’d spent with Billy; each knowing the others’ thoughts and actions, comfortable in their compatibility.

  In fact, when he finished the big stew bowl and held it out, it was entirely unconscious. Which meant it was a surprise when she took it from him and started drying. He glanced at her in surprise. She efficiently wiped it down with a dry cloth, and placed it on the correct shelf of the sideboard. When she reached out to take the pitcher from his unresisting hands, and their fingers brushed, he felt a chill go up his arm.

  She looked up into his eyes, and he stopped breathing, just for a moment. This new vow of his—to stop admiring how pretty she looked—was going to be much, much harder than he’d thought.

  He shook himself hard, and turned back to his wash basin, hoping she didn’t notice his flush or discomfort. Still, he watched from the corner of his eye as she put the pitcher away, and when she bent over the counter to sweep up the crumbs of Maggie’s bread, he turned almost completely around, forgetting that he’d vowed to stop admiring her bottom—until she caught him staring.

  “What?”

  He shrugged, and thought fast. “You know exactly where everything is. I guess Billy never changed much, huh?”

  She smiled. “Papa was a creature of habit, as you said. I feel…” She looked down at the rag in her hands, and then around the room, “I feel like I never really left at all. I’m certain that any minute he’s going to walk in and ask me what mess I got into today.”

  He smiled at the thought. Billy was full of stories of the adventures little Connie’d gotten into, before she went east. “You must miss him a lot.”

  She bit her lip, and then tried to shrug, but he saw the melancholy in the lines of her jaw. “I haven’t seen him in eight years. It was part of The Bargain. In some ways, I lost all this—I lost him—the last time I said goodbye.”

  Nick knew about The Bargain. Billy had called it any number of other less savory names, but he hadn’t regretted it. Connie’s mother had died when the girl was young, and Billy had immediately turned his thoughts west. Nick suspected he’d been planning it for a while, but hadn’t wanted to drag his young bride away from her large—and influential—family. Then, once his wife was dead, he needed to get away from everything that reminded him of her. So he took his daughter and headed to Montana, a territory still being carved out of the wilderness.

  He hadn’t counted on the fight his mother-in-law had given him. She was livid at the thought of him dragging her “little princess” into God-forsaken territory. She was sure he’d turn her into a heathen, or a hellion. In some ways, he had.

  In order to fulfill his dream, Billy had agreed that little Connie could stay with him for ten years. When she was fifteen, he’d send her back to St. Louis and her grandmother’s tutelage, for a further ten years. Part of The Bargain was the Connie would not be allowed to visit her father or Sullivan’s Ridge during that time, unless she needed to return to take over running it. Billy agreed with it, because he knew that if his daughter lived with him for those first ten years, her heart would belong to Montana always.

  He’d been right. She’d grown up knowing how to fish, ride, and herd, and probably aged her grandmother a further ten years when she showed up in St. Louis browner’n a Blackfoot. Billy had chuckled when he admitted that he’d done it on purpose, to give his mother-in-law conniptions.

  Billy had known she’d be back, because Montana was in her blood. But he had assumed he’d be here to welcome her home.

  Nick picked up a towel and started drying utensils. “He never felt like he lost you, though.” He glanced up to see her hungry gaze, and knew she must be eager for some comfort. “I guess it was because he’d always known you had to go back,” He shrugged, “But he was always preparing for the day you’d come home. The whole time I knew him, he talked about ‘When Connie gets back’. That’s probably why he never changed anything; he wanted to keep everything the same.”

  She carefully hung her dishrag from the same cabinet knob Billy always had. “We were lucky to be able to write as often as we did. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like I ever left; because he kept me so involved.”

  “He did that on purpose. And your letters home were the highlights of his days.” Nick smiled in memory. Billy went into town every other day to pick up his mail, and if four days went by without a letter, he’d start to worry. “He would pore over them right away, and then after dinner, he’d plop himself down at his desk with a glass of whiskey, and write back.”

  “What would you do?”

  Connie’s question surprised him; surprised even herself, it looked like. But he answered, while putting away the last of the forks. “Depended on Billy’s face after reading it. If it seemed personal, I’d take myself back to my room and turn in. If he was laughing, and felt like some company, I’d join him for a glass. I’d read, usually, until he started laughing again.” Nick couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. “I gotta tell you, ma’am, that he shared most of your childhood escapades.”

  She winced theatrically. “Even the one about the honeybees and the rosebush?”

  He laughed out loud then. “I heard that one at least once a month!”

  “Well, don’t think I didn’t hear about you, too!” Her laughing confession sobered him right up. “Papa wrote about you all the time!”

  “What? Why?”

