A Christmas to Believe In (18 page)

But it wasn't an intimate conversation. Had nothing to do with

inserting himself in Ethan's life.

They could put up the tree. He'd be sure to explain how

the man of the house always put the star on the top. He could

relate the story to his father. Tell Ethan about the time his

father had knocked over the entire tree. It wouldn't seem like

an obvious hint if he kept it to a coincidental conversation.

But he'd make damn sure Ethan stood on the footstool and

set the topper in place.

Whatever it took, tonight he'd leave no question in the

boy's mind about his position in their lives. Jesse belonged to

Ethan first. Ethan needed to understand that. Somehow or

another, he'd convince the boy to share just a tiny portion of

her heart.

Doing so was his only hope. If he failed, he'd lose Jesse

forever.

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Clint jammed his foot on the brake at the bottom of the

driveway. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he swallowed

hard.
Forever
. What was he thinking? Forever didn't matter.

He just needed—wanted—this week. Forever wasn't part of

the equation.

His gaze slid to the house on the next hill, lingering on the

bright lights that glowed in the twilight.

Was it?

He shook his head. No, it couldn't be. He couldn't give

Jesse what she deserved. Couldn't provide for her as a

partner should. For that matter, he couldn't provide for

anyone. It took everything he had to see to his stables, and

even then, he barely scraped by. Until he could offer the

same comfort and security his father had given his mother,

forever didn't matter. Not with Jesse. Not with anyone.

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Convinced Angel had decided to keep her foal at least

another twelve hours, Clint let himself inside Jesse's house.

He found her in the kitchen, her skirt exchanged for a pair of

faded blue jeans. Standing at the stove, she looked over her

shoulder and gave him a bright smile. "Hey. How's the

horse?"

"Same as this morning." He shucked his coat, tossed it on

the chair and wandered into the kitchen. The hearty smell of

meat and potatoes permeated the air, blending with the

aroma of gravy. Curious, he moved behind her to investigate

the dishes on the stove and slid an arm around her waist. The

fragile skin of her neck beckoned. Drawn by its call, he dipped

his head and pressed a kiss to the side of her throat.

She shivered.

"Smells good," he commented in a low voice.

Jesse leaned her head on his shoulder and settled her

hand atop his arm. Lingering in his embrace, her lashes

fluttered shut as she let out a quiet sigh. "So do you."

Clint dusted his mouth along the length of her neck. "You

have no idea how badly I want to kiss you," he whispered. At

her earlobe, he paused to draw it between his teeth and give

it a gentle tug. "How badly I want your hands on me again."

He sank his hips into hers, his half-swollen erection nestling

between her buttocks.

Beneath his lips, her pulse leapt to life. "Mm," she

murmured. "Ethan."

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"I know." Indulging, he skimmed his hand over her

lightweight blouse and covered her breast. Her nipple beaded

beneath his palm. He gave her soft flesh a gentle squeeze,

then with a reluctant sigh, stepped away.

She braced both hands on the stove and bowed her head.

Her ribs expanded with a deep draw of air. Her physical

reaction matched his, and he took a small degree of pleasure

in knowing he affected her in the same powerful way. As Clint

dropped into a chair, she found her composure and returned

to her meal.

He allowed the silence to soak into him, comforted by the

intermittent clatter and clink of dishes and silverware. She

dished out bowls, opened a box of crackers, unwrapped a

warm loaf of fresh bread. He never would have associated

domesticity with Jesse, but here in her kitchen it suited her.

To his discomfort, it suited him as well. It wouldn't take much

to get used to the idea of spending evenings like this. It

would sure make the nights his house felt empty and soulless

more enjoyable to have Jesse hovering over his stove. Ethan

waiting upstairs.

She turned around with a smile. Her gaze met his, bright

with arousal.

No, not much at all.

Clint hurried to his feet and relieved her of two heavy

bowls.

"Ethan, dinner!" Jesse hollered as she set the rest of the

dishes on the table. She motioned Clint to the chair closest to

hers.

"Did you warn him?"

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"About?"

"My coming to dinner?"

"No. I haven't seen him yet tonight."

Great. Just what would guarantee even more attitude from

the angst-ridden teen. Clint dropped into his chair and

listened to the heavy footsteps on the stairs. His back to

Ethan's approach, Clint couldn't see the expression on the

boy's face. But when the purposeful pace came to an abrupt

halt, his imagination filled in the details.

"Oh," Ethan remarked.

Clint cringed inwardly. Jesse should have forewarned

Ethan, and Ethan should have been given the opportunity to

excuse himself from the meal. Nothing good would come from

forcing Ethan to interact. Nevertheless, neither had occurred.

For better or worse, they were both committed to the meal

now.

Twisting in his chair, Clint gave Ethan a cordial nod.

"Evening, Ethan."

"Hi." Flat and unemotional, the boy's tone raised billowing

red flags. He didn't look at Clint, merely shuffled to his chair

and hunched over his bowl of stew. He shoveled in a

mouthful.

"You should wait for your mother to sit," Clint commented

quietly.

As Jesse sank into her chair, Ethan lifted his gaze. Steely

blue eyes challenged. "I thought I was supposed to wait for

guests."

The message was clear, and Clint ground his teeth against

the snub. So he'd done it on purpose. An act of defiance

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meant to insult. It had worked. But it also made Clint that

much more determined to win the boy over.

"Ethan, we have company." Jesse's low voice held firm

warning.

