A Stockingful of Joy (28 page)

Because she wasn't, not really. She was no girl, it was true, but she was hardly old. Younger than he was, anyway. And as for weepy, he was beginning to doubt Zach's perception of that; if she wept, she did it alone and silently. He'd only seen her even close to tears once, when she'd told him about her sister's death, and that hardly counted as weepy.

And, in fact, she wasn't that ill-favored. Perhaps she'd just gotten into the habit of thinking of herself that way, compared to the sister everyone seemed to think had been so beautiful. But in her own way, she was pleasant enough to look at. Those warm, cinnamon eyes, that slight tilt to her nose, the determined chin… and those curves that proved she was more woman than girl, curves that made his hands itch to touch, to trace, to cup…

He groaned. He rolled over, welcoming the painful pressure when the part of him that had responded so eagerly to his own thoughts met the not-too-soft pallet of blankets. He willed himself not to move, to give his body only one way to ease the pressure; to give up on foolish notions like finding old, weepy, spinster Aunt Faith attractive.

The small shelf clock, an oddity for Morgan, who was more used to judging the time instinctively, chimed the midnight hour he'd mentioned to Zach. And in the next moment, he heard faint sounds of movement from the bedroom. Had she been awakened by their voices, their movements?

He lay still, listening. This proved, at least, that she hadn't gone to check on Zach without him knowing. That sweet fragrance must have just lingered in the air after she'd gone, like the way the echo of a meadowlark's morning call lingered in your ears in the spring. Or else he was completely crazy now, and hearing and scenting her like an old dog running on only distant memories of the hunt.

He heard the bedroom door open. Then quiet, light footsteps across the floor. Headed his way.

He held his breath, not daring to look at her, for an instant his imagination leaping out of control, picturing her coming to him, her hair down and loose, her cinnamon eyes warm with wanting. His body surged in response, and he nearly called out her name.

She walked past him. And out the front door.

He expelled a long, compressed breath, cursing himself for a fool. Faith Brown was every bit the virginal spinster, and picturing her coming to any man that way was foolish; picturing her coming to
him
that way was worse than foolish, it was looking for the long end of a square quilt. He was a drifting man, never staying in one place, and with nothing in particular to recommend him except a good horse and an ability to stay alive under chancy conditions. Not much to offer a woman like Faith. Not that he was an offering man, either.

"You've gone crazy as a loon," he muttered to himself as he sat up. "You should be wondering where the hell she's going at this hour, not about… things that can never be."

He waited, thinking perhaps she'd gone to the privy out back, but when she didn't return after a few minutes, a frown creased his brow. He sat there indecisively for another few minutes, an act uncharacteristic enough to make him uneasy. Finally he yanked on his boots and rolled to his feet. The Winchester, as always, was at his side, and he picked it up without thought and headed for the door.

He stepped outside in time to catch a glimpse of something moving behind the barn. He moved to one side, far enough to see, yet remaining in the shadow of the house while the moonlight reflected off what remained of the night before's snow.

He wasn't surprised to see Faith; he'd expected as much. What he was surprised to see was that she was leading the sorrel mare. The horse was bridled, but not saddled. Curious, Morgan moved swiftly but with care through the snow, ready to dodge out of sight at any moment.

Faith pulled her heavy cloak to one side. And Morgan stopped dead in his tracks, staring.

Beneath the cloak she wore trousers, and even from here he could see the outline of her legs against the moonlit snow. He'd seen women in divided riding skirts before, and in the wilder parts of the country even in pants. He could even see the need for it, here in the wilder reaches. But somehow those he'd seen before had never affected him as anything other than an oddity.

And then she startled him anew, leaping to the back of the little mare with the grace and agility of a rider long used to such action. And the mare came alive, dancing in the shallow snow, her tail up, her head alert; she, too, was obviously long used to this. Faith settled on the mare's back, balancing easily. Morgan caught the sound of her voice in the still night, faintly, not enough to make out words, but enough to hear the same crooning, loving tone she'd used to charm his stallion. The mare's ears swiveled, one forward, betraying eagerness to be off, one back, listening to what was clearly a beloved voice.

