A Stockingful of Joy (32 page)

"Because we could have died tonight. We nearly did. And I don't want to die never knowing…"

Her nerve, that steel-strong courage failed her then, and she lowered her eyes. But not before he'd read the hunger in them. A hunger, a stark longing that was his undoing; his body rose to it with a speed that took his breath away.

He couldn't fly off this precipice. He knew he couldn't. He would crash on the rocks below, and probably take her with him. But he couldn't run, either. He couldn't run from the precious treasure she was offering him. If she made one more move toward him, he would take it if it damned him to hell.

So he had to make her move away.

"You never asked what my last name was."

She looked startled at the sudden shift, and lifted a delicately arched brow at him. "It's not Morgan?"

"That's my first name." He took a breath, then said it. "My name is Blaine. Morgan Blaine."

She studied him for a moment. "Whatever that is supposed to mean to me, I'm afraid it doesn't."

Of course, he thought ruefully. She'd been in civilized St. Louis, and while the story had been widespread in the West, back in the states they had bigger things to talk about than one man who'd shot down two boys not even ten years older than Zach when they'd taken a notion to steal the stage-line payroll from the coach he'd been riding shotgun on. He'd shot first and only seen their unmasked faces later, and the images had haunted him for fifteen years, and would haunt him until he died.

"You'd better know who you're asking to… share your bed, Faith Brown," he said harshly, and told her in cold, brutal words what had happened fifteen years ago, told her just what kind of man he was.

"I quit wearing a gun that day," he finished coldly. "What shooting needs doing I do with the Winchester. But nothing will bring those boys back. I killed them, and they were children."

She had paled slightly, but her voice was level as she asked, "Were they armed?"

"Yes, but—"

"Were they man-size?"

"Almost. But I still should have—"

"Was it your job to protect that coach?"

"Yes, but—"

"Did you know they were just boys?"

"Not until… after. But that doesn't—"

"Change the ugliness of what happened? No. But it does mean it wasn't your fault. You weren't responsible for what they did, Morgan. They took that out of your hands when they put on guns and came after that stage."

He couldn't speak, he just stared at her, stunned.

"And you couldn't have been much more than a boy yourself. You've carried the guilt all this time. Punishment enough for something that wasn't your fault."

He felt something let go inside him, some easing of pressure like a long festering wound cleaned and beginning to heal.

"And it doesn't change my mind," Faith said softly. "I know I'm not beautiful—"

He broke then. "Hush," he said, his voice hoarse. He reached for her, and she came to him easily. "I'll move on," he warned her again, "I don't know how not to."

"I know." She slipped her arms around him. "But stay tonight. I've never asked for any gift at Christmas, Morgan. But I'm asking for this one now. And when Christmas is over, you'll ride out, and I'll not try to hold you."

He didn't know exactly what caused the unbearable ache in his chest, the simple honesty and courage it had taken for her to do this or the idea that anyone could look upon him as a gift. He'd spent his life half convinced his aunt had been right, that he was a mistake, worthless, somebody nobody would want, had they a choice.

But Faith Brown was looking at him with longing, with need, and something else he didn't dare name, offering herself with no demands, no expectations. She deserved more, he knew she did, but God help him, he couldn't walk away. Maybe it meant it was true, that he was as bad as he'd feared, but he couldn't walk away.

He carried her to the small bedroom. His hands shook as he fumbled with her buttons, noting in some corner of his mind that wasn't already beyond thought that her men's clothes didn't seem odd to him at all now, they were simply part of her. In fact, he found himself even more aroused, because they brought back so vividly the memory of her racing across a snowy meadow in the moonlight.

She shivered, and he saw the shy uncertainty in her eyes when she at last stood naked before him, but he reached out to cup her face in his hands.

"Don't ever say you're not beautiful," he whispered, meaning it; she was the loveliest thing he'd ever seen, her body curved and warm and female, and a heat as old as time warming her eyes. "You're perfect in all the ways that matter, inside and out."

