The Gift-Wrapped Groom (9 page)

Kept? Like livestock are kept? Somewhat of an improvement over the distasteful French image but not much.

“So, to not be this ‘kept', I must rent a horse. For these short trips here and into the village.”

“
Short
trips?” Winsome shook his head. “All a matter of perspective, I suppose. Why not just take the car I've offered and start using that credit account?”

“The car should be for work, because then I shall be certain of being able to repay you. Until then, I should have sufficient rubles to manage the rental of a horse. And from what I have walked of this valley today, a horse should be far more suitable than a car.”

“All right, come on. I've got a stable full of a wide assortment. Percherons, Morgans. The quarter horses are my favorites. Most born and bred right here on this ranch. You know much about horses?”

An affirmative shrug, one that needed no translation between men. Winsome's blue eyes brightened.

“Good. These quarter horses aren't just good to look at. They are real workers. Most of the ranches in this valley and a lot in other parts of the state get their mounts from me. You can have your pick. Can't wait to show you my pride and joy, Bastion Billy, an AAA-rated AQHA stallion.”

“A valuable horse?”

“My most valuable. A real champion. If you really know your horseflesh, he'll be your pick.”

“Which is your least valuable horse?”

“Well, I guess that would be a killer, white-faced paint we call Warlock. Unridable. Unmanageable. He runs virtually wild up in the north pasture. We drop him some hay rather than try to herd him along with the rest of the stock to the winter pastures. Too much trouble. Should have had him destroyed a year ago when he damn near kicked one of my ranch hands to death. But I just didn't have the heart. He's a real beauty. Indians revered the white-faced paint—thought they were magical.”

“How much would it be to rent this Warlock?”

“Rent
Warlock?
Oh, no, Nicholas. Get that idea right out of your head. This horse can't be ridden, believe me.”

“But if I could ride him, how much would his rental be?”

Winsome shook his head at his grandson-in-law. “I don't believe this. You think you're going to ride him.”

“If the rental fee is right.”

“What is it with you and my granddaughter? Paved roads are laid out before you, yet you still insist on climbing every damn rocky cliff in sight. Why must you two make things so hard on yourselves?”

“It can feel very good to be the first who walks a path.”

“And how good does it feel to be the first to break your reckless neck on that path?”

Nicholas smiled as he rubbed the back of his neck while reliving some vivid memories. “Not as good. But life is struggle. Always struggle. And much can be learned from the attempt.”

Winsome exhaled and shook his head once more. “Obviously, you didn't learn enough. All right, here's the deal.
If
you can ride Warlock, his rental fee will be a thousand rubles a day including feed. But if you can't, you will not balk at my insistence that your broken body be flown to the nearest emergency room, where I will pay to repair the damage. And, you will also accept my new Chevy Suburban as a wedding present, outright, with not one further word of dissent. We have a deal?”

Nicholas could tell from the gleam in William Winsome's eye that this crafty old man had no doubt that Nicholas would soon be accepting a car from him. After all, Winsome had seen this Warlock and Nicholas had not.

But Winsome had not seen the ten-year-old Nicholas Baranov living with his distant relatives across the steppes of Kazakhstan, breaking the wild descendants of the horses that had led the thirteenth-century nomads to conquer Russia, China and Europe as far as the Danube River. Nicholas took the hand stretched out to him and smiled.

“We have this deal.”

“W
ell, I'll be a rattlesnake's dinner.”

Noel looked up from her workbench in response to Lucy Lydon's sudden exclamation. Lucy's nose rested against the frosted windowpane, her eyes glued to something on the village street before her.

“Lucy, gawk later. Right now, I need you back in position and still.”

Lucy ignored her. “I see it but I don't believe it.”

“All right. I'll bite. What don't you believe?”

“Come here, Noel.”

“Lucy, I'm right in the middle of finishing your chin.”

“Noel, you gotta see this!”

The urgency in Lucy's normally easygoing voice was very uncharacteristic. Noel's curiosity got the best of her. She put down her delicate paintbrush, careful not to let its still-wet tip come in contact with anything else on her bench. She wiped her paint-stained hands on her much-stained apron and scooted her stool over to the window. Mistletoe, asleep at her feet, stirred and yawned into a stretch but then dropped his head back into doggy dreams beneath the bench.

Noel peered through the delicate stained-glass window of her shop that faced the village street. “Where? What?”

“There!” Lucy said.

Noel followed Lucy's pointing finger. For the second time that morning, her eyes blinked in disbelief. For the second time, her jaw dropped.

“That's...no, that can't be grandfather's
Warlock!
”

“Not only is it Warlock, but it's your Nicholas sitting on top of him, reining him in like some merry-go-round mount. Well, well. That's some man you've got yourself hitched to, gal.”

Noel stared at her husband's jean-clad, thick, muscular thighs and knees urging Warlock around the old well in the center of the short but wide village road. The horse's nostrils flared, his breath visible in the cold, fighting with every lift of his hooves the man on his back who rode him so resolutely toward the wooden steps leading to the front of Noel's Christmas store. Noel's eyes swept the strong, competent hands wrapped around the reins. A little thrill edged up her spine.

