The Christmas Brides (32 page)

Somewhat restored after that, Ben dragged the big tree across the floor and out the front door. Later, it would be chopped up and burned.

The storm continued through the night, and snow was still coming down at a furious rate in the morning, drifting up against the sides of the house, high enough that if she'd been able to open a window, Juliana could have scooped the stuff up in her hands.

Ben brought more milk, and told Juliana he hoped the snow would let up soon, because he and the other two ranch hands were having a hard time getting the hay sled out to the range cattle, even with the big draft horses to pull it.

One question thudded in the back of Juliana's mind day and night like a drumbeat that never went silent.

Where was Lincoln?

She tried to be sensible. He'd probably had to stay in Missoula to wait out the storm, and sent another telegram informing her of that. Since the road between Stillwater Springs and the ranch was under at least three feet of snow, Wes wouldn't be able to bring her the message, like he had the others.

There was nothing to do but wait.

Juliana tried the corn bread recipe again, and even though it came out hard as a horse shoe, at least this time smoke didn't pour out of the oven. Soaked in warm milk, the stuff was actually edible.

The next day, Ben strung ropes from the house to the cabin and the cabin to the barn; it was the only way he could get from one place to the other without being lost in the blizzard. The draft horses knew the way to and from the cluster of trees where the herd had taken shelter; otherwise, the cattle would have gone hungry.

On the fifth night, Juliana lingered in the kitchen, long after the children had gone to sleep, watching the clock and waiting.

At first, she thought she'd imagined the sound at the back door, but then the latch jiggled. She fairly leaped out of her chair, hurried across the room and hauled open the door.

The icy wind was so strong that it made her bones ache, but she didn't care. Lincoln was standing on the back step, coated in ice and snow, seemingly unable to move.

Juliana cried out, used all her strength to pull him inside and managed to shut the door against the wind by leaning on it with the full weight of her body.

“Lincoln?”

He didn't speak, didn't move. How had he gotten home with the roads the way they were? Surely the team and wagon couldn't have passed through snow that deep—it would have reached to the tops of the wheels.

She had to pry his hat free of his head—it had frozen to his hair. Next, she peeled off the coat, tossed it aside.

She thought of tugging him nearer the stove, but she recalled reading about frost bite some where; it was important that he warm up slowly.

His clothes were stiff as laundry left to freeze on a clothes line. She ran for the bedrooms, snatching up all the blankets she could find that weren't already in use and hurried back to the kitchen.

Lincoln was still standing where she'd left him; his lips were blue, and his teeth had begun to chatter.

“Whiskey,” he said in a raw whisper.

Juliana rushed into the pantry, found the bottle he kept on a high shelf. Pouring some into a cup, she raised it to his mouth, holding it patiently while he sipped.

A great shudder went through him, but he wasn't so stiff now, and some of the color returned to his face.

“Help me out of these clothes,” he ground out. “My fingers aren't working.”

She pulled off his gloves first, and was relieved to see no sign of frost bite. His toes could be affected, though, and even if they weren't, the specter of pneumonia loomed in that kitchen like a third presence.

She un but toned his shirt, helped him out of it, then pulled his woolen under shirt off over his head, too. She
immediately wrapped him in one of the blankets. He managed to sit down in the chair she brought from the table, and she crouched to pull off his boots, strip away his socks.

His toes, like his fingers, were still intact, though he admitted he couldn't feel them.

He seemed so exhausted just from what they'd done so far that Juliana gave him another dose of whiskey before removing his trousers and tucking more blankets in around him.

“How did you get here?” she asked as he sat there shivering, a good distance from the stove. “My Lord, Lincoln, you must have been out in the weather for hours.”

Remarkably, a grin tilted up one corner of his mouth. “I rode Wes's mule out from town,” he answered slowly, groping for each word. “Good thing that critter can smell hay and a warm stall from a mile off.”

“You rode Wes's mule?”
If Juliana hadn't been so glad he was home, she would have been furious. “Lincoln Creed, are you insane? If you got as far as Stillwater Springs—and God knows how you managed that—you should have stayed there!”

“You're here,” he said. “Gracie and Bill and Daisy are here. This is where I belong.”

“You could have frozen to death! What good would that have done us?”

He didn't respond to that question. Instead, he said, “You'd better get some snow to pack around my feet and hands, or else I might lose a few fingers and toes.”