She reached for him then, her fingers going to the buttons of his shirt. His patience broke at the first touch of her fingers on his skin, and he pulled away to shed his clothes himself. He saw her eyes widen as she looked at him, took in the fierceness of his arousal.

"If you're going to change your mind, do it now," he said thickly. "Because once I touch you…"

His words trailed away as she shook her head. Then she held her arms out to him, and they went down to the bed together.

It took every bit of endurance he had to go slowly, but he held back until she was whimpering, consumed with pleasure but moaning for more. With a quick but heartfelt apology for having to hurt her, he thrust past the slight barrier and at last slipped into her, shuddering at the welcoming slick heat of her flesh. For an instant she tensed at the pain, but then he felt her hands tighten on his back, and she shifted beneath him, reaching. He moved, slowly at first, but then faster as she began to move with him.

And he found in those moments that the woman he'd seen racing under the winter moon was as real, as wild, as passionate as he could ever have imagined. And when she cried out his name as her flesh clenched around him, his body arched into her hard and deep as he shuddered, a guttural cry breaking from him, and in the instant he felt the scalding heat as he poured himself into her, the word in his mind was forever.

He kept his eyes on the stallion's bobbing head as they walked. The horse's hooves crunched the snow rhythmically. And his thoughts settled into the same steady rhythm, and the word repeated in his head with every step was
coward
.

And he knew it was true, it had been cowardly of him to slip out before dawn, with no good-byes. But although she'd promised not to try to hold him, that had been before, before a night spent in pure wonder at what could happen between a man and a woman. After a night like that he knew no woman could help but expect more. It was what women had used for centuries to bind their men to them, to give them such heaven in the night that they would never want to leave come the dawn.

And he hadn't wanted to. He wanted night after night of that hot, sweet pleasure, countless, endless nights. And he wanted mornings as beautiful as Faith had looked curled up in his arms, her hair lying across his chest, her soft, warm breath brushing over his skin.

Hot, clawing need shot through him, nearly doubling him over in the saddle. Proof enough, he thought as he fought it down, that he was right. He'd had to ride out of there. He'd had to.

He was only vaguely aware that it had begun to snow again. He welcomed it, knowing the house would be out of sight now, and that he no longer had to fight the urge to look back; now there would be nothing to see through the darkness.

The stallion moved on steadily, despite his earlier protest at leaving the relative warmth of the barn. Thinking of his stealthy departure made Morgan grimace; he'd known he was in a bad way when his throat had tightened when he'd peeked in at Zach, sleeping peacefully like some golden angel come to earth, but when he'd found himself stopping in the stable to pat Espe in farewell, feeling an odd sense of loss, he knew it was worse than he'd realized.

And he knew he was thinking of these things to keep from thinking of how utterly, wrenchingly hard it had been to lose Faith.

Lose Faith.

His mouth quirked at the irony of the words. As if he'd ever had any faith to lose. As if he'd ever had anything to lose.

The stallion snorted and tossed his head. Morgan knew it was to shake off the snow, which was coming down heavily now, but it seemed to his weary mind that it was a declaration of disgust with his rider's self-pity.

He rode on, heedless of his direction. He'd thought that the farther he got the easier it would be, but with every step the stallion took, the pain grew rather than lessened. It tore at him, like white-hot talons ripping away at every vital part. He clenched his jaw, then bit his lip until it bled, fighting pain with pain, but it wouldn't stop, just kept rising within him until he felt something he hadn't felt since he was a child, the sting of tears in his eyes.

Finally he pulled the horse to a stop. Snow swirled around him, as it had last night. There had been moments when he had thought they would die out here, when the cold was too cold, when the way was hidden. But the light had come, and against all reason they had followed, and it had shown them the way. And in the quiet, soft night, he'd found more than just the way to shelter, he'd found the way home.

Home.

For the first time he thought of it as not a place he'd never known, but a person he'd finally found. And he'd run away from her, as he'd run away from so much in his life. There had been some excuse for it when he was twelve, he supposed, but now?

