Maybe This Christmas: A Sweet Historical Western Holiday Romance Novella (Holidays in Mountain Home Book 2) (2 page)

Her breath snagged in her throat.

He lowered his head and claimed her mouth with a kiss.

Luke pitched hay off the feed wagon. He’d stripped down to shirtsleeves as the hot, sweaty work soaked him through. He welcomed the cold wind.

Timothy drove the wagon at the pace of a man’s walk, and Dallas pitched hay beside him. The cattle meandered in from the wide expanse of snow-covered pasture where foraging had grown significantly difficult as the past week’s snowstorm buried dormant vegetation.

Beyond the fence, he caught a glimpse of Hunter returning on his sorrel.

Hunter dropped the reins, tossed a paper-wrapped package onto the front porch, and ran toward the pasture. He vaulted the fence and sank into a snowdrift.

“Halt,” Luke called to Tim. “Something’s wrong.” Hunter always checked on Miranda
first
.

He leapt from the wagon and met his brother-in-law halfway.

Hunter cupped a hand about his mouth while a good thirty feet out. “Trouble.”

“What?” Luke charged the last few steps, nudging aside milling cattle, nearly losing a boot in snow packed by the repeated passage of the feed wagon and hundreds of hooves. “What happened?”

“A newcomer in town. A stranger.” Hunter breathed hard from exertion. How fast had he ridden on icy roads?

Awareness prickled his nape.

“It’s better you hear this from me, from family.” Hunter paused, stretching a beat too long for Luke’s comfort.“And not the rumor mill.”

“Spit it out.”

“This newcomer got off the four-o’clock and headed straight to Pettingill’s.”

Dread curdled in Luke’s gut. “What does he want with Effie?” He trusted his brother-in-law to act in widowed Mrs. O’Leary’s defense or at
least
fetch the sheriff.

“He kissed her.”

The news landed like a slap across his cheek. “He
what?
”

“He waited until I left the shop, as patient as could be. I watched through the display window alongside a half-dozen others. The fellow backed her up against the rear wall and kissed her.”

“A peck?” Some people kissed a cheek in greeting, like maybe…a brother?

Hunter shook his head. “Full on the mouth.”

No one should kiss Widow O’Leary but
him.
Just ‘cause he hadn’t actually kissed her,
yet
, didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

“It’s time to act…if you’re going to.”

The yank on the conversation’s reins caught Luke unprepared. He hadn’t told a soul, certainly not Hunter, that he was sweet on Mrs. O’Leary.

“I speak from experience.” Hunter glanced toward the feed wagon and back. “Don’t let her get away without a fight. It’s time she knows your intentions.”

Luke’s stomach curdled.
He backed her up against the rear wall of the shop and kissed her. Full on the mouth.

It’s too late.

The slow, not-yet-official courtship—escorting Mrs. O’Leary to the church picnic, occasionally bringing her home to enjoy a Sunday dinner with his boisterous family, oiling hinges on her shop’s door—hadn’t been enough.

Effie O’Leary had no idea Luke Finlay courted her with an eye toward marriage.

Until this moment, he’d wanted it that way.

He’d thought to allow her time to grieve her lost husband, to put aside her widow’s weeds of her own accord before stating his intentions. He’d gradually worked toward a full-fledged courtship, believing he had ample time to win her affections.

And now a
stranger
had stepped off the four-o’clock and interrupted Luke’s courtship of Effie before it could officially begin.

Of all the rotten luck.

He clenched his jaw against the urge to swear long and hard.

“Why are you standing here?
Go
.”

Luke turned to his younger brothers, standing on the feed wagon. “Finish dropping the hay,” he bellowed, “I’m going to town.”

Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. “Better take a quick bath if you’re going courting.”

Luke glared at his beloved brother-in-law, knowing full well he smelled of hay and sweat and horse. “I know all about courting.”

Hunter’s features fell slack in mock surprise. “You do?”

Luke refused to rise to the bait. He kept the tone serious. “Thanks for bringing word.”

“Anytime.”

“And I’ll thank you,” Luke said, holding Hunter’s gaze, “to keep your suppositions to yourself.”

“About Effie O’Leary and you?”

“Yes.”