The action was contrary to every instinct Juliana pos
sessed, but she knew he was right. After bundling up, she took the milk bucket outside and filled it with snow.

Returning to the kitchen, she marveled that Lincoln had been able to travel in that weather, probably for hours, when she'd been chilled to her marrow by a few moments in the backyard.

The process of tending to Lincoln was slow and, for him, painful. It was after two in the morning when he told her there had been enough of the snow packs. She led him to their room, put him to bed like a child, piling blanket after blanket on top of him.

Still he shivered.

She built the hearth fire up until it roared.

Lying in the darkness, under all those blankets, he chuckled. “Juliana, no more wood,” he said. “You'll set the house on fire.”

There was nothing more she could do except put on her night gown and join him. He trembled so hard that the whole bed frame shook, and his skin felt as cold as stone.

She huddled close to him, sharing the warmth of her own body, enduring the chill of his. When he finally slept, she could not, exhausted as she was, because she was so afraid of waking up to find him dead.

For most of the night, she kept her vigil. Then, too tired to keep her eyes open for another moment, she drifted off.

When she woke up, his hand was underneath her night gown.

“There's one way you could warm me up,” he said wickedly.

He was safe.

He was warm again, and well.

And Juliana gladly gave herself up to him.

June 1911

J
ULIANA
C
REED STOOD IN
Willand's Mercantile, visibly pregnant and beaming as she read Theresa's most recent letter through for the second time before folding it care fully and tucking it into her handbag. She and Joseph had attended a small school on the reservation since their return to North Dakota, but now they would have the whole summer off. Joseph had a temporary job milking cows on a nearby farm, while Theresa would be helping her grand mother tend the garden.

Juliana looked around the store for her children.

Billy-Moses—now called just Bill or Billy most of the time, a precedent Lincoln had set—was examining a toy train carved out of wood, while Daisy and Gracie browsed through hair ribbons, ready-made dresses with ruffles, and story books.

With all of them ac counted for, her mind turned to the men. Tom was at the blacksmith's, having a horse shod, and Lincoln had gone to the
Courier,
looking for Wes.

Marriage had changed Weston Creed. He was, as Lincoln put it, “damn near to becoming a respectable citizen.” Remarkably, given the long estrangement
between her and Wes, the elder Mrs. Creed had returned to Stillwater Springs for the wedding back in April. While she hadn't been happy about having a saloon keeper for a daughter-in-law, she'd behaved with re mark able civility.

Cora had stayed long enough to size Juliana up, decided she'd do as a wife for Lincoln and a step mother for Gracie, and then she'd announced that she was taking up permanent residence with her cousins in Phoenix. She was too old, she maintained, to keep going back and forth.

Although they'd been a little stiff with each other at first, Juliana had soon come to like her mother-in-law. While Cora had been cool to Kate, she
had
made the long journey home to attend the wedding. During her stay at the ranch, she'd treated Daisy and Billy as well as she had Gracie.

Before her departure, though, Cora and Juliana had agreed, in a spirit of goodwill, that one Creed woman per house hold was plenty.

When the little bell over the mercantile chimed, Juliana turned in the direction of the door, expecting to see Lincoln, or perhaps Tom.

Her heart missed a beat when she recognized Clay.

Their eyes met, but neither of them spoke.

Clay stood just over the thresh old, handsome in his well-tailored suit. His hair was darker than Juliana's, more chestnut than red, but his eyes were the same shade of blue.

Watching her, he removed his very fashionable hat. “Juliana,” he said gravely, with a slight nod.

“Clay,”
Juliana whispered. And then she ran to him, threw her arms around him.

Tentatively, he put his arms around her, too. After a stiff moment, he hugged her back. “You're looking well,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion.

Juliana blushed, con founded by joy, pushing back far enough to look up into her brother's face. “When you didn't answer my letter, I thought—”

He smiled, glancing down at her protruding middle. “You did say you were married?” he teased.

She showed him her wedding ring. “How long have you been in town? The train came through three days ago.”

“I've been staying at the Comstock Hotel, trying to work up the courage to hire a buggy over at the livery stable and drive out to the ranch to see you.”

“Oh, Clay—surely you knew you'd be welcome.”

“I
didn't
know,” he replied. “According to my wife, I've been behaving like an ogre ever since you refused to marry John Holden, and I'm afraid Nora's right about that.”

Juliana's eyes misted over. “I've missed you,” she said.

