The Gift-Wrapped Groom (7 page)

“This gold Kurt Haag spoke of beneath Midwater. It is the reason the Consolidated Mining Consortium wants to buy the village?”

“The village and the surrounding ranches of the valley. Of course, everybody always knew we had minuscule amounts of gold in the ground. Up until recently, mining for it wasn't profitable. Now that technology has solved that problem, CMC—that's the abbreviation for Consolidated Mining Consortium—is eager to get its hands on the land. They're offering high prices for it, still knowing they'll make a substantial profit.”

“If these prices are high, why do people not wish to sell?”

“Because it's their land, their village, their valley. They don't want to have to move elsewhere, particularly since they know the valley would be torn up and strip-mined. Except for a few like Kurt Haag, who'd be glad to take the money and run.”

“Then those who wish to stay, stay. Those who wish to sell, sell.”

“Solution's not that easy. In order to find enough gold to make their mining venture profitable, CMC needs all the land. Consequently, their offer to the village and surrounding ranches is an all-or-nothing deal. Either everyone sells to them or they can't go ahead.”

“This man Haag said they do not offer to buy your land.”

“My ranch is too far up in the foothills and its market value too expensive. They'd have to pay a premium for it. Not even their new mining techniques make it profitable to extract the very small traces of gold in its rock.”

“So those who wish to sell become angry at those who do not.”

“As do the ones who have been
forced
to sell because they just can't keep things going.”

“This CMC
forces
them?”

“No. But over the last year, circumstances have. A lot of families have been having more than their share of bad luck. A fire wiped out the bakery in the village. A well went dry. Months before, some prankster left several range gates open. Cattle from a lot of ranches ran off up into the mountains. Never found them. Seems like it's just been one thing after another.”

“And so those with the bad luck must sell to this CMC.”

“Better than going bankrupt. CMC takes their businesses, ranches, land. They're only given twenty percent of the agreed-upon price up front. But they're allowed to remain as caretakers on the property while they wait for everyone else to sell. That's when they get the rest of the money.”

“They are permitted to remain on the property even though they no longer own it?”

“It's the way CMC motivates those who have sold to badger their neighbors into following suit.”

“Yes. Defeat from within the community. A sound KGB tactic. I know it well.”

“KGB. CMC. Never did trust an organization that embraced abbreviations. Hiding one's name behind a bunch of letters is just the first step to hiding other things.”

“What's that I hear? You hiding something, William?”

Nicholas turned to find that the somewhat playful feminine tone belonged to a sophisticated-looking silver-blonde with purple eyelids, who was attired in a plum-colored business suit. She immediately wound her arm through Winsome's. She was trim and sleek, fortyish, and from her very high heels to her very smart short hair, she looked as out of place among the guests at this country wedding reception as a tattooed python slithering across the Siberian winter tundra.

Winsome smiled somewhat stiffly at the proximity of the blonde. He patted the hand on his arm.

“Speak of the devil and here she is. Berna Vane, meet my grandson-in-law, Nicholas Baranov. Nicholas, Berna Vane, the president of CMC's bank in the village. The enemy in the flesh.”

Berna leaned eagerly toward Nicholas's offered hand, wrapping long, spike-tipped purple fingers around it. She did not seem offended by either the “devil” or “enemy” label she'd just been given by her host. On the contrary. Nicholas got the impression she rather enjoyed them. Her light eyes sparkled.

“Well, well, Nicholas, if you're a sample of what's been behind that iron curtain all these years, all I can say is that the end of the Cold War has not come a moment too soon.”

“Retract your fangs, Berna. This one's taken. Or do I have to remind you he's just been married to my granddaughter?”

Berna released Nicholas's hand with both reluctance and a dramatic sigh. “Lucky girl. Now, how does she manage to latch onto all the good-looking guys?”

All the good-looking guys?

Nicholas was finding he did not like these continual references by these people to Noel's past relationships with men. He did not like them at all.

Fortunately, Winsome changed the subject. “So are you going to donate the sleighs for my Percherons to pull at the Christmas festival? Or has CMC finally decided to stop pretending to care about this village and what happens to its people?”

“Now, William, don't try to bait me. Of course CMC will provide the sleighs. We are an integral part of the community and determined to make this transition for the folks of Midwater as easy as possible.”

“Transition? That's your euphemism for kicking them out with the least hassle to yourself. Heard you cashed in on the fire at the Renners' family bakery.”

