Christmas Star (Contemporary, Romance) (21 page)

“Maybe we should eat,” he said gruffly. Leaving her hand hovering in midair, he turned and stalked to the stove. He savagely ripped the top off a box of macaroni and cheese that he’d set out earlier, filled a pan with water and slapped it on a burner. “Rifle through those cupboards under the shortwave and see if you can come up with a deck of cards or something,” he growled without looking at her. “We’re gonna need something to occupy our time.” He grabbed a packet of skim-milk powder. “Should never have started this,” he muttered.
Should have waited,
he meant, until circumstances were better.

She gazed at him steadily. So there it was, plain as day. He regretted their lovemaking.
Sex,
she corrected. If he didn’t care for her the way she cared for him, it reduced what they’d shared to a one-night stand. Meaningless sex.
One-morning stand,
she thought hysterically.

If Clay had the faintest idea what was going through Starr’s mind, he might not have been so desperate to focus on the recipe for macaroni and cheese. What kept getting in the way of his reading the fine print was the knowledge that if she didn’t find something to keep them entertained—and his mind off making love to her—Clay thought he’d have to spend the night in the shed with the horses.

Maybe he should do that, anyway, guilty as he felt. This was the first time in his life that he hadn’t taken responsibility for protecting his partner. To make matters worse, the issue between Starr and him was a whole lot more complicated than sex. And dammit, they still had some unfinished business to clear up before he could, in good conscience, declare his love.

Just then the water boiled over, sizzled and spat against the hot burner. Clay leapt back and swore. Earlier, when he’d been chopping wood, he’d planned out how he’d court her. She deserved candlelight, wine and bouquets of flowers. All the traditional symbols of romance. He finished preparing the powdered milk and poured some over the macaroni.

What if she won’t have you?
a little voice jeered. After all, Starr didn’t seem to need a man in her life. Clay scowled and stirred the cheese in so hard it flew up all over the sides of the pan and out onto his shirt.

From across the room, Starr sneaked peeks at him as she got down on her hands and knees and searched the cupboard he’d suggested. His horrendous frown and the way he was beating up that pasta spelled only one thing to her. Clay McLeod was no longer interested in having her as his lover—or, as he’d offered earlier, his mistress.

“Mistress, indeed!” She dug out a dusty checkerboard tucked deep in a corner of one shelf and slapped it down on the floor. She yanked out a box of checkers, and the lid flew off the box, raining checkers everywhere. It matched her bad mood perfectly.

The crash had Clay glancing up from placing the macaroni dish on the table. He was treated to a view of Starr’s derriere in the air as she dived after a checker that had rolled under one of the daybeds.

Clay almost dropped their meal. “Leave those, for Pete’s sake. Come and eat while it’s hot.”

Hurt by his surly attitude, Starr stood and slammed the box of checkers down on the cabinet so hard it bounced off again. “Don’t take your bad temper out on me, McLeod. I don’t like being here any more than you do.” Feeling mutinous, she stormed over to the sink to wash her hands—missing the pained expression that crossed his face.

They sat and consumed their meager supper in total silence.

When he’d polished off the last forkful, Clay cleared his throat. “I, uh, made a worthwhile discovery. Old Paul had a sparkling wine hidden up on the top shelf—and a very good year.” He rose, draped a tea towel over his arm and returned with a slender green bottle, which he placed before Starr with all the flourish of a wine steward.

Reluctant at first, she soon grasped it as a lifeline. “Bless old Paul,” she joked. “And here I thought he only hung out with a blue ox. Champagne and checkers in front of a roaring fire. Why, I know people who pay hundreds of dollars for such luxury. We have it free. What more could a woman ask?”

Clay might have mentioned a few things, but didn’t.

Starr read the message his eyes telegraphed and imagined the obvious addition to the picture she’d unwittingly painted. That of two lovers sharing a soft rug in front of a cozy fire.