He kissed her forehead. “I'd like to meet this husband of yours,” he told her. “Your letter made him sound like a paragon.”

The door opened again, and Lincoln was there.

Still tearful—tears came more easily with her pregnancy—Juliana moved to Lincoln's side. He put an arm around her, regarding Clay curiously and then with a grin of recognition.

“You must be Clay Mitchell,” he said. “With eyes that color, you have to be related to Juliana.”

Clay nodded in acknowledgment. “And you're Lincoln Creed,” he replied.

“Papa!” Billy yelled, racing across the store to be hoisted into Lincoln's arms. Lincoln ruffled the boy's hair and laughed.

Clay's eyes widened momentarily, but then he smiled again.

“Daisy,” Juliana called, “Gracie—come and meet your uncle Clay.”

He charmed those two little girls by executing a gentle manly bow. “Ladies,” he said solemnly, making them giggle.

Still carrying Billy, Lincoln excused himself and went to the counter to speak to Fred Willand about their grocery order.

“You will come out to the ranch and stay with us for a few days, won't you, Clay?” Juliana asked quietly.

“I'd be glad to,” Clay assured her.

On the way home, having collected his bag from the hotel, Clay rode on the wagon seat next to Juliana with Lincoln at the reins, while Gracie, Billy and Daisy bounced along in back like always, seated among crates of groceries.

“He doesn't seem so bad to me,” Lincoln said much later, when he and Juliana had retired to their room for the night. They'd talked right through supper, the three of them, and for a couple of hours afterward.

“This is the Clay I knew before,” Juliana said, choking up a little. The change in her brother seemed miraculous.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lincoln pulled off one boot and then the other. Juliana remembered the night he'd ridden a mule through three feet of snow, nearly losing his fingers and toes, if not his life.

“I've never had a sister,” Lincoln said, “but I can imagine that if I did, I might have some pretty hardheaded opinions about what she should and shouldn't do.”

Juliana stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. “We were so young when our mother died,” she mused. She'd long since told Lincoln all about her family history, John Holden and his daughters, secretly studying to be a teacher when her grand mother believed she was in finishing school. “Clay's a little older, and I guess I expected him to be strong, maybe our grand mother did, too. But he was really a child, as scared and lost and hurt as I was. I hate to think what must have gone through his mind when our father left us at Grandmama's that day. Clay knew, even if I didn't, that Father wasn't coming back—and that meant he had to be a man from then on.”

Lincoln came to stand behind her, bent his head to kiss her right ear. His hands caressed her round belly. “That corn bread you served at supper tonight was pretty good,” he said.

She laughed. “It should have been,” she replied. “I've been practicing for six months.”

He took the brush from her hand, set it aside on the bureau, turned her around to face him. “Tom says you'll make a fine cook one of these days.”

Juliana smiled. Tom had been giving her cookery lessons, and she was making progress. “He also says I
try too hard.” She slipped her arms around his middle and leaned against him. “What else can I do? I want to keep my husband happy.”

Lincoln tasted her mouth, once, twice, a third time. “Your husband,” he said, “is
very
happy.”

She looked up at him. “I love you, Lincoln Creed. Just when I think I couldn't possibly love you more than I already do, something happens to prove me wrong.”

“I love you, too,” he replied, tracing the length of her cheek, and then her neck, with the lightest pass of his lips. He eased her toward the bed, still nibbling at her.

He put out the lamp.

“Lincoln, you're not listening to me,” Juliana said, laughing a little, as delightfully nervous, in some ways, as she'd been on their wedding night.

He lowered her to the bed. “You're right,” he said, kissing her again. “I'm not.”

Already cherishing their unborn child, Lincoln was unspeakably tender as he caressed her belly and then slowly raised her night gown, first to her knees, then her thighs, then her shoulders. With a groan of welcome, she raised her arms so he could slip the garment off over her head.

He kissed her distended stomach, his lips warm and faintly moist.

Juliana groaned again, rolled her eyes back in content ment and closed them, giving herself up to Lincoln, body, mind and spirit.

He loved the fullness of her breasts, kissed and nibbled at her taut nipples until she said his name in a ragged whisper.

Then he moved down along her breast bone, over her
middle, pausing at her abdomen before using his fingers to part the nest of curls at the juncture of her thighs. She whimpered as he stroked her with a slow, gentle motion of his hand, and although her eyes remained shut, she felt the dark burn of his gaze on her face. She knew he was silently asking her permission, and she nodded.