Berna's attention swept to the fingertips on her left hand. Her finely arched eyebrows inched together as she spied a small chip of polish off the middle nail.

“They were the ones who got the cash, William, dear. And glad to get it, too, I might add.”

“Berna, how can you be a party to this takeover? You were born and reared in Midwater. You know firsthand what this valley means to its people.”

Berna's eyes returned to Winsome's face. To Nicholas, the smile on her lips looked as painted on as the chipped polish on her nail.

“It means squat to me, William. And don't try to sound all high-and-mighty. You left here for nearly thirty years yourself, remember?”

“I always kept my Midwater land and my sense of belonging. No matter where my work took me, I always maintained a firm and solid connection with my roots.”

“Well, you had the money to do that, didn't you? Not like my folks who had to move out to make ends meet.”

“As I remember it, Berna, your parents gave up their home to move to a bigger city so they could be close to you and your brother while you were attending college. They sacrificed their home for you kids, a family value they learned growing up in Midwater.”

Berna's front teeth bit into the lipstick of her lower lip. Even her phony smile was fading fast.

“You talk about the people of Midwater as though you understand them. You can't possibly. You get tired of these cold, dark winters, you can just fly to Palm Springs or Hawaii or the Caribbean.”

“But I don't. Since I had the privilege of serving as governor of this fine state, this ranch has been my home both summer and winter.”

Berna was momentarily fresh out of smiles and easy banter.

“Ranch? Ha! Castle more like it. Oriental carpets cover your floors. Original oils hang on your walls. Not one of the people in this room could afford even one of your fancy upholstered French chairs. You want something, you just have it flown in by helicopter. Even a husband for Noel. It's not the same for you as it is for the rest of the residents in this valley and you can't pretend it is.”

“I never have. I'm surprised you thought I would. I'm also surprised to learn that you—a banker—apparently resent the fact that I've taken the money I earned and, instead of squandering it, had the sense to invest it wisely.”

Nicholas watched as something cold flashed through the woman's eyes. Then suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Berna Vane's carefully coiffured head whipped back and she began to laugh. Her hands unclenched. An open palm slapped against Winsome's shoulder.

“Resent your money? William, darling, I adore it! Why don't you stop resisting me, accept one of my many proposals of marriage and make me your wealthy wife?”

“Because I think you would end up being my wealthy widow far too quickly, Miss Machiavellian Banker. Be sure to give my best to your parents when next you speak.”

Winsome turned back to Nicholas as Berna Vane slithered away on another laugh. His tone had turned thoughtful, even a little sad.

“Montana folk are some of the best you'll find anywhere, son. But our little valley has its share of black sheep and lost lambs.”

Winsome's meaning escaped Nicholas. As he understood it, the ranchers in this valley raised cattle, not sheep. It seemed there was much to learn about this strange American dialect.

The tall brunette who had been talking to Noel earlier approached with a smile, still holding Noel's bouquet. She offered her free hand for a shake. “Hi, I'm Lucy Lydon, a friend of Noel's. You've got a great gal there, Dr. Nicholas Baranov. I sure hope you know how great. Do they call you Nick?”

Nicholas took Lucy Lydon's hand for a brief, sturdy shake, trying to figure out who “they” were or why anyone would refer to him as a shallow notch.

“No, Miss Lydon, no one has called me Nick.”

“Okay. Got it. Well, then, Nicholas, your bride has gone upstairs to change. She wanted me to tell you.”

Winsome took a deep breath beside Nicholas and let it out with deliberate dramatics.

“I assume from the fact that you're in possession of Noel's bouquet that she's decided to dispense with the bouquet-throwing ritual as she has with the cake-cutting and nearly everything else that's traditional?”

Lucy threw the bouquet up in the air and caught it, playfully. “Yep. She said it was definitely my turn to corral the next available cowboy coming through, and she wasn't taking any chances on the bouquet's falling into the wrong hands.”

“She's missing out on so many of the important traditions of a wedding. Couldn't you get her to see that?”

“You're talking to the wrong gal, Mr. Winsome. Morning my folks got hitched, my mom and dad rode up to the preacher on horseback. When my dad's roan bolted at a rattlesnake, Mom gave her quarter horse a kick, ran Dad down and roped him. Preacher declared them married right there and then. Forty years and five kids later, Mom still keeps that rope tied real tight.”

