The Humbug Man (8 page)

“My parents are long dead, Maggie,” he said quietly. “I have no one.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

He took her slender hand in his and pressed his mouth to the palm. “You and I aren’t going to have any secrets from each other,” he said tenderly. “I don’t mind telling you anything you want to know.”

He let go of her hand and started the Jeep, and she thought about what he’d said all the way home.

* * *

Home
. It felt like home. She finished the last of the icing on the Japanese fruitcake she’d made, with its one mince layer and two white layers and exotic candied fruit icing with coconut all over it. It was like the cake her mother had always made back home. She wondered if she could ask Tate later about phoning her youngest brother Michael on Christmas Eve and charging the bill to her phone in Tucson. Oddly enough, she hadn’t missed having a telephone at the cabin, but she knew Tate had one because she’d heard him talking on it occasionally. Michael still lived in Tennessee, and he kept in touch with the rest of the family. Maggie wanted to know how Jack and Sam and their families were, and Michael was always good about passing messages along. Dear Michael, with his hair as dark as her own and eyes almost as gray as hers.

“What are you dreaming about?” Tate asked, reaching past her to refill his coffee cup while he and Blake took a short break from one of the old computer games Maggie had brought over.

“About Michael,” she said without thinking and looked up to see a flash of lightning in Tate’s black eyes.

“Who’s Michael?” he asked tersely.

“Oh, I like that,” she said softly and smiled up at him. “I like the way you sound when you think there’s another man in my life. But there isn’t, you know. Michael is my younger brother. He’s just twenty-two, and he looks like me, except in places.”

He mellowed. His lean fingers brushed back her thick hair. “Does he?” He bent, nuzzling her cheek with his. “I’m getting possessive. Does it bother you?”

“Look at another woman and you’ll see how much it bothers me.”

He lifted his head, searching her eyes quietly. “I see what you mean,” he mused.

“What?”

He rubbed his nose against hers. “I like it, too.”

His breath was on her mouth. “Like what?”

“Having you get possessive. Open your mouth.”

She did and his brushed against it, open, too. He bit at her lip, his mustache abrasive, his mouth hard. He grasped the back of her neck and pulled her closer, crushing her mouth under the warm pressure of his.

“Would you bring me a cola, Mr. Hollister?” Blake called suddenly from the office, shocking them apart.

Maggie could hardly breathe. Tate seemed to be having a bit of a problem in that direction himself. He stood up, blinking. “A what?” he called.

“A soda.”

“Sure.” He shook his head, whistling through his teeth as he got one out of the refrigerator. “Heady stuff.”

“What is, cola?” she murmured dryly, although her heart was still pounding.

“You,” he whispered and kissed her again, softly, as he went past her to the study.

She leaned against the counter, watching his broad back disappear into the room with the computer, and she thought dreamily how sweet it would be if they were married and she never had to go back to Tucson.

But despite their closeness and the way Tate was with them, she had to remember that she was only a guest and in less than five days she and Blake would be in Tucson and this would only be a memory.

Tears stung her eyes as she finished icing the cake. Only a memory, perhaps, but one that would haunt her the rest of her life. The thought of being away from Tate now was worse than the threat of death. And whatever he felt, he was keeping his own counsel. He wanted her, that she knew. But there was a chasm between wanting and loving, and one was nothing without the other.

Chapter Five

G
etting Blake to go to bed on Christmas Eve was like trying to put a pair of pants on an eel, Maggie thought as she watched him make his fourth reappearance.

“Mr. Hollister, is there or isn’t there a Santa Claus?” he asked Tate.

Maggie stared blankly at Tate, who was struggling valiantly not to give the show away.

“Santa Claus is like a spirit, Blake,” he finally told the boy as he sipped his coffee on the sofa. “So in a sense, yes, he exists.”

“But he doesn’t come down fireplaces?”

“I didn’t say that,” Tate replied.

Blake bit his lower lip, leaning heavily on the crutch Tate had loaned him. “But there’s a fire in it,” he groaned.

“Fire,” Tate improvised, “can’t possibly hurt a Christmas spirit like old Santa. He can get right through it to the stockings.”

“Are you sure?” Blake asked worriedly.