With a shrug, Ethan returned to his food.

As Jesse bent over her bowl and lifted her spoon, she shot

Clint a look of apology. His hand still under the table, he

patted her knee, telling her the only way he knew how, she

shouldn't worry.

"Ethan, why don't you ask Clint about baseball tryouts?

You'd said none of your friends had any advice. Clint played

third through high school and college."

Sensing opportunity in Jesse's question, Clint turned his

attention on Ethan. "Are you thinking about going out for the

team?"

Ethan's glare shot daggers at Jesse. "Maybe."

"It was a lot of fun. If you can throw the ball and hit,

tryouts are pretty simple. Any idea where you'd like to play?"

"No." Still not looking at Clint, Ethan set his spoon slowly

in his stew. He dropped his hands to his lap, his posture

tightening along with his jaw.

Undaunted, Clint offered him an encouraging smile. "If you

can catch, you'll never sit on the bench. A good catcher

makes the team. You can find two pitchers for every catcher

worth anything. Double when it comes to infielders or

outfielders."

"Look." Ethan lifted his gaze, turning his glare on Clint.

"It's not important. Okay? Just drop it."

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From the corner of his eye, Clint caught Jesse stiffen. He

fell into silent dining. Though Ethan made no further attempt

to acknowledge his presence, Clint studied the harsh set to

his features. What could have possibly happened to create

this sort of unwarranted anger? The very inability to be polite,

his always-present anger—had he been abused? Was there

some male figure in his life who'd done the unthinkable and

molested him? Or was this underlying rage a byproduct of too

many years in the system?

Whatever it was, the walls Ethan erected would take a

bulldozer to crack. Yet, Jesse had gotten through to him.

She'd created a bond, and his loyalty to her couldn't be more

evident. But how? What had she done? Where had she

started?

Ethan pushed his empty bowl to the side. "May I be

excused?"

Jesse answered with a perturbed frown. "We're putting up

the tree, remember?"

"Oh." On a heavy sigh, Ethan slumped in his chair.

Clint glanced at what remained of his dinner. His appetite

diminished, he followed Ethan's lead and pushed his bowl out

of the way. "Why don't you and I go up to the attic and bring

down the boxes?" Looking at Jesse, he inclined his head

toward the stairs. "They are still up there, aren't they?"

Her short nod accompanied a brief smile. "Yeah. Up there

behind th—"

Ethan shot out of his chair, nearly knocking it over. "I'm

not putting up our tree with him. He's not my family." With a

forceful kick, he shoved his chair out of his way and stormed

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to the door. He jerked it open, stomped outside, and

slammed it shut. The windows rattled in his wake.

Jesse bolted to her feet. She tossed her napkin on the

table and took two strides toward the door. As she passed

Clint, he caught her by the wrist, jerking her to an abrupt

halt. "Let him go, Jesse."

"Let him go? You've got to be kidding. After what he just

did? I don't think so." She tugged on her arm, twisted to get

free.

Clint tightened his hold. "Let him go. He's right. You and I

might be close, but I'm not his family."

Changing her tactics, she pried at his fingers with her free

hand. "I don't care. There's no excuse for that kind of

behavior. He knows better. Your mother's been just as much

of a grandmother as mine. I won't have him treating you this

way." With a frustrated mutter, she slapped at his hand, then

pinched her nails into his knuckle.

Ignoring the painful bite, Clint gave her arm a shake

meant to jolt some sense into her. "It's me who gets to

decide whether I'm insulted or not. I'm a big boy. I can deal

with his attitude. If you run out there and give him the ninth

degree, all you're going to do is give him more reason to hate

me. Now knock it off, let him have time to himself."

Her shoulders sagged with defeat. He held onto her wrist

until he was certain her resignation wasn't an act created just

to gain her freedom. When he let go, she sank into her chair

with a dejected sigh. "I don't know where you get your

patience."

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Clint eased out his chair and bent over to kiss the top of

her head. "I'm going to go, sweetheart. Put up your tree

together, and don't worry about me. You can call me later if

you want."

"I'm sorry, Clint."

Shaking his head, he squeezed her shoulder. "Really, it's

okay."

His gut rolled into a knot even as he uttered the

reassurance. Was it? With the way Ethan seemed determined

to close off every avenue Clint attempted, Jesse's conviction

that Ethan wouldn't come around took on more plausibility.

And if the boy continued to throw up walls every time Clint

tried to forge a bridge, sooner or later Jesse would pick a

side. It didn't take much guessing which one she'd choose.

Ethan would gain his victory. As he should.

Forcing a smile to his face, he pulled on his coat and

quietly exited. Outside, he dropped the facade and allowed a

frown to settle into his brow. Fresh footsteps led toward the

barn. Between the old exterior planks Jesse hadn't insulated,

light glowed. A shadow shuffled behind the weathered slats.

Clint trudged to the barn. Curiosity nagged him to slide the

door open, peek in on Ethan. But respect for the angry teen's

privacy forbade follow through. He thumped on the door,

leaned in close to holler through the crack. "Go on back

inside, Ethan. Your mom wants to put the tree up with you."

He didn't wait for a reply. Marching back to his truck, he

jumped in out of the frosty air and keyed the engine. He

eased backwards, then rolled down the hill. At the juncture of

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the street, he glanced in the rearview mirror to see a tall,

shadowy form retreating to the house.

Sports hadn't worked. Opportunity presented, and despite

all sensibility, it failed. But the horse... His mare held some