He made a sound that was wholly male, low in his throat.

In Lincoln's arms, Juliana had learned a sort of pleasure that she'd never imagined, and that night was no exception. Even before they'd conceived this child they both wanted so much, he'd always been careful, raising her to an explosive ecstasy and at the same time making her feel utterly safe.

For a time, he simply made slow circles with his fingers, and Juliana began to writhe in need and surrender, in triumph and exultation.

Her breath became shallow and rapid as he teased her. Then the first release came, shattering and sweet, leaving her shuddering. Knowing there would be more—much more—before the night was over, only in creased her wanting.

Lincoln used his mouth on her next, and though it was scandalous, Juliana gloried in the intimacy of it, in the help less ness and the sheer power of the sensations he wrought in her, with every nibble, every flick of his tongue.

Again, she broke apart in a million fiery pieces, a primitive cry of satisfaction escaping her throat, but going no further than the thick log walls of their bedroom.

Only when Lincoln was certain he'd untied every
knot in Juliana's still-quivering body did he mount her, and ease into her depths with that heartrending tenderness she'd come to expect of him.

They rocked together, and she reached yet another pinnacle, softer and yet more intense than the others that had gone before. When Lincoln finally let himself go, Juliana finally opened her eyes, stroking his strong shoulders, his chest, his sides, her hands moving in ways that both soothed and inflamed.

Then he tensed upon her, and she felt life itself spill within her, the life that had brought their child into being, and Gracie, as well.

“I love you,” Juliana whispered.

He sighed, kissed her cheek, her neck. Fell beside her. “And I love
you,
Juliana Creed.”

 

I
F
J
ULIANA HAD YET TO MASTER
cooking and housekeeping, she
had
learned to drive a buggy. On the morning of Clay's departure for Denver, she was the one who drove him to the depot in town.

“I've got eyes,” Clay said, grinning, as they pulled up to await the train, “but I still need to hear you say it. Are you happy, Juliana?”

She kissed his cheek. “Ecstatic,” she said, meaning it.

He reached into the inside pocket of his coat—his fine clothes made him stand out like the proverbial sore thumb in rustic Stillwater Springs—and brought out a thick envelope. Offered it to her.

In the distance, the train whistle shrilled.

Puzzled, Juliana looked at the envelope, then at Clay's face. “What…?”

“Your inheritance,” Clay said. “These documents transfer full control to you. You're a rich woman, Juliana. Now that I've taken Lincoln Creed's measure, I know you'll be all right.”

Stunned—it had been a long time since she'd given a thought to money—she accepted the papers. Then she beamed. “Now we can build a hay barn right on the range,” she chimed in happy realization. “And the cattle will have some where to take shelter when the snows come.”

Clay laughed. “Some women would want diamonds, or fine dresses.”

The train chugged into view, and Juliana saddened a little at the sight, not willing to be parted from this brother she had loved for so long. “You'll come back when you can, won't you? And bring Nora and the children?”

He touched her cheek. “We'll be here,” he said. “And you're welcome at our place anytime, Juliana. You and Lincoln and this brood of yours.”

With that, he climbed down from the buggy, took his traveling case from under the seat. He looked up at her, winked, and then turned away, walking purposefully toward the depot.

Juliana waited until the train had pulled out before heading for home.

Lincoln was there, having minded the children while she was gone, and Ben and Rose-of-Sharon sat at the table, baby Joshua in his mother's arms. For all the difficulties of his birth, the infant was thriving.

Once the Gainers had left, Juliana took the envelope from her handbag and laid it on the table.

“What's this?” Lincoln asked.

“Open it,” Juliana said lightly, “and read for yourself.”

Lincoln hesitated, then did as he was told. His eyes widened as he read. “That's one hell of a lot of money,” he said finally. “You are a wealthy woman, Juliana.”

“
We
are wealthy,” she clarified.

He grinned, and only then did she realize how tensely he'd held his shoulders while he read. Had he thought, for the briefest moment, that she'd leave him now that she was a woman of in de pen dent means?

She went to him, slipped her arms around his lean, hard waist. “I told Clay we'd be building a big hay barn out on the range, first thing.”

Lincoln chuckled. “Speaking of the range, I'd better get out there. We've still got a few calves taking their time to get born.”