Maybe This Christmas: A Sweet Historical Western Holiday Romance Novella (Holidays in Mountain Home Book 2) (7 page)

“No, I imagine you can’t.” She smiled and shook her head at his transparent efforts to stay with her until bedtime. His attention felt good, flattering, and she enjoyed his company. If it weren’t for the expectation of marriage, she rather liked courtship.

It was all so new…and surprisingly enjoyable. Reuben Carmichael had not courted her for there’d been no need. Just an agreement between him and her father and it was done.

She kept the sewing machine whirring and completed the collar’s facing. Her back ached from sitting so long in one place, so she moved to stand at the ironing board to run a basting stitch through the cap of the sleeves.

With her chair vacated, he leaned across her sewing machine cabinet and finished affixing the burning lamps to the wall, tightening the brackets with care.

She watched him work in the flickering light. He flashed her a happy grin as he picked up the second lamp and turned to the bracket on the other side of the window.

By the time she’d eased one sleeve into the armhole and secured the seam with pins, Luke had completed his task.

“Come see if the light is better.”

She smiled as he tucked the chair beneath her. Aware of his nearness, she tucked the seam under the presser foot and spun the balance wheel to start the machine. Rocking the treadle, she continued around the armhole, removing pins as she went. “The improvement is significant.” She met his gaze in the reflection of the window. “
Thank
you.”

His hands settled on her shoulders. Their reflection against the dark night beyond was almost as crisp as a mirror, enhanced by newly positioned lamplight.

This picture of him standing behind her chair, his hands upon her shoulders, affected her more than she wanted to admit. This was a glimpse of the path their lives could take…
if
she dared. He’d suggested, a week ago, this conjoined future. Despite her refusal to take out the forbidden idea and turn it over in her mind, his declaration had ignited a yearning within her.

Could
she?

She met his gaze and couldn’t miss the longing there.

Time seemed to slow, elongate, in the dreamlike way some poignant moments do.

She wanted—no,
needed
—to look away, for she feared she wore a similar expression. He’d notice, and it would be ever so much harder to keep him at a distance.

At last he lowered his gaze. She watched, transfixed, unwilling to move as his fingers caught an errant wisp of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. He focused wholly on her. Undeniable affection shone in his countenance.

His sincerity caused a subtle shift within her—and evoked a desire to open her heart.

This realization should have induced frustration if not outright disappointment…but it did not. She wanted the tingly sensation of his gentle tug on her hair and the comforting weight of his hand upon her shoulder. She wanted to watch him to her heart’s content in the window’s reflection. She simply…
wanted
.

In one week’s time, in his absence and in his attentiveness, Luke Finlay had done the unthinkable…he’d shown her the better part she hadn’t known existed. He’d made her
want.

And just like that, her firm resolve and immovable determination lost its foundation of stone. She shuddered, a house built upon a foundation of sand.

“I’ll carry in firewood. You’ll need more before dawn.”

He must’ve mistaken her shudder for a shiver. He released her hair and squeezed both shoulders in capable hands. “Tomorrow, Effie, I’m coming to get you for Sunday dinner.”

She blinked, refocused her thoughts. She’d been lost in a sea of fanciful imaginings.
Sunday dinner…
another thing she found she genuinely wanted. “Thank you, but I can’t. I have two short weeks ‘til Christmas.”

“All the more reason why you need a day off. You need a break from these four walls. You need a rest. You need to relax. You
need
family.”

How was right, of course. She needed as well as wanted.

Was it possible to guard her heart against this man?

On Monday morning Effie held the door open while Luke carried in the small stove he intended to install in her back room. On the way back to town last night after Sunday dinner with the Finlays, Luke had told her of his intentions to give her this second stove. His motives were pure—he simply wanted to see her adequately warm.

It was his idea, a Christmas gift, he’d insisted, and he would do the work himself.

Noelle waved in her good-natured manner as she followed Luke inside. She hung up her coat and set immediately to work.

Everyone in the valley trusted the Finlays. They all followed through and did exactly what they’d committed to. As Effie heard Luke unpacking the crate in her private quarters, she figured that strength was also her greatest danger.