Shivering, she said his name, half-begging, half-panicking, as she jumped to her feet. Afraid he understood the part she’d left unsaid, she murmured lightly, “I’m no good with corks. You do the honors and I’ll see if old Paul has wineglasses.”

She found only water glasses. But that way, it didn’t seem quite so...romantic.

The wine was relaxing, the fire soothing. Their natural competitiveness soon edged out the wariness with which they’d entered the game.

After two games that both ended in a dead heat, they moved from the table to the rug. When they’d reached a three-game tie, both were feeling quite mellow. Enough to joke about skipping the tiebreaker. Suddenly a log fell, scattering sparks across the checkerboard.

The wine hadn’t dulled Clay’s reflexes. He bounded up, yanked Starr aside and thrust her behind him all in one motion. Then he shook the board and stamped out a few glowing embers that hit the rug.

“You didn’t get burned, did you?” he asked her anxiously.

“No.” She ran a hand through her hair and laughed nervously. “But that definitely decided the fate of the last game.” Her teasing glance followed the flight of the checkers, one or two still circling on the floor.

Clay shrugged. “It’s late.”

She nodded and yawned.

He looked at his watch, reluctant to call an end to the day. “It’s after eleven. Where’s the time gone?” he murmured. “We haven’t solved even half the world’s problems.”

She smiled. “I can’t believe we agreed on as much as we did. I enjoyed myself. Did you?”

Clay smoothed a hand over her springy curls. “Very much.”

Starr felt the quiver of his touch clear to her toes. Retreating, she knelt and began gathering the game pieces.

“I’ll do the dishes while you take a turn in the bathroom,” he offered. “Don’t rush. I need to check on the horses and see what the weather’s doing.”

“Okay, but which bed do you want?”

Her husky question was almost more than Clay could handle. He turned toward the sink. With his back to her, he said, “You take the one we, uh, the one you... Hell, just pick one. Toss half the blankets on the other. I gave you most of them last night. You won’t find me so generous tonight.”

“Ha! This morning you had them all.” Silence fell as Starr realized what she’d said.

Clay studied her as she bent over to put the board away. Abruptly, he turned off the water, snatched up his jacket and strode outside.

Starr resisted the urge to run to the door and watch his progress. She couldn’t, however, take a chance on his glancing back and seeing her. Each time their eyes met, she longed to be in his arms. If she could have one more wish on SeLi’s Christmas star...

Afraid to linger in case he come back too soon, Starr took a quick turn in the bathroom. Then, fully clothed, she dived under the covers. With luck, maybe she’d be asleep when he returned.

Clay stood in the doorway to the shed for a long time just watching the cabin. The horses were restless from prolonged confinement, just as he was. He tried calming them with soft, meaningless words.

Apparently the ranger was a smoker; either that, or the guy was trying to quit, for Clay had found an unopened pack stuck in a flowerpot. Clay himself had been doing so well. Now, however, he thought a smoke was just what he needed.

He tore open the pack and shook one out. Unwilling to leave the shelter, he let it dangle loose and unlit between his lips as he idly stroked the pinto’s neck. A steady drip-drip of water from the eaves told him the weather was warming at last.

He went back to the door and leaned against the frame. If he could make it through the night, tomorrow they’d get back to the ranch and tie up all the loose ends. Only after the lights went out in the cabin were his hands steady enough to light the cigarette. But as a silver moon drifted between the clouds, Clay dropped the half-finished cigarette and ground it out under the heel of his boot.

If the thaw continued, allowing them to find the Drixathyon, Starr would pack up and leave. Clay didn’t want that. But if for any reason they had to stay cooped up one more day, he thought he’d lose his mind.

Taking time to pull a last handful of greenery for each horse, Clay left the shed and jogged toward the cabin. He prayed Starr was fast asleep.

Inside, he navigated by a single ribbon of moonlight. The fire was down to a glowing bed of coals. He added two logs, then made short work of his nightly routine. He passed Starr’s bed on tiptoe, taking note that she was curled up facing the wall.

