A Stockingful of Joy (29 page)

"I suppose I have… looked at you," she admitted. "I've never been so… close to a man before. But I know quite well I'm not a woman to… start a fire in a man like you. Or any other man. That's for women like my sister: beautiful, gentle, sweet, all the things men want. I spent most of my life learning that lesson, and I don't need you to teach it to me again."

She turned then, and didn't stop when he called her name. She stepped outside into the brisk morning air and closed the door carefully behind her, not allowing herself the satisfaction of slamming it to give vent to the turmoil inside her.

When he joined her outside, Zach's mood, which was willing if not enthusiastic, lightened her own. He approached the job solemnly, trying to pick the best of the small fir trees that grew close enough to the house to be carried back. She supposed Allen had brought a bigger tree down from the higher country, but this was the best she could do. At least Zach wasn't pointing out to her that she couldn't do this as well, either.

"Mama didn't really want a tree, after Papa died," Zach said, as if he'd read her mind. "She only did it for me."

"It's hard to find any joy when you lose someone you love," Faith said softly. "But you have to believe they would want you to go on."

The boy trekked on, still in search of that perfect tree. They walked for several minutes before he spoke again.

"Did you really love my Mama?"

"I did, Zach. So very much. It was a… different kind of love than yours, but it was very, very strong. It still is." She stopped, making him look at her. "I know you don't believe it, but I love you, too. So much it makes me cry, sometimes. But I'm afraid I won't do right by you, because I don't know much about little boys. Sometimes…" She took a deep breath. "Sometimes I even pray for help, to know what to do so you'll be happy."

Zach stared at her. "That's what you pray for? Not for me to… go away?"

If nothing else, bless Morgan for telling her this, Faith thought. "Of course I don't want you to go away. I loved your mama, Zach. And you're part of her, the only part I have left."

His eyes were wide. "If you love her, then why don't you see her like I do?"

"I don't know Zach," she said honestly. He was talking to her, really talking to her, and she couldn't bear to see him turn cold and sullen again because she denied what he thought he'd seen. "Maybe… you need to see her more, because… you had her for a shorter time."

He seemed to consider this for a moment, but he said nothing. They walked on for a while, and then he pointed out a nicely shaped tree.

"We could carry that one, couldn't we?" he asked.

She looked at it doubtfully. "I don't know. Maybe we should find a smaller one."

"I'll carry it."

Even as she gave a start of surprise, Faith noticed she was the only one; Zach had apparently realized Morgan had followed them. She very pointedly didn't look at the tall man, but kept her gaze fastened on the tree Zach had chosen.

"You better chop it, too," Zach said. "She'll hurt herself."

Faith turned to look at the boy; the words were very like the cutting remarks she'd grown used to hearing, but there was something missing from his tone. The nastiness was gone, leaving behind a sort of wryness that was strangely adult and very male.

"I'll chop it," Morgan said, and proceeded to do so in a half dozen solid blows. It would have taken her the better part of an hour and probably cost her some blisters and possibly blood, and he'd done it without even taking an extra breath.

"Thank you," she said stiffly as he reached between the branches, grasped the tree by the trunk, and hoisted it to his shoulder.

"You're welcome," he said, and if there was an apology in his tone, she chose to ignore it. "Zach, run ahead and find a bucket to put this in. We'll fill it with wet dirt to prop the tree up."

"Yes, sir!" Zach yelped and raced ahead with the first display of genuine six-year-old energy Faith had seen from him.

Morgan slowed his steps, waited until the boy was out of earshot, then looked at Faith. "I'm sorry," he began.

"Don't be. You were kindly warning me about being a foolish woman," she said formally. "I can only assure you it wasn't necessary."

"Lord, you can talk like a schoolmarm when you're mad." She stopped, startled by his exasperated tone. "Faith, I know I hurt your feelings, and I didn't mean—"

"You don't know anything about my feelings."