  She smiled. “He loved you, and loved to brag about you. He’d go on and on about how wonderful you were for Sullivan’s Ridge.” She paused. “He once wrote that he’d be proud to call you ‘son’.”

  Nick stared blankly at the towel in his hands. “I… I didn’t know that.” Billy had been his mentor and his friend for years, and he often thought that the two men were as close as a father and son would be… but they never talked about it. It was a little disconcerting to know that Billy’d kept his daughter appraised about his doings.

  Nick flipped the towel over his shoulder, and quickly changed the subject.

  “Well, my point is that he always knew you’d come home, and he was just biding his time. He said once that your grandmother’d figured she’d outsmart him, but she was wrong. Any ideas what he meant?”

  “Grandmother knew I would stay with her until I was twenty-five. B
ut even if I was determined to come home, she figured out a way to keep me there.”

  “What?”

  “Marriage. She assumed I’d marry a St. Louis man, and he’d keep me there with her always. She didn’t realize that I’d be stubborn enough to not marry.”

  Nick waited for the follow-up, but it didn’t come. “Until now?” At her questioning glance, he clarified, “Too stubborn to marry until now. And isn’t your husband from St. Louis? I figured he’d’ve kept you there, just like your grandmother wanted.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, grandmother’s quite gone by now. She rarely leaves her room, and lives in the past. And I wouldn’t have chosen a man who would try to control me like that. David is very busy making his own fortune; he won’t mind that I came home.”

  Nick couldn’t help his confusion. Hell, what was her husband’s name? “David, ma’am?”

  He caught her panicked look before she tried to laugh away her mistake. “Daniel, I mean. David Daniel, actually.” She still looked like a little girl caught in a lie, and he wondered about that. He also wondered what kind of man would be so interested in making money that he wouldn’t escort his wife halfway across the country for her father’s funeral. Sounded like a hell of a marriage.

  “Well, will Mr. Lane be visiting Sullivan’s Ridge soon?”

  Her smile was brittle. “It’s not likely, I shouldn’t think. I’ll let you know when I hear something, of course.”

  “Hmmm.” She wasn’t telling the truth, but he didn’t know about what. Maybe she was just embarrassed about screwing up her husband’s name? Still, with a name like David Daniel, that was to be expected. Maybe she called him by both names.

  He changed the subject. “You still interested in finding those Christmas decorations?” The way her face lit up told him she was. “I know it’s late, but I was thinking about it on the ride today. I figure I remember seeing some trunks in the loft of the barn, a few years back. Might be something in there?”

  Her enthusiasm stunned him. She grabbed his hand—again, the jolt from the contact ran up his arm—and practically dragged him out the door. She slowed long enough to take the steps one at a time, but then raced across the open space. She’d dropped his hand to hold up her skirts, and as he chased after her, he couldn’t help but admire the faint glimpses he got of her ankles in the dusk.

  Connie Sull—Lane was turning out to be a real intrigue.

  Connie lifted her skirts above her knees to climb the ladder to the loft, and didn’t care if she was giving Nick a show. She was too anxious to see if his hunch was correct. She pulled herself up over the lip of the loft, and stopped suddenly

  There were the three trunks, stacked in a row along the side wall. She’d spent the afternoon looking for them with Maggie. Granted, there hadn’t been many places to search before determining they weren’t in the house, but it was an emotional few hours, rediscovering lost treasures, finding reminders of her Papa, and realizing that practically everything else was exactly where she’d left it eight years ago.

  She heard Nick climb up behind her. He’d stopped to light a lantern, and he squeezed past her to open the trunks. She made herself move forward, to peer into their brightly-colored interior.

  Everything was there. Wrapped up in tight little balls of old cotton. Exactly the way she’d left it, after their last Christmas together, eight years ago.

  She slowly sank to her knees, and reached reverently into the first trunk. She pulled out a smaller box, filled with bronze candle holders to clip to a tree, and set it aside. Under it were her father’s mother’s hand-tatted lace tablecloths, the ones they only used at Christmastime. And here was her special white china bowl! And the collection of silly hats; Papa used to make a new one every year, and they’d wear them all. Her childhood ornaments, the carved nativity, the book with the beautifully-illustrated Christmas story, the garlands, they were all here.

  Connie didn’t even realize she was weeping, until she felt Nick take a carved angel out of her hand, and press a handkerchief into it. She was covered in dust from the climb and the lost treasures, and crying like a baby.

  She heard him tsk, and then his arms were around her, and she was bawling into his shoulder. His hand slowly, soothingly rubbed up and down her back; she knew he was saying something, but didn’t understand the words, just the tone.

  She cried for her Papa. She cried for their lost years, and the stupid Bargain, and his senseless death. She cried for the way she’d lost her home eight years ago, but hadn’t realized until she’d returned and found her Papa gone. She cried because she was all alone.