William Winsome looked toward the ceiling and muttered something beneath his breath.

Lucy's smile got bigger as she watched Winsome's reaction. “By the way, Noel said if anyone starts throwing rice, she's throwing it back.”

“Ah, a grandfather's trials are never ending. Come on, Nicholas. Let's go get you out of that tuxedo. It's apparent our man-to-man talk might take a while.”

“Man-to-man talk?”

“Yeah, the one about what you're going to have to endure being married to a Montana woman—and a redheaded one at that.”

* * *

B
ERNA
V
ANE SLIPPED
next to Kurt Haag as he stood scowling near the refreshment table, the ever-ready glass of whiskey in his hand. Berna frowned. He'd been hitting the sauce too much lately. Much too much. She didn't like it.

Berna picked up her second glass of champagne from the table and nonchalantly took a sip as she watched William Winsome and Nicholas Baranov disappear into the recesses of the elaborate ranch house.

She leaned closer to the burly man on her left, but was careful not to make it too obvious. Her question was soft enough to reach only his ears. “So, what did you think of Baranov?”

“He ain't no steer, that's for sure. My guess is that our little Noel's gonna have her hands full with that bull.”

Berna licked her lips as a gleam grew in her eyes. “Yes. I sensed that, too.”

The brown eyes beneath the bushy eyebrows flashed uneasily in Berna's direction. “Don't you go forgettin', Berna, darlin'. I ain't no steer, neither. If you've got ideas about this Baranov—”

“Don't talk foolish. And keep your voice down and your eyes ahead or you're going to find the spike of my heel digging into the toe of your boot,” Berna interrupted, then added far too sweetly, “Am I making my meaning clear, Kurt, darling?”

Kurt turned his eyes obediently, but the ends of his lips curled into a smile. “Let's get out of here, Berna. My place. Thirty minutes.”

Her lips, too, raised slightly in anticipation. But she held off answering as she took another small sip of champagne.

“Tell me first what Baranov said.”

“We were just gettin' to it when Winsome stuck his nose in.”

“You were with him awhile before Winsome arrived. Didn't you get any indication?”

“Naw. He don't seem to know English too good. I think you were wrong. I doubt he's gonna be any help at all.”

“Don't be so sure. In case you haven't noticed, there's something really unusual about this wedding.”

“Unusual? In what way?”

“Are you blind? Both of them walking up the aisle, those screwy vows—why they've purposely ignored tradition every step of the way.”

“So?”

“So this is a William Winsome production. Everything should have been perfectly scripted to follow the accepted story line. But it's not. And there's something about the way Noel and this Nicholas act around each other that also doesn't add up.”

“Act? How you mean?”

“Sort of surprised like.”

“Surprised about what?”

Berna's beautifully arched eyebrows met. “I'm not sure. But I've got a feeling that even if this Russian doesn't join our side, he's going to be an asset.”

“How you figure that?”

“Let's just say that with him around, I rather think our stubborn Noel is going to find her hands too full to be devoting much time and energy to her favorite fight. Yes, Kurt, darling, I do believe Nicholas Baranov is just what we've been needing.”

N
oel had no sooner unlocked her front door, stepped inside and switched on the overheard living room light, than she was pounced upon.

Mistletoe barked happily to see her as he launched his front paws against her pant leg. Noel stepped inside a few feet to allow Nicholas room to enter, tore off her heavy coat, flung it onto a nearby easy chair and dropped to her knees to give her pet a much-needed hug and some reassurance after their long night apart.

The dog's white, fluffy tail waved lickety-split as he nuzzled her neck and licked her chin. As she heard the door close behind her, Noel remembered her manners, got to her feet and proceeded to perform the introductions.

“Nicholas, this is Mistletoe.”

Nicholas stood frowning down at the fluffy white dog. The little black eyes and nose were raised to the tall male human expectantly, the animal's tail wagging in eager greeting.

“What is it?” Nicholas asked.

Noel gazed down at her little dog with fondness and pride. “Mistletoe is a West Highland white terrier. They were originally bred in the West Highlands of Scotland.”

“Is that where you left the rest of him?”

Noel swung her eyes toward Nicholas, wondering if she could have heard right. Oh, she had heard right, all right. His face was as stony as ever. But those damn black eyes danced with humor—at Mistletoe's expense. Anger licked hot across her tongue.