"I… maybe I do." He looked at her, and she saw in his eyes something she'd never expected to see, a softness that stopped her breath in her throat. "My aunt… the one I told you about…"

He stopped, and Faith felt a clutching in her stomach; now that he'd at last begun to talk to her, would he stop before he'd really started? She prompted, "The… clothes aunt?"

His mouth twisted ruefully. "Yeah, that one. Back in Connecticut. She was my only relative, so she… took me in, after my folks were killed. Even though she… hated me."

"Surely not," Faith exclaimed.

"She did," he said flatly, and Faith knew that whether it was true or not, Morgan believed it was true, which made it the same thing in the end. "It took me a long time to figure out why. It was… confusing, because one day she'd be talking about my father, saying how wonderful and noble he was, and how I wasn't fit to carry his name, and the next she'd be screaming and hitting me because I looked like him."

Faith's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

"Neither did I, until a got older and put a few pieces together. A letter I found, and a couple of servants who didn't worry much about talking in front of a kid."

So he'd come from a wealthy family, she thought, remembering rather inanely her mother complaining about finding good help. She filed this tiny bit of knowledge away in a place within her she hadn't been aware of until now, a place where she'd been hoarding what little she knew of this man.

"Anyway, I finally realized that my aunt… had been in love with my father. But he loved my mother, her sister. The one everybody said was… prettier, and sweeter. He married her, and my aunt… never married anyone. And Aunt Abigail never forgave her sister for that. Or me."

Faith stared at him. What was he saying? That he thought she'd loved Allen? That she would hold a grudge against an innocent child? She'd wished he would share something of himself with her, and now that he had, it hurt more than she could have imagined. And it took every bit of nerve she had to speak.

"I never loved my sister's husband. I always loved my sister. And I would never blame an innocent child!"

His brows lowered. "I didn't say that. I only meant… your sister, you said everyone thought she was the beautiful one—"

"So you think I was jealous of her?"

Faith had fought that assumption most of her life; no one seemed able to believe that she had loved Hope for the same reasons everyone else had, they seemed determined to assume that because Hope had been so beautiful, her plain older sister must have been envious. She'd grown used to it. Or thought she had; but hearing it from Morgan brought on all the old pain as if it were new. The problem was, she wasn't certain if it was being accused of a jealousy she'd never felt, or Morgan's agreement that she had reason to be jealous that hurt.

"I didn't say that, either," Morgan snapped.

They heard a call as Zach came out of the house, clearly wondering what was keeping them. The boy began to trot toward them. Faith looked back at Morgan.

"I am only human," she said carefully. "And I often wished I could be more like my sister instead of what I am. But I was never, ever jealous. I loved her. I love her still."

"What're you doing?" Zach asked. "I thought you were bringin' the tree."

"He is," Faith said, her voice sounding much cooler than she felt. "That is, if he's through being hateful."

She turned on her heel, then nearly slipped in the slushy, melting snow, ruining her dignified retreat. Her cheeks flamed, and she was grateful her back was to him.

"Hateful?" she heard Zach ask.

"Boy don't ever try and talk about feelings to a woman," Morgan said, sounding genuinely exasperated now. "You try and help, and they just twist around what you say until you don't even recognize it."

Faith kept going. But the color in her face rose even higher.

Again he didn't know why he was still here. He'd intended to go. He'd even started to saddle the stallion again. But the look the horse had given the saddle blanket, as if he expected to be playing the silly game Morgan had invented last time he tried to saddle up, had been too much. He'd snapped at the animal in a tone he rarely used, and the horse had looked askance at him.

"Just never mind, horse," he'd muttered. And Faith's words had come back to him as clearly as if she'd been standing there speaking them again.

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'd always thought of his life as pretty much the way he wanted it. But now it seemed like a hollow, empty thing. Or he did; he wasn't sure there was much difference. What he was sure of was that he'd had enough of being here, enough of wearying himself being patient with that kid, of feeling like the boor his aunt had called him every time he refused to answer one of Faith's questions, of having her probe at his past, and then act like he'd slapped her when he finally gave her a piece of it, of being eaten alive by needs he'd never felt before.