“Everyone already knows—except her, but I’ll keep it to myself just the same. Better get on into town before he kisses her again.” Hunter chuckled. “Or drags her in front of Reverend Gilbert.”

Chapter Two

It was full dark by the time Luke reached the outskirts of Mountain Home proper. Moonlight reflected off drifted snow, illuminating the terrain. His breath showed in puffs of white.

He nudged Domino down the frozen, muddy street to Pettingill’s. Light streamed through the windows. Luke had no intention of losing Mrs. Effie O’Leary to
anyone
.

He dismounted and tossed the reins over the hitching post. He patted Domino’s spotted neck and stepped onto the boardwalk. He stomped off the slush and mud, mindful of Effie’s shining floors.

No small crowd had gathered to peer in her windows at the two wire dress forms proudly displaying a woman’s woolen suit in brown, trimmed with black piping and matching buttons. The dapper style looked just like an image in her New York catalog. The second form presented a man’s three-piece suit, fit for Sundays or a prosperous businessman. A little dashing for a rancher like him, but someone in town would look mighty fine.

Mrs. O’Leary had a gift for tailoring.

Gifted or not, Christmas season or not,
far too many
customers crowded her shop. Luke entered, setting the bells to jingling.

Nearly a dozen shoppers browsed the various fabrics lining the shelves and gathered in knots of two or three, their heads close together in whispered conversation. Others lined up at the counter, evidently to place orders. But Luke caught tidbits of conversation and realized these ladies congregated under the pretense of looking over newly delivered fabric and placing yet another Christmas order…but they were obviously here for
details.

They’d heard all about a stranger,
tall, impossibly handsome, dark—
if the murmurs could be believed—and his most familiar and romantic kiss. They wanted to know more.

He didn’t like it, but understood their need for information.

He scanned the shop for this mysterious, tall, and handsome stranger. No one fit the bill.
Good
.

Behind the counter, Effie had a pen poised above her ledger, prepared to jot down Mrs. Whipple’s order. Every glossy blond hair was in place, but her posture seemed stiff and her trademark dimpled smile conspicuously absent. Her hand shook as she wrote, and worse, she trembled like an autumn leaf in the wind.

Must’ve been
some
kiss.

Pain shot through Luke’s jaw. He’d clenched his teeth—again. He shook it off, determined to
do
something, step in, create order from chaos, and help with Effie’s crush of customers. If he’d already declared himself, he might have put two fingers in his mouth, whistle long and hard, and order everybody out.

For all he knew, Effie wanted every last penny these shoppers would spend in their quest for gossip. She wouldn’t appreciate him herding her paying customers out the door.

So he assessed what he
could
do.

With all the comings and goings, the door was open more than it was shut, so he headed to the potbellied stove. He eased between clusters of ladies, murmuring apologies, and checked the fire. He fed it two logs, latched the door, and pulled off his coat.

Just as he hung it on a peg, the shop’s door opened and a man came inside with a rush of frigid air.

The chattering ladies quieted one by one. Every last eye seemed to turn toward this unknown man…the stranger who’d swept in on the four o’clock and kissed Effie.

Luke’s trusted brother-in-law had seen it with his own two eyes. This w
asn’t
hearsay. Thinking about it curdled Luke’s easy-going nature. He straightened—no sense slouching when sizing up the competition.

The stranger was, indeed, tall. Luke grudgingly admitted that to
some
women, he might be considered handsome with dark hair curling nearly to his shoulders and a well-trimmed beard fringing a prominent jaw. Luke disliked him on sight. Or on principle. Or both.

“Evening, Ladies.” The man greeted the crowd as he kicked the door shut. He balanced two covered plates on gloved hands. “It’s dinnertime for Mrs. O’Leary. You won’t mind if we close up shop now, do you? Come back tomorrow.”

Luke shot a glance at Mrs. O’Leary. Did she want this stranger ordering everyone around, sending her clientele away, and…and
feeding
her?

Her trembling worsened and she fumbled the ink bottle. She seemed both unwilling to look in the stranger’s direction and unable to pull her attention away. This was not the Effie he knew and adored, a woman who spoke her mind and stood up for herself. This stranger made her anxious, wary, and…afraid.