His boots were wet and he had trouble getting them off. Once that was done, he quietly removed his jeans and shirt and crawled under the blankets Starr had left spread out on his bed. He sighed as he settled into a reasonably comfortable position.

Starr heard every move he made. She ground her teeth, forcing herself to remain silent. He’d tried so hard to be quiet she didn’t have the heart to tell him she was awake. But knowing he was so close, she couldn’t keep from stirring.

“Starr, are you awake?” Clay’s gravelly voice came from very near her own pillow.

Blast! She’d forgotten the heads of their two beds touched. Why hadn’t she slid them apart?

“Are you cold or what?” Again his soft voice floated over her. She felt his body shift, and though she kept her eyes closed, she knew he’d raised himself up on one elbow to look at her.

“Hot,” she mumbled, as the flame of desire licked through her veins. “I’m hot.”

“No wonder,” Clay chided. “You’re dressed for the outdoors, city girl. The fireplace keeps this room warm. Why don’t you shed half those clothes?”

Starr flopped over onto her stomach, recalling how she’d awakened this morning nearly naked. Shifting again, she rocked his bed.

“Will you lie still?” Clay dropped back on his pillow and covered his eyes with a forearm. What control he’d possessed earlier was almost shot to hell.

Starr knew he was right; she was overdressed. But she’d be darned if she’d give him a peep show in the light of the fire. Lying flat under the covers, she shrugged out of her shirt and wriggled free of her jeans.

Both beds bounced.

“Starr—” Clay gnashed his teeth “—stand up and take the damn things off. What do you think? That I’ll attack you?”

“They’re off.”

“Thank goodness for small favors.” But he didn’t sound thankful.

“I wish I had pajamas,” she muttered, wriggling again to get comfortable.

Clay groaned. “Never thought I’d admit it, but I wish you did, too. Preferably those glow-in-the-dark ones with the feet.”

She ignored his gibe and pulled a blanket up to her chin. The rough material scratched her skin.

“What’s wrong now?” he demanded as his bed swayed again.

“This blanket itches. Maybe I’ll get Paul Bunyan’s shirt to wear. What did you do with it?”

“It’s on the chair. I’ll get it,” he said quickly. “Stay where you are.” The air left Clay’s lungs as he considered the effect of watching her trot past in her lingerie to find that damned shirt.

“I don’t need you to wait on me.” Starr stood and marched directly to the chair.

Clay’s brain was paralyzed. Her skin looked like mother-of-pearl in the flickering firelight.
Oh, God, it was pure torture!
Swiftly, he turned his face away and counted to ten.

He felt her climb back into bed before he gave in to his fantasies.

Starr hadn’t given any thought to the fact that his scent would linger on the shirt. She was positive she wouldn’t sleep a wink. However, before long she dozed off.

It wasn’t nearly so easy for Clay. He could see the night sky through the uncurtained window above his bed. A single star appeared and winked brightly, as if reminding him of the night he and Starr had tumbled in the hay. He recalled hearing Morgan and SeLi outside discussing a Christmas star. Softly he repeated the words he’d heard his nephew chant. “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might...” Clay stumbled over the ending. No way would he get his wish tonight. But what if he wished for something longer term?

He glanced at Starr and suddenly all wishes seemed possible in the stillness of the night.

P
ULLED FROM
a pleasant dream by rays of sunlight dancing across the cabin floor, Starr emerged from her warm cocoon of blankets, more rested than she’d felt in days. And she’d been so certain she wouldn’t sleep at all.

As she stretched and yawned, she took care to not disturb the second bed. But she needn’t have worried. Clay’s blanket and pillow lay neatly folded. She was alone.

And disappointed...

Just then the door opened, and his rugged form filled the space. For no reason at all, Starr felt elated. Tremors shook her suddenly nerveless limbs and sent her burrowing back under the covers.

“So, Sleeping Beauty awakes,” he teased. Drops of water glistened on his ebony hair and two-day beard.

