Maybe This Christmas: A Sweet Historical Western Holiday Romance Novella (Holidays in Mountain Home Book 2) (3 page)

She squeezed her eyes shut against a resurgence of panic. The scuttle of wind against the frame building and scrape of Gus’s utensil upon china chafed her raw nerves. Her dull headache flared hot.

Luke must leave. She needed privacy to demand answers of Gus.

Mere seconds had passed since Gus’s statement—he intended to take her home—it seemed an eternity.

Luke shifted his weight. A floorboard squeaked beneath him. “Is that right.”

“Yes.” Another scrape of fork against china.

“I don’t like,” Luke stated, “the temperament you bring out in Mrs. O’Leary.”

Gus chuckled.

Don’t ask, Luke. Don’t.

“You frighten her and I don’t like it. Who are you, exactly?” Tension coiled in Luke’s thick shoulders.

“Just who I said. August Rose.”

“A United States Marshal.”

Gus held Luke’s gaze and finally nodded. “Yes.”

“Just as
I
said, I don’t like the temperament you bring out in Mrs. O’Leary.”

Why must he choose
now
, of all moments, to nominate himself her protector? She needed him gone before he learned too much. She swallowed to moisten her mouth. “It’s okay, Luke. I’m okay. I’m simply tired.”

Luke kept his attention on Gus and barely acknowledged she’d spoken. “Why, exactly, are you here? What do you want?”

“An old friend,” she blurted. “He’s an old friend.”

Luke studied her, taking in far more, she feared, than she wanted to disclose. Then to Gus, “What kind of old friend?”

Gus folded his arms, leaned a hip against the counter. “Why, the kind of old friend she’s happy to see.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me.”

Effie split a glance between the two men. Luke’s jaw set like granite. Gus’s eyes darkened.

“I’m just tired.”
Go, please. Leave.
“It’s been a very trying day.”

She stood and set her dinner plate on the cutting table.

Luke held her gaze, and she fancied she glimpsed more than neighborly protectiveness. His concern felt wonderful…and undeserved.

“You want him to go?” Luke gestured to Gus with a nudge of his jaw.

If she said yes, Gus would morph into August Rose, U.S. Marshal. “No. I’m sorry, Luke. I need
you
to go. Gus and I have matters to discuss.”

Disappointment and confusion marred his handsome features. “If that’s what you want.”

Gus tossed the towel over his empty plate and waited in expectant silence.

She willed Luke to understand. “It is what I want.”

Yet there was no way he could understand—but he would. By tomorrow night, the gossip would reach every ear in town and every soul in the valley by week’s end. He’d hear all about it soon enough.

This was goodbye.

She reached for his hand.

He accepted the invitation, his large, warm, callused fingers closing about hers. Distrust of Gus registered plainly on his face…and deep hurt. He didn’t understand.

Anguish squeezed her throat. How it hurt to see the pain she’d caused.

She swallowed hard. “Thanks, Luke.”
Thanks for the friendship, companionship, and laughter. Thanks for trying to help me.

She’d miss him.

He released her, shrugged on his coat, buttoned up and pulled on gloves. Raw injury darkened his expression and his pain became her own.

She hated herself for hurting him, sending him away when he clearly wanted to support and protect.

From this, from her own doing, Luke could not save her. No one could.

He strode for the door and jerked it open.

She expected him to slam the door, and braced for it. With complete and utter calm, he closed the door.

He did not look back. A rush of white-hot pain seared through her heart.

Gus turned the key in the lock. “Let’s find ourselves some privacy, away from prying eyes.” He put out two of the three burning lamps.

She nodded in mute acceptance.

He carried the last lamp to the rear of the shop and opened the door to her private room. He held the light high as if expecting a crowded storage space. The room ran the width of the shop, but had a depth of only seven feet. The headboard of a narrow bed resided in the corner furthest from the door, and one trunk in the nearby corner. One bedside table, one chair, and pegs on the wall for her clothing. A door, flanked by a single window, led out back to the necessary.

The room was significantly colder, without stove or hearth. Gus set the lamp on the table.