Morgan watched as she leaned forward to pat the mare's neck. The sorrel snorted with pleasure, prancing as Faith guided her to the edge of a clear, flat spot just west of the barn. Then he heard a short, sharp cry that sounded like "Now!"

The mare exploded into motion, hooves digging, sending up a spout of snow as she leapt away. In no more than three long strides she was stretched out and running, tail straight out, eagerness in every stride. And Faith was with her, not clinging, but moving with her, as if she anticipated every motion, as if there were some uncanny link between them. With no saddle, and seeming to barely move, she crouched over the mare's neck until they indeed seemed one being, with one heart and one mind and both set on running free.

Morgan watched with a touch of awe as they raced across the clearing, Faith's cloak whipping behind her, woman and horse in an amazing picture against the moonlit winter landscape. A moment later the hood flew back, and Morgan's breath caught as her hair streamed out, long and free and flying.

His gut knotted, his body clenched. His lips parted as he struggled to breath, knowing the air was there, but seemingly having forgotten how to take it in. He wondered if some part of him had known, had sensed that beneath the prim, tidy surface had lain this wildness, if this was what he'd been responding to unknowingly, this hidden fire.

He stood there staring long after the pair had disappeared over a rise.

He was looking at her so oddly, Faith thought as she sipped at the steaming coffee. And he looked tired, although he'd been asleep when she'd slipped out last night, and had barely moved when she'd come back two hours later. She knew, because she'd stood there far too long, risking him waking up and finding her staring at him simply because she hadn't been able to stop. She'd never been so close to a sleeping man before.

And though she would have thought that asleep he would be less… well, just less, he was not. She'd watched the firelight play over him, gleaming on the raven hair, turning his skin to gold and his lashes to dark thick semicircles on his cheeks, and making that firm, usually stern mouth seem softer. And he'd seemed more intimidating to her asleep than awake. At least her heart had pounded more, and her breath came more quickly.

It could have been simply that she was still excited, of course. She smiled inwardly, remembering the exhilaration of that midnight ride. Espe had been ready, eager to run, and when she'd reached the clearing, she'd let her loose, savoring the freedom as much as the horse did.

"You're looking… pleased this morning."

They were the first words he'd spoken, and the husky timbre of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She'd come out a bit late this morning, after her ride, and it wasn't until she'd seen the pot on the stove that she realized the smell of coffee had awakened her. It was a new and unexpected experience, having a man do something even as simple as fix coffee in the morning, and she was grateful he hadn't seemed to require anything other than her brief "Yes, thank you" when he gestured with the pot.

She couldn't think of a thing to say in answer to his comment, so she said nothing. But he kept looking at her, until she finally resorted to staring into her cup as if it held the answer to his odd mood. When the silence spun out, she began to feel a strange tension, unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. Finally, almost desperately, she turned to the age-old topic.

"I believe it will snow again tonight."

"Smells like it."

She looked up at him, surprised by his words. "Yes. Yes, it does." He seemed to find nothing odd in the exchange, and Faith felt a warm little glow inside. "Seems right, on Christmas Eve."

"Mmm."

There was no determining what that meant, so Faith didn't try. "Do you miss Christmas at home?"

"No."

"I mean, before your parents…" She trailed off, hating the chill that came into his eyes anytime she asked him anything even vaguely personal. And realizing that he'd never asked her a question at all, except for that moment when he'd been surprised by Espe's name being Latin. She thought about it for moment, wondering why. When the answer came to her, it was painfully simple; asking questions of others implied they had the right to do the same, and he'd made it quite clear he didn't like being asked questions. He'd answer generally, about where he'd been, what he'd seen, and he showed a patience with Zach that surprised her, but then, the boy didn't ask anything… dangerous.

Her own choice of words surprised her, and she found herself looking at him thoughtfully.