Starr found it less threatening to concentrate on his trail of wet footprints as he approached.

“I hate to rush your beauty routine, but it’s warming up fast. The snow is slushy and getting slick. If we don’t leave soon, it’ll be too dangerous up top.”

“Dangerous?”

“Avalanche.” The single word was muffled by a cupboard door. “How do you feel about having crackers and canned cheese for breakfast?”

“Ugh,” she said without inflection.

“Are you all right? You sound funny.” Clay peered around the cabinet. Actually he didn’t trust himself to go closer. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to leave her asleep in that bed.

“I’m fine. Are you saying you’re jumping with joy over the prospect of eating canned cheese?” Starr screwed up her face, then sighed. “Don’t pay any attention to my foul mood.” She reached out from beneath the blanket and picked up her shirt and jeans. “It may have something to do with not wanting to climb into these dirty clothes again. A pity Paul was so big.”

Clay laughed, but his hands fumbled with the can as a sudden vision of the two of them sharing his big tiled shower at the ranch flashed through his mind.

“Just be thankful the cabin was here.” Clay didn’t mean to sound gruff. He only wanted her out of that damned bed.

Starr rose, wrapped the blanket around her and strolled past him into the bathroom. Talk about bad mood! He was downright grumpy. Sighing again, she stepped into her creased jeans and pulled on her rumpled shirt.

The eyes that stared out at her from the scratched mirror looked dull. No wonder he thought something was wrong. She lamented not having a comb to fix her hair, then decided no one cared how she looked anyway. Certainly not Clay McLeod. He acted as if she was Typhoid Mary.

She joined him moments later. Neither spoke again as they moved mechanically around the cabin, preparing to leave.

After the filling meal, which turned out to be cheese soup and crackers, Starr folded blankets and put them away. Then she carefully restored the kitchen to order while Clay nailed a new board on the door. When Starr joined him outside, he wired it shut.

“Shouldn’t we have called the ranch?” she asked, squinting at the vast expanse of brilliant white. This was the first time she’d ventured outside since Clay had brought her here, and she was shocked to see the snow had drifted as high as the sloped roof of the cabin.

Clay placed a palm at her waist to guide her toward the shed. “I did that earlier while you were snoring away.”

“I don’t snore.”

A smile twitched. “How do you know?”

She stopped in her tracks, frowning.

Since he didn’t say anything else, she added pensively, “I would’ve liked a word with SeLi.”

He shrugged and walked on ahead. “It was early. I talked to Hank. He said the house was still dark. We need to be quick about this side trip to look for the Drixathyon. Might be a new storm brewing. So unless you want to spend Christmas here eating beans and ham...”

A snowball struck the back of his neck. “What in hell?” He turned, hopping on one foot and brushing snow out from under his collar. Then he saw Starr bent double, laughing.

“Wanna play rough, huh?” He scooped up snow, formed a loose ball and advanced on her.

“No, Clay...please! Oh, no...ooh that’s cold. It went down my blouse, darn you.”

“Play with fire and you’re bound to get burned. Or frozen, as the case may be.”

“Truce,” she called as he packed a new snowball. “I just couldn’t resist. You sounded so sanctimonious.”

He dropped the snowball and dusted snow off his gloves. “Well, do you want us getting stuck here over Christmas?”

Striding away in silence, she plowed a hand through her hair to shake out the lingering snow.

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “I just spoke the truth.” Which was more, Clay thought guiltily, than he’d done in saying he’d talked to Hank. His brother had actually had the kids out in the barn looking at kittens. Harrison had mentioned that the nasty woman had called back. Apparently she’d told Vanessa that if Clay didn’t return her call by this morning, she’d take matters into her own hands. Clay wished he knew what that meant. Provided they made it down the mountain before dark, he’d be able to reach the social worker and forestall any mischief she might have planned.