He remained standing, so she did, too. “Tell me what you meant.”

“Meant by what?”

“You said you’re here to take me home. With you.” The words tumbled free, rushed and panicked. She hated feeling so unsettled, so trapped…so like…
before
.

“I meant exactly what I said. I’m here to take you home with me.” He gripped her shoulders in unyielding hands. “It’s time to come home.” A smile formed on his lips, as if he believed everything would be okay.

Nothing could be okay, would
never
be okay again. “Am I under arrest?”

“Arrest?
No
.”

“I can explain. I
want
to explain.”

“Effie, listen. He’s gone—”

“Who’s gone?”

He chuckled. “You’re just as impatient as always.” Without warning, he gathered her close. “I missed you.”

His embrace seemed both suffocating and oh, so wonderful. How long had it been since a man had hugged her with joyful affection? She squirmed.

He didn’t release her. “Reuben Carmichael is dead.”

She stilled and closed her eyes, grateful Gus couldn’t see her expression. Oh, yes, she most certainly had known he was dead—she’d been there.

His big hand swept up her back and cradled her neck. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“It’s
not
okay.” Breathless, she tried to draw in air. “I must explain.” Panic flared, this time because she couldn’t breathe. “If you have an ounce,” she panted, “of affection left.
Listen
. And
help
me.”

Gus eased back and searched her gaze in the lamplight. “I’ll listen, but you need to know Carmichael died eleven months ago. Snug in his bed. Pneumonia.”

Her knees nearly buckled.
Eleven months ago.
When she’d been long gone and safely disguised as Widow O’Leary.

With blood rushing through her ears, her heart pounding, she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “Eleven months? You’re sure?”

“Positive. It was in the papers. I personally saw his body lying in repose at the mansion.”

She’d run, knowing it didn’t matter one whit whether she’d actually killed Reuben or simply injured him gravely. There had been
so
much blood. If he’d recovered, he’d want vengeance…if dead, his brother would’ve seen her prosecuted.

The scents of wind and snow, tobacco and man clung to him, achingly familiar and yet new.

He nudged her chin up. “I’ve searched for you ever since. You hid real well, Effie. It took me longer to find you than I’d thought possible.”

“Why?”

He smiled, his visage softening, offering a glimpse of the young man he’d once been. “I’m usually a better tracker than that.”

“No—why search for me at all? Are you here to arrest me? You’re taking me back to stand trial?”

“No.” The gray of his eyes clouded over, softened with unmistakable compassion. He cupped her face between hands at once familiar and yet bigger, rougher, stronger. “I had to find you. To tell you you’re free.”

She’d never be free of the past. The Carmichaels wouldn’t allow it.

“You know why I left.” Everyone in law enforcement no doubt knew. Reuben and his family would’ve seen to that.

“I know enough.”

“They won’t rest. If I return, if I’m anywhere near, they’ll see me punished.”

“I doubt that.”

He didn’t know the Carmichaels. “Reuben’s brother is as influential as he is—
was.
He’ll never forgive bludgeoning his brother with leaded crystal.”

So slowly, Gus lowered his head, telegraphing his intention to kiss her again. Had he heard a word she’d said?

She had ample time to turn away, deny him, deny herself. He paused halfway, his attention sliding from her mouth to her eyes as if asking permission. He must’ve seen a
yes
there, for his lips touched hers in a gentle kiss, sweet and welcoming, reminded her of forbidden kisses in the first blush of adulthood.

The play of his lips upon hers allowed a glimpse of the youth within the mature lawman. Her heart rolled over—how she’d loved him, once.

“I’ve come to take you home.” His tone left no room for argument. “It’s time. Without Carmichael and your father keeping us apart, you’re finally mine.”

“My father?” Her heart pounded and her ears rang. “What do you mean, without my father?”

Her father had successfully interrupted the only joy in her life…her romance with Gus. He’d chosen Reuben Carmichael because of his position as federal judge. He’d sold her into slavery to purchase security for his unlawful business empire.

Gus soothed her with a touch. “He’s dead. And your mother.”

Dead?
The news rendered her incapable of speech.