Luke had vowed to win her heart, bit by bit, and that’s exactly what he’d done. He had her doubting her resolutions, wondering if she had the capacity for love.

She’d simply have to ignore him, concentrate on her customers and her work, and keep him at a distance.

As she’d lain in bed this morning, dreading another day with Luke near, she’d rehearsed a lengthy list of reasons why she was better off unmarried, why she was far happier alone. She squared her shoulders. She could do this. She
would
do this.

Mrs. Abbott, the mayor’s wife, came in shortly after nine to collect her orders. As Effie showed each item to Mrs. Abbott for her inspection, she couldn’t help but hear every rasp of the saw, every clank of iron stovepipe against wood. She was far too attuned to Luke. As they’d agreed, the door remained open. Customer curiosity would peak if they couldn’t see for themselves.

Unfortunately, this meant Effie could watch Luke at work. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and sawdust clinging to his jeans, he looked more a carpenter than a rancher.

Effie pulled her gaze away. She didn’t want to see the play of muscles beneath his shirt nor acknowledge the breadth of his shoulders.

“I see the rumors can’t be true,” Mrs. Abbott said, leaning over the counter as if to confide secrets. “If young Mr. Finlay’s going to all that work installing another stove on your premises, you can’t be leaving town.”

Effie looked up from folding Mrs. Abbott’s gabardine skirt. “Who said I was leaving?”

“Why, that handsome U.S. Marshal of yours did. But I see you’re simply adding value to the operation so it fetches a better price.” Mrs. Abbott softened her words with a wink. “Mighty fine business sense you have, Mrs. O’Leary.”

“Effie’s not going anywhere.” Noelle tore off a length of brown paper. “She’s told Mr. Rose so. I think he doesn’t want to believe her.”

The last thing Effie wanted was to add to the gossip mill, so she took the matching blouse Mrs. Abbott held and exchanged it with the shirt she’d just finished for the mayor. “Is the blouse to your liking? Good. Please take a look at the mayor’s new shirt.”

Ann Abbott had to be the most particular of Effie’s customers. Once Effie had proved her skills met Mrs. Abbott’s expectations, the inspection before payment had become a mere formality.

“Most handsome.” Ann admired the plackets at the sleeve’s cuff, fingered a buttonhole or two, and smoothed the expensive cotton with a palm. “You do excellent work.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Abbott.” Effie knew what would come next. As far as Mrs. Abbott was concerned, her orders, no matter when placed, should take precedence over any others. Her husband was the mayor, after all.

“How is your work on the mayor’s new suit progressing?”

Right on cue. Effie couldn’t help but smile.

Noelle, quick to please, brought out the suit coat. “Have you ever touched wool this soft and fine?”

As Noelle kept Mrs. Abbott occupied, Effie opened the ledger to make notations of the garments Mrs. Abbott had collected and tally the bill. Payment was accepted, pleasantries exchanged, and it wasn’t long and Mrs. Abbott left, her arms full and a smile on her face.

Effie put an arm about Noelle’s shoulders. “You’re a gem.”

“You’re the one who knows just what to say to her. She scares me.”

Effie chuckled. She’d once had all of Hartford’s Society at her feet. She could handle the upper crust of Mountain Home. “She’s not so bad. She simply wants to feel important and respected.”

Didn’t everyone want the same?

She
did.

And Luke had an uncanny way of ensuring she felt both—important and respected.

How was she supposed to resist softening even more to his charms?

Her traitorous heart was so attuned to Luke and his progress that it had started pounding with happy anticipation as she heard him finishing up. She forced herself to complete the seam before turning to him. He leaned in the doorway to her private room, his shirtsleeves still rolled up over forearms. Thick veins and dark hair enhanced the pull…so masculine and so familiar all at the same time.

“Want to see?” he asked.

Effie stood, noted Noelle had nearly finished the buttonholes on the mayor’s suit coat. She took a moment to admire the perfect, tight stitching. “Very well done, Noelle. I do believe I owe you a raise. Your skills have improved, and you’ve earned it.”