“How can he be riding that stallion?”

“You're asking me? He's your husband.”

“No one has ever been able to ride that horse!”

“Well, unless we're both having the same hallucination, someone can now. Tell me, are there any more like him back in Russia?”

Noel's answer swept out on the wave of a long, appreciative exhalation. “I can't imagine another like him.”

“Hmm. Maybe not. Or maybe I should be asking your grandfather. You ain't exactly an objective source, Miss Bride.”

As Noel became aware of the meaning in Lucy's words, she felt a small pang of regret for deceiving her friend—and a small sense of alarm for how exciting it felt to be the bride of a man like this.

She tore her eyes away from Nicholas. “Lucy, you can't be serious about talking to Grandfather. You'd never be interested in a mail-order bridegroom from anywhere, much less Russia.”

“If your Nicholas is any sample of what's coming out of Russian these days, don't be so sure. Of course, if they all insist on waltzing like he does, I might be out of my league. I'd say your father's romantic streak paid off there. You're the only one in these parts who can stomp your feet to those fancy steps.”

Noel was only half listening to her friend. Her eyes had swung back toward the stained-glass window to look at Nicholas's hands, remembering his firm but gentle touch as he held her the night before when they'd danced.

Her eyes rose to his face, that strong stone face with those uncompromising eyes, now staring right into the stained-glass window. And right at her.

Noel jumped.

Lucy scooted away from the window first. “That hunk of a husband of yours is headed this way, and I don't think he looks too pleased. I told you that you shouldn't have come into work today. Didn't your mom ever tell you about husbands and honeymoons?”

Noel turned from the window and moved her stool back to her workbench, forcing herself to remain calm, trying to ignore an excited sense of anticipation that fluttered in the vicinity of her solar plexus.

“Don't be silly, Lucy. With all these orders due before Christmas, I can't afford to waste a day. Nicholas is a very... understanding husband. Now, are you going to sit still for this portrait, or do I have to tie you to that chair?”

Lucy smirked. “You couldn't unglue me from it now. I can't wait to see this display of ‘understanding' about to unfold.”

Nicholas opened the shop door to the sound of Noel's “Jingle bells” door chime. Noel buried her head in her work, although she found her every nerve ending attuned to the man who entered her store. Although he moved quietly, she could nonetheless feel his progress toward her, like a wall of impenetrable warmth getting closer and closer. Mistletoe aroused himself, his nose quivering in recognition as he gave a happy welcoming bark.

The faded blue of Nicholas's jeans skirted the periphery of Noel's vision. She expected him to say something. He didn't. Just stood next to her workbench and silently watched. He smelled of man and horse—a very potent smell. Noel's normally steady hand began to quiver annoyingly. She gave up trying to simulate concentration, put the paintbrush aside and raised her eyes.

“Hi, Nicholas. I'm...surprised to see you here.”

He stood solemnly before her, his hands quiet by his sides, but the look in his eyes was far from quiet. “You left this morning before we could speak.”

Noel's hands continued their irritating quiver. She wrapped them under her knees. “Yes, well, you were in the shower. Didn't know how long you'd be. You got my note?”

“I did not wish to speak to your note.”

His voice was cool, remote, studiously polite, as always. But Noel was very glad that his back was to Lucy and her friend could not see the heat in his eyes.

“This is my busy season, Nicholas. I needed to—”

“Some things can wait. Some things cannot.”

Suddenly, he swung around to address Lucy, still in that correctly polite tone. “Miss Lydon, Noel and I wish to speak privately. With your permission?”

Lucy's shoulders dropped in definite disappointment, but she was looking into Nicholas's eyes now and the message she was reading there was all too clear. She scrambled to her feet.

“No, not at all,” she assured. “We'll do this later, Noel. If you're still of a mind and...uh...body. Call me.”

Once Lucy was gone, Nicholas turned to face Noel once again. “I would not say I needed to talk to you unless this was so. I am a stranger to these nuances of your speech, but I do not think that you misunderstood what I said.”

Noel bit her lip. “I slept late. Work—”

“Some things can wait. Some things cannot.”

Second time he had said that. And Noel understood exactly what Nicholas Baranov thought was the thing that could wait and the thing that could not.

Noel felt very uncomfortable sitting mutely on her hands beneath the heat of that angry gaze. Yet how could she tell him that after watching his magnificently muscled body running stark naked through the snow, she hadn't been in any condition to calmly sit down and engage in a little chitchat?

Her fingers were beginning to feel the pressure of her legs. She also felt the pressure of his unrelenting stare. Noel did not like being put on the defensive. She slipped her hands out from under her knees, straightened her shoulders and looked into those accusing black eyes.

“All right, Dr. Baranov, you've made your point. You want to talk. It's important. So there's a chair. Take it and tell me what's on your mind.”

“So, you call me Dr. Baranov again. You think you have a right to be angry?”

“This is America. I have a right to be anything I like. Sit down.”

“I will stand.”

Noel got off her stool and went to fetch Lucy's vacant chair. She whirled it up to her workbench with an angry flip of her wrist, setting it purposely beside him.