  It felt like a long time before she was able to think beyond her pain. But she slowly drifted back to reality, pushing aside the sadness, thankful for a chance to truly mourn. She became truly aware of her surroundings. She felt strong arms around her, a soft breath in her ear, and a chill up her spine. She should have stiffened, straightened, blustered her way through it, but she didn’t.

  Instead, she reveled in it. She tucked her head against his shoulder, and accepted the comfort Nicholas Anderson offered. But unlike a moment ago, this time she was fully aware of him. Of his low voice in her ear, whispering “Shhhh, honey, it’ll be okay.” Of his strong hands, stroking her back and hair softly. Of the way her body felt, pressed full-length against his hard chest and stomach.

  And then she became fully aware of something else. Something pressing against the soft junction of her thighs. Something that provoked new and exciting feelings in the pit of her stomach. Oh, she knew what it meant, although she’d never allowed herself any experience with men.

  Nick Anderson was attracted to her.

  She caught her breath, and was surprised at the jolt of happiness that shot through her. He was attracted to her? When she’d been chastising herself for noticing how good he looked, and how sweet he was?

  Unfortunately, he seemed well-aware of his own… attraction, so there was some awkwardness when she pulled away. Not that she wanted to, but when he went all stiff and uncomfortable, she assumed it was for the best.

  Giving them time to compose themselves, she uncrumpled the handkerchief from her fist and slowly wiped at her face. When she looked up, he was standing some distance away, his back to her, breathing rapidly.

  She couldn’t help a small smile at the thought of being the cause of his obvious distress. But then she sobered as she remembered her plot. A married woman would have been outraged at that embrace! A married woman wouldn’t have snuggled closer, thrilling at the way her body tingled when it touched his. A married woman would not consort with one of her employees in the hayloft of her barn, not if she expected to maintain any sort of control over her staff.

  Her father would be ashamed of her…. But then, she couldn’t help but remember all of those letters praising Nick’s courage, intelligence, and spirit, and how Papa had urged her to keep Nick as a foreman. He couldn’t possibly have guessed… could he?

  Thinking of her Papa should have started her crying again, but instead, all she felt was a pang of melancholy. She glanced at the trunks again, and thought to distract Nick from their recent indiscretion.

  “Most of these things are heirlooms, or handmade. Papa carted them out here carefully, with the second shipment of things from St. Louis. Some of them, I even remember from when my mother was alive… although I’m not sure how much of that is really memory, and how much is just Papa’s stories.” She was pleased when she saw him take a final, deep breath, and put his hands in his pockets.

  “Every year, on the first of December, I’d start nagging him to pull them all out—he kept these in the house for that very reason—and we’d have them up by my birthday a week later. I wouldn’t let him take them down until after the twelfth day of Christmas had passed, and sometimes even longer! He’d pretend to be embarrassed to have them up for so long, and only grudgingly leave them up for me, but I think he liked it as much as I did.” She paused. “When I was at Grandmother’s house,
I’d write him long letters about the gorgeous decorations, and the magic of the season in such a fancy town. But I always missed our special things, and the special time we had decorating.” Her voice dropped, “He never mentioned much about our decorations, but it never occurred to me that it was because he’d stopped decorating, or celebrating, entirely. I wish I knew why.”

  Nick half-turned, still not looking at her. “Because when you left, he lost his reason to celebrate. To Billy, the decorating was special because you did it together. Without you, he didn’t get any joy out of it.”

  “You know that?”

  He shrugged. “I know Billy. He was a creature of habit, but if it was painful, he’d just hide it away.” He nodded down at the trunks. “That’s what he did with these, I’m sure. Seeing them reminded him of the Christmases he wasn’t going to have anymore.”

  And now he was never going to have them again. The thought of her Papa, so full of vitality, giving up a joyful part of life just because she wasn’t there to share it, depressed her. It was all so stupid. Life went on, and his celebrations should have too.

  But then she realized that she hadn’t truly celebrated Christmas since she’d left Montana, either. Christmases at her grandmother’s home had been stiff and formal. There’d been a range of cousins and aunts and uncles to visit, but even those joyful times had been carefully orchestrated and observed. They’d been so… so grown up. So clean and perfect and sanitized. She hadn’t chosen her own Christmas tree, or hung her own garland, or wrapped her own presents, since she’d left Montana.

  But she was home now.

  “Nick, I want a real Christmas this year.”

  He turned to her, questioning, all awkwardness behind them. “I want my decorations up. I want a tree. I want laughter and friendship.” In her building excitement, she forgot herself, and reached across to grab his hand. “I want everyone to celebrate with me. I want to remember the way Papa and I would celebrate, and do it even better, because I know somewhere he’s part of my celebration.”