He realized that Faith, in her quiet way, had shown more courage than he ever had. She might be afraid, she might be uncertain of her abilities, she might despair that she could not do the task she'd set herself, but she had never given up, had never, ever run away.

Zach is mine now. I love him, and I will not leave him.

Her words came back to him, and he knew that anyone that Faith loved would be able to count on that love forever.

Anyone that Faith loved.

The stallion snorted, shook his head again, and shifted sideways to turn his back to the wind, seeking some relief. Morgan barely noticed. Snow swirled around him, and the darkness closed in, but it was no colder or darker than his soul, and he felt a deep despair at the thought of going on like this, forever cold, forever dark, and he wished there were a light like the one that had led them last night, to show him the way, because he had never felt so completely, desolately lost. But it would take a miracle to see that tiny light from here, and he didn't know anyone less deserving of one than he.

The stallion's head came up sharply, and the animal danced as if it had scented danger. Morgan was jolted out of his dazed state and raised his eyes.

Before him a pure, golden light arrowed its way through the storm and the darkness.

Faith refused to give vent to the ache in her chest. She'd known he would go, and should have known better than to think he would say good-bye. She would not hate him for leaving, nor would she regret what she'd done; he'd left her, but he'd given her a miracle before he'd gone, shown her a beauty and taught her a glory she'd never even dreamed possible. How could she hate him for that? She could only pray that he was all right on his journey, in this wicked weather. And try not to wonder where he would go.

She checked on Zach again. After his ordeal he was still asleep, and once she was assured he was suffering no ill effects or fever, she left him to it. She would make him breakfast when he awoke, and give him the small gifts that were all she had to give. Not much of a Christmas morning, she thought, But she hugged the memory of the night to her, ignoring the pain of waking to find Morgan packed and gone, and told herself she'd been given more than she had ever expected.

She walked over to the tree, and carefully lit the candles again. She stood there looking at it, remembering Morgan's words when they'd finished it.

I think it's myself I lost.

"Please," she whispered, "someday, give him the gift of love. Even if it's not from me."

A sound from the door made her whirl around, her heart leaping to her throat. She stood there as the door swung open.

"Morgan," she breathed, staring at the solitary figure in black.

"I… was lost," he said, his voice low and wondering. "I didn't think I'd ever find my way."

She sensed that he was talking about much more than simply losing his way in the snow. She went to him, quickly, seeing in his face the bemused wonder she heard in his voice.

"But the light… it came. Like last night."

Instinctively Faith glanced at the window where Hope's lamp sat, although she knew it was not lit. She'd not refilled it, being almost wary of touching it after what had happened, and it had been burned out when she'd awakened at dawn to find herself alone.

Morgan looked toward the lamp, too, and shook his head in denial. "I saw it," he said. "It led me back."

He shivered then, and Faith took his arm. "Come over by the fire. You must be freezing."

"Not anymore," he whispered. He looked at her then, and what Faith saw in his eyes made her hold her breath, waiting, not daring to think, not daring to hope, simply waiting for his next words. "I don't ever want to be that cold again, Faith."

Still she waited, afraid to speak.

"You said you were asking for a gift," he said, reaching out to touch her face with hands that were still cold. Faith didn't care; she lifted her own hand to press his to her cheek. "But you were giving the greatest one of all, weren't you? And I almost didn't recognize it in time."

"You've never really seen it before," she said, knowing what she was admitting, but suddenly feeling as reckless as if she were racing Espe under the moon.

"Love." His voice seemed to catch on the word.

"Yes."

"But you didn't… tell me."

"What difference would it have made? You're not the kind of man to be held by ties not of your own choosing."

"And if I did choose? Would you trust me to be bound by the choice?"

She gathered all her courage and faced him straight on. "If you loved me back, I would."

He smiled then, and it was a smile the like of which she'd never thought to see on his face. "Then, trust me, Faith. Because I do love you."