Tate put his hand over his heart. “Blake, would I lie to you?” he asked.

Maggie had to bite her tongue almost through to keep from laughing at the expression on Tate’s face. But Blake let out a pent-up sigh and grinned.

“OK,” he said. “I just wanted to be sure. Good night. See you early in the morning!”

“You, too, darling,” Maggie smiled, kissing his forehead gently. “Sleep well.”

“Ha, ha,” he muttered, glancing ruefully at the huge pine with its homemade decorations in the corner by the window. All lit with colorful lights and smelling of the whole outdoors, it had turned out to be a better tree than anyone had expected. But the crowning touch was some soap flakes that Maggie had found in the kitchen cabinet. She’d mixed them with water and made “snow” to go on the branches. The finished product was a dream of a Christmas tree, right down to the paper snowflakes that Blake had cut out—something he’d learned to do in art class in school.

Maggie sighed as she looked at the tree. “Isn’t it lovely?” she asked absently.

“Not half as lovely as you are,” Tate remarked quietly, his dark eyes possessive on her body in its sleek silver dress, a long camisole of sequins and spangles that had impressed her with its holiday spirit. With her dark hair short and curled forward, she looked like one of the twenties flappers.

“I’m glad you like it,” she curtsied for him with her coffee cup held tightly in one hand. Like him, she didn’t drink—rarely even a glass of wine. They were celebrating Christmas with black coffee, despite her dress and his suit slacks, white shirt and navy blazer.

He turned off the top light, leaving the winking, blinking colorful lights of the tree to brighten the room. His arms slid around her waist as they looked at the paper angel Blake had made for the tip-top. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you up there,” he mused. “You’d make a pretty angel.”

“I’d rather be just a woman,” she said, turning. Her eyes ran over his face quietly although her heart was beating her to death. It had been forever since that morning when he’d made such sweet love to her in the kitchen. And she wanted that, and more, tonight. Her whole body ached for him.

He touched her throat with the very tip of his forefinger, watching the pulse throb there, watching her lips part. She was his. She didn’t even have to tell him. He could see it in her eyes, in her face, in the body that leaned toward his in the semibright darkness.

He took a step forward, so that he was against her, and his head bent to hers. His mouth brushed her open one, feeling with shock the sudden darting movement of her tongue against his upper lip.

He caught his breath and her eyes opened lazily, looking at him.

“It…it’s something I learned when I was in my teens,” she faltered.

“It’s damned arousing, do you know that?” he asked quietly. “Having Blake in the house wouldn’t even slow me down, Maggie, so don’t look for miracles if you start something tonight.”

He made it sound as if she was making him a proposition. Well, she was, but he didn’t have to make her feel cheap for it. She’d taken certain things about their relationship for granted, but perhaps she’d presumed too far. She’d wanted a memory of him, something warm and private, just for the two of them. A Christmas memory that she could take back to the desert with her to last all the long, lonely years that she was going to spend grieving for him.

Her head bent. Her hands clenched around her coffee cup. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His breath caught. He hadn’t expected her reaction. He hadn’t meant to shame her, for heaven’s sake. He’d just been hesitant to let things get out of hand before he could get up his nerve to ask her if she might consider staying at the ranch—she and Blake. He started to speak when a thunderous knocking at the front door broke the spell.

He jerked it open and a man was standing there, a very old one in a ragged hat. “Sorry to bother you, boss, but Katie Bess is due.” He grinned. “I knew you’d want to be there.”

“Yes. I do. Thanks, Baldy.”

He closed the door and turned. “Katie Bess is one of my Shetland sheepdogs,” he explained. “We use them to help us herd cattle. Katie Bess is our newest, and she and her pups are purebred.”

“Christmas babies,” Maggie said with a smile, trying to live down her humiliation. “Can I come, too?”

“Sure. But not in that,” he said with a faint grin.

“I’ll hurry and change.”

“What’s going on?” Blake called as they went past his door.

“Never mind.” Maggie peeked in his door and told him, “Go back to sleep. Santa may come while we’re outside, but only if he thinks you’re snoring.”

“I am, I am!” he promised, snoring loudly.