Sometime in the night, during one of those times he lay watching Starr sleep, Clay had made up his mind to drop the issue of SeLi’s parentage. What did it matter, anyway? He’d determined that his time would be better spent convincing Starr and SeLi to add him to their family. Which could only happen after Starr cleared up this mess with Calexco to her satisfaction.

Now that Clay had his brother’s family back on track, he intended to see things stayed that way. If Harrison had inadvertently gotten mixed up in something less than strictly legal, Clay wanted to know now. There was probably still time for his brother to pull back, make reparation, before doing any real damage to his career.

Waiting at the entrance to the shed, Starr saw a range of emotions cross Clay’s face. He looked like a man who’d mulled over important questions and come up with answers. Did any of them concern her?

But he gave her no opportunity to ask. As he brushed past her and went inside, another more immediate situation reared its head.

“You take the gelding today, Starr,” he said as he hoisted the smaller saddle onto the big bay and cinched it tight. “Patches is jittery as hell from being cooped up so long.”

“I can handle her.” Starr sounded defensive and knew it.

“It’s not open for negotiation.” Bent over the second saddle, Clay didn’t see the irritation with which she transferred the dart gun to the gelding.

It was a wonder the arrogant Barclay McLeod trusted her to carry it, she thought waspishly. And just whose project was this, anyway?

The instant the pinto began to buck, almost unseating Clay, Starr hastily revised her snide comment. Instead, she watched with admiration as he rode out the stiff-legged bucking.

“Wow!” She reined in and let the bay fall in behind. “I owe you an apology, Clay. Last time I got bucked off an ornery horse, I spent my entire summer vacation nursing three broken ribs. My Christmas vacation plans don’t include broken bones.”

Clay flashed her a smile, although he kept a tight rein on the feisty mare. “What
do
your plans include? Have you given any more thought to you and SeLi spending the holiday at the ranch?”

When she bit her lip and averted her gaze, Clay cursed himself for not being more subtle. “No need to decide now!” he said hastily. “It’s just that the kids wrote all those letters to Santa. I figured SeLi expected the old boy to find her at the ranch.”

“She can write him a fast retraction, and I’ll mail it somewhere on the drive back to San Francisco. I have tickets to take her to see the
Nutcracker
the night before Christmas Eve. I wanted to surprise her, but if I have to, I’ll tell her early.”

“SeLi at the ballet.” He grinned. “It’s hard to picture.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing to make you come unglued,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket and tucking it in a saddlebag. “I’m just being selfish in wanting you to stay. But you’re right—the ballet will be a treat for her.”

He faced front again, drawing Starr’s gaze to the ripple of muscles that played across his broad back. That man turned her insides to mush. But with luck the pinto was giving him so much grief he hadn’t noticed.

Ahead, though the trail oozed mud and needed his full attention, Clay was far too aware of the woman who trailed him. That last time he’d turned to speak, he’d been laid low by the mere sight of her windblown hair and her cheeks kissed pink by the wind. Clay didn’t trust himself to turn again.

He reminded himself of the avalanche danger and pressed on.

After another ten minutes of hard riding, they arrived in the general vicinity of the stream. Clay untied a shovel he’d borrowed from the ranger’s shed and channeled his restless energy into scraping away the odd mounds of snow Starr pointed out. Some fifteen minutes into the process, he stopped to catch his breath and asked, “What am I looking for?”

Starr had climbed to the top of a pile of large rocks, out of which protruded a ragged red flag. She continued to scan a rocky promontory with her field glasses. “I told you I don’t know. I’m assuming the drilling team left this flag, and that somewhere nearby is their test well. They needed access to water to run a high-speed drill.”

But the mountain clung stubbornly to its secrets. The only thing that differed from her first visit, besides the warmer weather, was the sound of melting snow raining from the many branches, drowning out the stream. Starr shivered, not really wanting to remember its taste.

Clay saw her shiver. “Are you cold?” He laughed, because he’d just stripped to the waist. Digging was hot work.