Zach joined them sleepily, rubbing at his eyes as he came out of the alcove. Faith noticed Morgan looking at the boy carefully, but when Zach simply climbed into his chair and mumbled a greeting, he seemed to relax. When she suggested flapjacks for breakfast, Zach merely nodded, but Faith thought it a great improvement over the sullen responses she'd been getting up until today.

"I think," she said brightly after they finished, and Morgan—and Zach, at Morgan's prompting—had thanked her for the meal, "we should go find a nice little tree to bring in and fancy up for Christmas Eve."

She saw a flicker of interest in Zach's face, but it faded quickly. "I don't care about Christmas," the boy muttered.

"Then perhaps I shouldn't make that apple pie I was planning," Faith said, knowing from Hope's letters that the boy adored it. She'd found a cache of dried apples on a shelf in the small pantry, and had put them to soak last night.

Again Zach's expression lightened for a moment, but again the gloom descended. "Won't be as good as Mama's."

You'll let him say blame near anything about you, but you get all in a pucker when he talks bad about a horse.

Morgan's words echoed in her mind, and when she glanced at him he seemed to be waiting. For something.

"I wouldn't be so sure, young man. Who do you think taught your Mama?" Faith asked.

Zach's eyes widened. "You?"

"I most certainly did. If there's one thing I can do in the kitchen, it's bake pies. Now, back to that tree. We could pop some corn, and I'll string it," she said as if the boy hadn't spoken, "and I've got some ribbons we can tie on the branches. What else do you suppose we could do?"

"Mama used to put some little candles on it," Zach said, almost unwillingly.

"Do you know where she kept them?"

He nodded, hesitated, then scrambled out of his chair and disappeared into the small pantry. He came back clutching a small bundle wrapped in paper. He unrolled it carefully, exposing a dozen small candle stubs.

"Perfect, Zach. Will you pick out a tree for us?"

"Well… okay." He still sounded grudging, but now it sounded a bit forced. At least Faith wanted to think so. Then he brightened. "Maybe we
should
have a tree. Maybe Mama will come home, then."

Faith winced, but recovered quickly. "Go get dressed, then," she said, and the boy went quickly enough.

Only then did she look at Morgan, who had been pointedly silent throughout the exchange.

"I… he's changed since you came. Thank you."

Morgan shrugged.

"I hope you like dumplings," she said. "I thought I'd—"

"I'm leaving, Faith."

She fell silent, heat flooding her face. She lowered her eyes to the table. "I… I'm sorry. I thought you'd at least stay through Christmas."

"Why?" He said it as if the day were like any other, as if it truly meant nothing to him. She raised her head, and saw nothing in his expression to deny her thought.

"Because you shouldn't be alone on Christmas, if you have people to be with," she said.

"I don't."

"You have… us," she said, hating the way she sounded.

He set down his cup. He leaned forward. And when he spoke, it was very slow and quiet.

"Listen to me, Faith Brown. I have no one. That's the way I want it. I don't want to have anyone, be close to anyone. You can't count on anyone but yourself. People leave. They always leave. And if they don't, I do, and I'll be damned if I'll be made to feel guilty about it when I go. So don't be including me in your plans, and don't be giving me those looks meant to set a man afire, because I don't want it. Or you."

Faith stared at him, a riot of emotions stirring. So many emotions she couldn't even begin to sort them out. All she could think of, sillily, was that he'd just given her the answer to something she'd once asked him.

"That's why your horse has no name, isn't it? That would make him more than just a thing, it would make him a creature that matters, that you care about. And you don't want that."

He gaped at her, as if stunned that after what he'd said, this was all she had to say. She nearly laughed.

"You must think me a fool, Morgan. But it's you that's a fool. Do you think I don't understand about people leaving, and how it hurts? My sister left me, my parents left me…"

She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. Had he really thought she would believe he could ever care for her? Her, plain, quiet Faith Brown? She knew, to her humiliation, that she had more than once looked upon him with the kind of longing a woman had for a man. But she was far from foolish enough to believe he might return her feelings.

She stood up, gathering what she could of pride and composure. And she was proud that her voice was fairly steady.