That
got Luke’s goat. Couldn’t anyone else see how this man…this
interloper
…affected Effie?

Now he didn’t merely dislike the other guy—he had good reason to distrust him.

Luke bit back a growl. He’d ridden five miles on a bitter winter night to say what he needed to say, and by golly, he would say it before he turned tail and went back home. Right after he dispatched Mr. Interloper.

He waited for the tittering and skirt-swirling ladies to head on out the door.

He knew the embroidered pale blue towels and fancy dishes Mr. Interloper set on the counter. He peeled off his gloves and coat, and tossed them on the end of the counter top.

Luke caught sight of a emblem pinned on the vest.
U.S. Marshal.
Nothing to get excited about.

Pistols rode at each hip in a finely tooled holster. He wore citified clothes that must’ve been tailored with only him in mind. Lean, brawny, broad, and hard.

A formidable opponent.

Who
was
he?

Luke rather liked that the stranger was on the customer side of the counter, while he stood behind the long bar with Effie. He took his place at her side. A simple message that didn’t need words:
I stand with Mrs. O’Leary and you don’t belong here.

“Evening.” The man offered a big hand in greeting.

After a hesitation, Luke accepted. “Evening.” He squeezed just enough to show he wasn’t put off by the badge. He’d wrangled cattle since he could walk and figured he could toss this fellow, if need be.

“August Rose.”

August Rose?
What kind of a name was that? His parents must not have liked him much.

Neither name nor badge answered the burning question—
what
was this guy, to Effie?

August Rose’s grip was firm and nearly joint-cracking. “You are…?”

“Luke Finlay.” He withdrew and casually put his arm about Effie. He felt her trembling and gave her a little squeeze for strength. If Rose couldn’t see how edgy he made Effie, he must be blind.

“Well, Mr. Finlay, it’s a pleasure, but you’d best be going,” Rose said. “Our supper’s getting cold.”

“Go ahead and eat. I’ll stay.”

Rose shrugged. “I brought only enough for two.”

“Don’t mind me. I didn’t come for supper.”

Luke held Rose’s gaze, irritated by the condescension he glimpsed in the competition’s eye.

“Suit yourself.” Rose came around the counter, took a plate in one hand and Effie’s elbow in the other.

Luke let her go, but he didn’t like it.

He watched as Rose ushered her to a chair in the corner where Noelle often sat to ply a needle in finish work. Once Effie sat, he handed her a plate and fork.

Rose claimed his dinner plate, leaned against the counter, and crossed one boot over the other. He dug into fragrant roast beef, boiled potatoes drenched in gravy, roasted carrots with butter and herbs, and a golden roll.

Luke’s empty stomach rumbled. If he’d stayed home, he’d have joined the family at the table long before now. He crossed his arms and willed his stomach to quiet down. He caught himself grinding his molars and forced his jaw to relax—this confrontation wasn’t worth a trip to the tooth-puller.

He waited. Ranching had taught him a good deal of patience.

Rose had consumed half his meal while Effie picked at hers. She may have taken a bite of two but it was hard to tell if she actually ate anything. This wasn’t the happy, joyful, confident woman who relished a home-cooked meal at his mother’s table. He’d seen her eat plenty of times…she wasn’t eating now. She seemed frail, fragile, like a stiff wind would knock her over.

Time to see August Rose to the door. “You’re passing through town, I see.”

“No.” Rose dredged his roll through gravy. “I’ve come to take Effie home. With me.” He popped the rest of the roll in his mouth and grinned.

Effie’s throat closed.

I’ve come to take Effie home…with me.

In chains? To stand trial?

Since Gus’s threatening arrival, this was the first time they were alone…or nearly alone. Those gathered outside her shop’s window had witnessed that shocking kiss and applauded with vigor. The commotion had distracted Gus, so she’d wriggled free and unlocked the door. He’d erred in admitting he wouldn’t handcuff her before an audience.

The bells on her door kept tinkling and the precious audience grew…and brought dozens of questions and abundant curiosity. They’d wanted to see this stranger for themselves.

Exhaustion caught up with her. Constant fretting wore her so thin she feared the fabric of her being would split at the seams. She
needed
to know why he’d come…and what prompted his unwelcome kiss.