Starr couldn’t answer. It had more to do with the fine sheen of sweat that coated his chest than with cold. Her gaze seemed to cling to his damp chest a long time before following the natural arrow of dark hair that eventually disappeared below his belt.

Since her fantasies refused to be controlled, Starr sighed and recapped the glasses, deciding she’d help him dig.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t mind reshaping the landscape. But I hate looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“An apt description, since Calexco gave us nothing to go on.”

Starr had just climbed down from her rocky perch when a mass of snow fell from the ridge above and thundered into the ravine.

Clay felt the shudder of the earth as the snow rumbled down the mountain. “We can’t stay much longer,” he cautioned her.

“I understand.” She pointed out two large mounds made bigger by the slide. “Those are the two ewes I found. Is that near the headwater to the stream, do you think?”

He set his shovel down and scrambled up to stand on a fat boulder. “It flows out from under a horseshoe-shaped granite cliff. I remember one time when we came up looking for stray cattle after a big storm, my dad pointed out a distinctive, wind-twisted white fir he said he always used as a landmark.” Clay shaded his eyes. “For all we know, the whole works could be buried in snow.”

Starr clambered up beside him. She shied away from the heat that emanated from his body. It did strange things to her equilibrium. So much so that she got down from the boulder on the pretext of checking the horses, which they’d tethered well away from the stream. Both animals had begun to grow restless.

Suddenly Clay jumped down and grabbed her arm. “Look. Over there. I think that’s the tree. Let’s go see,” he said, slipping his hand down to circle her waist.

Starr bumped against him several times on the walk down the snowy slope, and shocks of awareness wound their way up her body.

“This is it,” he announced triumphantly a moment later, startling her. She’d been so focused on
him
she’d almost forgotten why they were doing this.

“We got here in a roundabout way,” he said, eyes narrowed. “This is a lot closer to that flag stake than I thought.”

Starr followed his gaze. “You’re right, it is. Clay,” she said urgently, “you dig on one side of the headwater and I’ll do the other.”

“How far do you think you’ll get digging with your hands?”

“I have a small shovel in my kit. Biochemists frequently need to take samples. I’m not the hothouse rose you think I am.”

“Ouch. Can’t prove it by me, sugar. I’m bloody from the thorns.”

“Remember? Don’t call me sugar,” she warned as she marched back to the horses where she dug a small, archaeological shovel out of her saddlebag. It was the type of shovel that needed to be unfolded and screwed together.

Clay wisely let her handle it alone. He set about digging.

In a matter of minutes, they were both turning over snow and then rocky soil. It wasn’t easy work. No talk passed between them. Because Clay turned two shovels to Starr’s one, he was first to uncover a narrow opening. “Looks like a gopher hole,” he muttered.

“Underwater? What do you think it is?” she asked.

“It’s suspicious. Why else would it be banked by rock halfway down?”

Starr raked a curl out of her eyes and slashed a streak of dirt the length of her cheek. “This gopher subscribes to
Architectural Digest
and moonlights on the side.”

“Very funny, Lederman. Dig.”

Both dug faster. Their shovels struck metal almost in unison.

“Bingo!” Clay tossed his shovel aside, and although they were both grimy with sweat, he clasped Starr to his chest.

“I knew it! I knew it!” Starr hugged him back.

“Let’s see what we got, shall we?” Clay asked as they simultaneously dropped to their knees in the muck. He did his best to stem the flow of water with his shovel; while using hers, Starr exposed an oblong silver cylinder.

“Be careful,” she shouted excitedly. “It’s leaking around the vent.”

Clay eased the muddy object from the hole and handed it to Starr to hold upright as he ran to get the plastic tarp tied behind his saddle. Slipping and sliding back, he quickly secured the leaking lid.

Starr stripped off her gloves and dipped in her forefinger. Their eyes met as she tasted it and almost gagged. “This is it. A whole snootful of Drixathyon,” she said, wiping the taste off her tongue.