The girl’s eyes lit with the same flair of happiness she often glimpsed in Luke’s. The siblings—including Miranda—all had that same spark.

They ought to figure out how to bottle it. They’d make a fortune selling the patent medicine.

“You mean it?” Noelle’s grin provoked a smile from Effie, too.

“Indeed I do. Next payday, a nice raise for you.”

“Yes, ma’am—umm, Effie.”

“When you’re done there, you’ll start sewing on the buttons?” She found the envelope containing the special-order leather-covered shank buttons Mrs. Abbott had insisted upon.

“Yes. Go see your stove.”

Effie had a hard time meeting Luke’s gaze. These two could see right through her, and no doubt recognized her attempt to delay joining Luke.

How pathetic was she?

It should be a simple thing, to admire his craftsmanship, thank him for a job well done, and offer—though he’d refuse—repayment for the hardware and compensation for his time.

What was
wrong
with her?

Butterflies flitted about her stomach and she couldn’t help but smile…sure signs her recent flirtation with certain disaster wasn’t entirely in the past.

Number one: I will not forfeit my hard-won freedom.

Number two: I am content with my life the way it is.

She would mentally recite her list as often and as frequently as required until the temporary infatuation passed. It
would
pass…she’d make sure of it.

Number three: Men are never the same after marriage as they appear beforehand.

Luke offered his hand. His expression conveyed such hope, such optimism she’d accept.

Effie split a glance between him and his little sister, and finding Noelle busily stitching by light from the window, she still hesitated.

Should she?

Was it really so bad, just to take his hand?

He simply waited, a soft smile playing about his lips. Oh! He
knew
how much conflict this caused her, and yet he offered his hand anyway.

Shame on him. She strode past him and into the bedroom, leaving him to follow.

She made sure she left him plenty of room so he didn’t need to stand too near. With her attention entirely on the new appliance, she scanned it from ceiling to floor, noting he’d built a square base of bricks to keep the iron legs off the floorboards.

Luke had cleaned up every stray bit of sawdust. The stovepipe climbed straight and true, and, as she’d overheard from her sewing machine, he’d built a fire in the stove’s belly.

He held out his hands to warm them. “Come try it out.”

“I feel the warmth from here. Thank you, Mr. Finlay.”

He quirked a brow. He seemed on the brink of laughter, but instead he snagged her wrist and pulled her forward. “I don’t bite. What’s the matter?”

She swallowed. “Not a thing.”

Number four: Marriage is most disagreeable.

She determined to compliment him and get the conversation back on track. “You’re a tidy worker.”

“Tidy?” Now he did laugh. “Loosen up, Effie. You’re talking to me like we’re barely acquaintances.”

He looped his arm about her shoulders, pulled her close. “And I think we’re more than that. We’re at least friends.” He whispered the last of it close to her ear.

Predictably, her stomach tingled and her body fairly sang at his touch. She fought to keep a straight face. “Yes, Mr. Finlay. We are friends.”

“Is that all we are?” He nudged the shell of her ear with his nose, then his lips.

The delicious friction had her pulling away. “You know it’s all we can be.”

Number five: My nature is unsuited to marriage.

He shifted, cupped her face in his big hands, and his mouth touched hers for the briefest of seconds. He searched her gaze and asked a silent question.

Number six: I do not want male attention.

His hands trembled.

Sudden awareness flooded her system. All she could see, feel,
sense
was Luke. Warm, near, and focused wholly on her.

I’m a liar. I want
this
man’s attention.

Intoxicating.

Exhilarating
.

Her breath caught.

He looked her in the eye with an unguarded intensity she’d never experienced, never understood could happen between a man and a woman. He took her in, searching her gaze as if she were the most desirable woman in the world.

“Effie,” he mouthed, silently, and kissed her.

His lips, so warm, so soft, sent an electrifying sensation bolting from lip to crown to toes. Her hands, flat against the flannel of his shirt, ached to steal into the hair at his nape.

His kiss stunned her in its simplicity and utter reverence.

Never in her life—not even when she and Gus been young—had she experienced this kind of kiss.