“No, you will sit. I'm a working woman who's got a lot of work to do. I'm not going to risk becoming incapacitated with a strained neck from having to look up at the mile-high Dr. Baranov while he tells me all these important things on his mind.”

Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest and stayed standing. Noel crossed her arms over her chest and planted her feet firmly in front of him. After a moment of this standoff, the anger in Nicholas's eyes melted into sudden amusement. The corners of his mouth twitched. His arms uncrossed from around his chest.

“Your grandfather is right. You are a most arbitrary and stubborn woman.”

Noel did not uncross her arms. “Look who's talking.”

Nicholas shook his head. “In the spirit of détente, we will sit. Yes?”

Noel unwrapped her arms and sat. “So, we're sitting. You have my attention. What is it you want to talk about?”

The smile faded from his face. He sat quietly for a moment, a very pensive look in the eyes above the stone countenance. When he finally spoke, Noel did not think it was on the subject that had claimed his thoughts so thoroughly.

“I have shoveled the snow from your driveway. You are out of wood. I could not find any logs to cut. I did not wish to fell a tree. Green wood is not proper to burn. To gather other wood, I must know the limits of your land.”

Noel frowned. She'd be the last one to admit it, but he had some legitimate concerns. After all, she had said he'd have to do his part and he couldn't very well comply without certain information.

“My house is in the northwest corner of a quarter section.”

“Quarter section?”

“The hundred and sixty acres that go with the house and barn. The corrals are long gone. As I don't run stock on the land, I've let the fences go. But I have a surveyor's map in my desk at home that you can see. Just the other side of the pond begins the Duncans' spread, my neighbors. And for your information, I never cut any of the few trees on the land.”

“You mentioned chopping wood. How can one chop wood without cutting down a tree?”

“There's a logger's slash a few miles up in the mountains.”

“I am not familiar with this word,
slash.
”

“It's wood that's already been cut by loggers but thrown aside because it's not the right shape or size to haul over to the mill.”

“This mill is nearby?”

“Quite a ways, actually. Other side of the eastern mountains, in the next county. I pick up the pieces from the slash, chop them up as necessary and use them in my fireplace insert, again, when necessary. I've been meaning to make a trip up to the slash to get a supply in for the winter, but what with planning for the festival and the busy Christmas sea—”

“Winter is here. Your grandfather has generators because he says the power supply is not to rely on. What will you do if the power supply fails and you do not have this wood to burn?”

“Yes, yes, I know. But, it's a whole day's work. Sharpening the chain saw blades. Driving up there. Cutting the wood. Loading it into the back. Tying it up. Driving back.”

“You cannot delay this trip.”

Noel had taken care of herself for a lot of years. She did not like Nicholas's persistence on the point, despite—and probably because of—the fact that he was right. “Maybe if I work a long day today, I could take tomorrow off to—”

“No. Not tomorrow. We will go this afternoon to get the wood.”

“This afternoon?” Noel looked at her watch. “It's already almost eleven. Even if we left now, we'd never—”

“How long does it take to drive to this logger's slash?”

“An hour. But it's not the drive that's so time-consuming. It's going through the slash for the proper-size pieces and getting them loaded into the truck that takes hours.”

“We will get it done this afternoon.”

“But my work—”

“Some things can wait. Some things cannot.”

Noel crossed her arms over her chest and stared stormily at Nicholas. This time, those black eyes gave not a centimeter.

She sighed. Uncrossed her arms. “Okay. We'll go this afternoon. But only because I also need to get a Christmas tree, and there's a tree farm we can detour to on the way back.”

“You will meet me at the house at noon.”

He was not asking. Or suggesting. He was telling.

Noel experienced a strong, sudden nostalgia for yesterday, that lovely last day of freedom before this dictating, interfering man had entered her life. Still, if he wasn't right about needing to gather that wood right away, he'd be in for one hell of an argument.

“Noon,” she repeated through clenched teeth. “Now, can I get back to work?”

He watched her a moment more before answering. “So, first you do not wish to show me your home or explain about your land. And now you do not wish to show me your Christmas store.”

A flicker of discomfort settled a frown on Noel's forehead as Nicholas's redress hit a nerve. “You want to see it now?”

“You planned for me to make an appointment to see it later?”

Noel knew when she'd been outflanked. She got to her feet slowly and pasted a far-too-sweet smile on her lips. “It will be my pleasure to show you around my Christmas store, Dr. Baranov.”

* * *

N
ICHOLAS IMMEDIATELY
decided that the best thing about being shown around Noel's Christmas store was the feel of her warmth as she stood beside him, the scent of the light, naturally sweet fragrance from her freshly washed hair and skin.

The shelves were clogged with tinsel in gold and silver. A dozen different shades of sparkling garland were wrapped tightly around skeins that should have held cloth for making useful clothes. Strings of red, green, gold and blue lights stuffed box after box, some that bubbled like air pockets rising to the surface, others that blinked on and off for no apparent reason. Bulb-shaped ornaments of every color, size and shape depicting snowflakes or vague, idealized winter scenes or cartoon characters or even the names of American football teams and universities occupied still more boxes.