But here he was now, his stomach pleasantly full, his mind unpleasantly so. He told himself it was because Zach had practically begged him to stay, but he'd never let anybody's requests sway him before, not if his mind was set on hitting the breeze. It certainly wasn't because of Faith. She hadn't asked, hadn't given the slightest indication she still wanted him here; she'd seemed more surprised than he was that he had stayed.

So he was already feeling proddy, and his mood wasn't improved any by the realization that, instead of welcoming Faith's polite but utterly impersonal manner, he missed her straightforward speech, her openness, even her damned questions.

"The pie was good," he said into the silence.

"Yes," she agreed shortly.

"It was," Zach agreed. "Maybe you did teach Mama."

"Thank you, Zach." The difference in her demeanor was obvious. And it grated.

"So who taught you?" Morgan asked.

"I taught myself," she said, not looking at him.

"Can't be any tougher to run this place than to learn to bake a pie like this." Morgan wasn't sure what kept him trying, beyond sheer stubbornness.

She said nothing, just gathered up the dishes.

"Let me help," he said, rising to his feet.

"No." Then, as if it were an afterthought, she added a very formal, "Thank you."

Morgan's lips tightened. He barely resisted the urge to turn on his heel and walk out, get his horse and leave, no matter that it was nearing nightfall. He wasn't sure why he didn't. He stalked across the small room and stood in front of the tree they'd brought in.

"It's pretty, ain't it?" Zach asked as he came to stand beside him.

"Yeah." It was kind of cheerful, Morgan had to admit, with the strands of white popcorn, the bright ribbons, the candles burning.

"Have you ever made a better one?" the boy asked.

"I've never made one at all."

Zach's eyes rounded. "Never? Why?"

He opened his mouth to give the boy some meaningless reason that was nevertheless the truth, such as he was usually on the road, or in some saloon that didn't run even to the amount of Christmas spirit he'd seen in the place in town. But what came out instead startled him.

"I… lost the meaning of this day a long time ago."

"How can you lose Christmas? It's always there, every year."

"I think… it's myself I lost," Morgan whispered.

He heard a slight sound, and looked up to see Faith standing there staring at him, her eyes wide, and every bit of emotion and gentleness he'd so missed was glowing there.

He wanted to run. Some gut-deep part of him knew what that look meant, knew what it offered, and he wanted to run.

"Christmas is presents and songs and food and… and…"

"And family and love," Faith said softly, putting her hands on the boy's shoulders when he ran out of words.

Morgan shuddered, fought it by clenching his jaw, and sucked in a strangled breath as she spoke of the very reason he'd made sure to be alone on this of all days, as she spoke of the things he'd seen in her eyes.

"I have to put the lamp in the window. Mama will come back for Christmas," Zach declared. "I know she will."

"Zach," Faith reproved him gently.

"She won't miss Christmas, she loves it, she'll come back," Zach insisted, reaching for the pretty little lamp. "But she needs the light in the window."

"Zach, please, you know she can't come back," Faith began, reaching for the lamp. Zach pulled it away.

"She will. I know she will." Zach looked at Morgan pleadingly. "Tell her. You almost saw Mama, tell her. She'll come back, won't she?"

Morgan didn't look at the boy, he looked at Faith. And it was all there in her face, in her eyes, in the way she gently held the boy, all the things he'd never allowed himself to want, never dared think of, because he knew too well what would happen, knew too well the pain that was inevitable once you let anyone become too important to you.

"Tell her," Zach pleaded again, clutching the lamp to his thin chest. "Then she'll let me put Mama's lamp in the window, so she can find her way home."

Learn it now, boy, Morgan thought, while you're young enough to get over it quickly. He grabbed the lamp away from the boy. The glass chimney wobbled, then fell, hitting a branch of the tree and then rolling to the floor. The sound as it cracked was no harsher than his voice.

"She won't. You're fooling yourself. She wasn't there. She's gone. Forever. She's in that box they buried. Dead is dead, boy. They don't ever come back. Not ever."

Zach stared at him, his eyes first wide with shock, then brimming with tears.