Maggie laughed as she closed the door. She got into her red flannel shirt and a pair of jeans, thick socks and boots, grabbed her parka and rushed out into the hall. Tate was already ahead of her, his boots making loud thuds as he went toward the hall closet and jerked out his shepherd’s coat and hat.

She followed him to the stable where the mother sheepdog, who resembled a small collie with her fluffy tan and white fur, was lying in a clean stall. There were already three tiny furry bodies nuzzling close as the puppies nursed. And even as they watched, a fourth and fifth were born. Tate and Baldy spoke encouragingly to the dog, of which they were both obviously fond, and commented glowingly on the pups. They were like patchwork in color, beige and brown and white and brown and tan and white, and Maggie would have loved to pick them up and cuddle them. But they were too tiny just yet, and she satisfied herself with watching, adoring the tiny things with her eyes.

When she was a child, her parents had always kept her away from the animals when they were about to give birth. Far from thinking it would be an interesting experience for her, they were horrified at the thought that it might frighten her. But this wasn’t a frightening experience; it was a humbling one.

The dog bent, licking the soft little coats. Her liquid brown eyes were as tender as a human mother’s, her tired body shivering a little in reaction.

“I’ll get some milk for her,” Baldy said, moving away.

Tate’s lean hand found Maggie’s in the semidarkness under the central hanging light bulb. “She’s been sick,” he explained, “and we were afraid she might need help. But as you can see, she was up to it. That’s a fine litter, Katie Bess,” he said gently to the dog, who wagged her tail and looked up at him as if she loved him. “Good girl.”

Baldy came back with milk and some fresh meat. “I’ll take care of her now, boss. Looks like more snow coming, but Merry Christmas anyway.”

“Merry Christmas, Baldy,” Tate chuckled. “I guess we’ve both got our presents tonight.”

“Guess we have, although yours looks a mite prettier than mine, but just a mite, mind,” the old man said with a smothered chuckle.

Tate didn’t seem to take offense. He wished the old man a good night, and he and Maggie went back toward the house.

The snow was coming down softly, but the wind was calm. They could see for miles in the white landscape, the snow lighting the way as surely as a lamp. Tate stopped to light a cigarette and slid his arm around Maggie’s shoulders as they walked.

“Was it hard for you, when Blake was born?” he asked unexpectedly.

She looked up at him. “You mean, was it hard physically?” He nodded, and she let her eyes slide back to the house, silhouetted against the snow and the mountains and the dark sky. “I guess it was. But it’s his face I remember, not the pain. Life is like that, isn’t it? We may remember the cut, but it’s the kiss that came afterward that stays in the memory.”

“Profound thoughts on a Christmas Eve,” he murmured.

“Yes. It’s a profound night.” She sighed, feeling his strength near her, dwarfing her, supporting her. “A night for miracles.”

“I haven’t celebrated Christmas since the accident,” he said. “I haven’t cared about much. But you and Blake have made the color come back into the world for me,” he added, looking down at her. “You’ve brought me out of the past, out of the shadows. I think I’d forgotten how to smile until you came along.”

She smiled up at him, but her heart felt heavy. Was that a way of saying goodbye and thanks for the hand? Or was it more? She was afraid to ask him for anything.

“I’m glad you’ve remembered how again,” she said, forcing her eyes back to the path.

“About what I said in there,” he murmured, nodding toward the house. He hesitated. His dark eyes cut down to hers. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Maggie, if you want me, all you have to do is say so.”

The blatant shock of the words stunned her. She couldn’t even answer him for a few seconds. Yes, she did want him all right. But he made it sound matter-of-fact, like offering a thirsty traveler a drink of water. She flushed violently.

“I…I’m sleepy,” she faltered. “I’d better get some rest so that I can cope with dinner tomorrow. Thanks for letting me see the pups!”

She practically ran up onto the porch and through the quiet house to her room, tears glistening in her eyes. She couldn’t look at Tate, and that was a shame, because the look on his face would have told her everything she needed to know.

After she’d put on her pajamas, the same blue ones she’d worn at the cabin, she paced the floor with the lights off. She paused at the window, looking out into the snowy darkness with eyes that didn’t see. Christmas was tomorrow. Then, in two days, they’d be gone.