They’d been very much alive when she’d fled Hartford. If she’d approached them for help, they’d have returned her to her husband. So she’d left Hartford without contacting her parents.

Only one regret haunted her still—she’d also severed ties with was her only sibling, Victoria.

“You didn’t know.”

She shook her head.

“The papers reported your father passed after a brief illness. I did some digging.” He shrugged. “Natural causes. His heart, most likely. Consumption claimed your mother a few months later.”

“Tori.” What had become of her little sister? Did the sweet, quiet girl with luminous eyes believe Effie dead? What purgatory had Father consigned her to?

“She’s well. Lives in the family home, fights with your father’s lawyers, and typically wins. She’ll be happy I’ve found you.” Gus grinned. “She hired me to find you.”

Chapter Three

The following morning, Effie stretched within the warm cocoon of her bed.

The barrage of information—the death of her parents and the death of her estranged husband, word of her sister…it had all been too much. She’d needed time.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, she’d realized she’d never set Gus straight.

He’d kissed her, implied he loved her still. He wanted to take her home with him.

She would not go. Honestly, the Carmichaels had very little to do with her decision. She would not go because Gus expected marriage.

She’d learned the hard way marriage was not for her. Never again would she give a man control over every aspect of her life.

Never
.

She and Gus wanted two very different things, thus they had no hope of a future together. She couldn’t allow him to make further plans, to assume she’d do as he bid. Yes, she’d wanted to marry him, once, but that had been a very long time ago. Before she learned what marriage was truly like.

She’d ensure he understood, at the first opportunity.

She stretched, basking in the excellent news Gus had delivered.

I’m free.

Free of Reuben Carmichael’s threats, free of his moneyed long-arm reach, free of marriage, free of her parents’ manipulations.

Free.

She could stay here in Mountain Home, continue operating her business. She’d be around to sew the flannel nightgown and wrapper Hunter ordered as a Christmas present for his wife. She would hold her friends’ baby.

Relief swelled, an unfamiliar emotion she didn’t know what to do with.

She tossed back the covers, pushed her toes into chilly slippers and reached for her wrapper. Morning’s light eased from grays to muted shades of color.

Happy anticipation fueled her desire to dive into her work. Within thirty minutes, she’d stoked the fire, heated water for a sponge bath, dressed, twisted her hair into a knot atop her head, made her bed, and brewed coffee. She briskly swept the floor to remove the dirt tracked in last night by curious folk.

She’d nearly finished the job when a light tap sounded on her front window. She glanced up to find Gus back-lit by early dawn. He waved to her.

“What are you doing out so early?”

He brought a rush of bitter cold air with him inside. He stomped clumps of snow off his boots and leaned on the door to shut it.

So much for swept floors.

“I couldn’t wait to see you.” A grin softened his features.

“I’m glad you’re here.” She’d rather set him straight in private.

“Good.” He leaned in, expecting a kiss.

She gave him her cheek. “I’ve carefully thought through everything you told me last night.”

“Anxious to go home?”

“Actually, no.”

He paused in the process of shedding his heavy coat. “No need to worry over the Carmichaels. I know you’ve been in hiding from them—I understand. They searched for you after your abrupt departure, but quickly turned their story into a tale that favored the family.”

She could imagine what they’d said. Likely that she’d left to visit a distant relative. Or that she’d been confined to her bed with consumption. Certainly not that she’d left Reuben Carmichael and disappeared. Never that.

Gus removed heavy leather gloves, then pulled something from his coat pocket. He presented stiff papers with a flourish.

“What’s this?” But she already knew. Railway tickets.

“I bought two return fares. One for you. One for me.”

Her heart sank. Rather presumptuous of him, wasn’t it?

She must’ve given away her displeasure for he rushed to continue, “You’ll be home in time for Christmas. Think of it. Christmas in Hartford, with Tori.”

Tempting, but inadequate. “Thank you, Gus, for your generosity. I need you to understand—”

“I’ll help you pack. We can make the four-o’clock.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s too big a job to do alone.”

“No. I mean, thank you, but I won’t pack. I won’t leave today.”