“Size isn't everything, Dr. Baranov. Mistletoe's qualities far exceed his stature.”

Nicholas crossed his muscular arms over his broad chest as he contemplated the woman and dog in front of him.

“So, you call me Dr. Baranov again. You are angry.”

“I am not angry,” Noel said angrily.

“No. This I see and hear clearly,” Nicholas said with mocking solemnity. “Very well, I will try to keep an open mind about this Mistletoe of yours. Tell me of his qualities.”

Noel reached down to give the waiting white head a reassuring pat. “Mistletoe is extremely intelligent, playful, loving and loyal.”

“What function does he perform?”

She straightened again. “Function? I don't know what you mean.”

“A Siberian husky pulls sleds, keeps bears at bay and his owner warm during the winter. What does this Mistletoe do?”

Noel crossed her arms over her chest. Determined, squinting silver-green eyes met gleaming black ones.

“He performs the task of being my companion, for which he has no equal. And one more disparaging word out of you about my dog, Dr. Baranov, and, I promise you, you'll be sleeping in a cold, empty barn for the rest of this winter.”

They stood like that, measuring each other for one very long, full moment.

Then suddenly, Nicholas laughed, a resonant cadence that erupted from deep in his chest and rumbled through the walls of her home, set Mistletoe to barking and knocked Noel Winsome right off her determined feet onto her coat in the easy chair.

Damn, that was one hell of a surprising laugh. She could feel its vibration humming in her veins. What other surprises did this Russian have in store for her?

“So,” Nicholas asked as he positioned himself directly in front of her chair, his legs apart, his eyes still gleaming and his arms still crossed over his powerful chest. “Where is your husband to sleep tonight?”

Heat swirled inside Noel's stomach. Looking up at the powerful man standing before her, her blood still vibrating from the resonance of his laugh, Noel had a fleeting picture of those strong arms picking her up and carrying her to bed.

As immediately appalled as she was at that unexpected image, she was even more appalled to discover exciting little thrills shooting up her spine.

She quickly whitewashed the recalcitrant canvas of her mind and scrambled to her feet. She lifted her chin and steadied her voice to display the coolness of tone for which she was renowned. “I'll show you to the second bedroom. I think you'll find most everything you'll need. I put fresh linens on the bed, fresh towels in your bath.”

“My bath?”

“Yes. Thankfully, we each have our own bedroom and bath.”

“You live by yourself in a home with two bedrooms and two baths?”

“This was my parents' home. It was built for us, I mean my parents and me. They're gone now. They left it to me. I've stayed in my old room. Theirs is pretty much the same as when they... left. That will be where you will sleep. This way.”

She headed for the hallway, but halted as Nicholas stayed to peruse the books that lined the shelves of one wall of her living room. He picked up one, turned the cover and read inside. It was one of her father's books. Nicholas's scrutiny was brief. He closed the book and returned it to the shelf.

Once again she started down the hall. Once again she stopped as Nicholas failed to follow. This time he'd detoured into the kitchen, flipped on the light and walked around, fingering the pine cabinets and the copper kettles hanging from their pegs. He picked up one of the hand-crocheted pot holders sitting on the counter. Then he looked through the glass of the maple hutch at her mother's almost complete set of china. Next he opened a drawer and fingered the silverware inside.

Noel glanced at her watch with impatience. Well, he had a right to be curious, she supposed. Although it was past midnight, and she did have to get up and go to work tomorrow.

Finally, he closed the drawer and turned toward her.

“The house feels warm but there is no fire in the fireplace.”

“Forced air heating. I keep the thermostat at sixty-five. The fireplace insert is only for emergencies. I'll show you to your bedroom now.”

She turned and led the way down the hall. He didn't crowd her, but she could feel him behind her nonetheless. A solid wall of warmth that generated pure heat and pure male.

Damn, those irritating little thrills kept sneaking up her spine. She opened the bedroom door.

Ever since her parents' deaths, their bedroom had felt rather big and empty to Noel. But as Nicholas entered it that night, she had the curious feeling that the room had shrunk in size. Even the king-size bed in its center seemed small next to the enormous man who eyed the earth tones of its handmade quilt.

She tried to see the room for the first time, as he might be seeing it now: the wide pine floorboards protected by her mother's hand-looped rugs; the whimsical, hand-painted bluebell wallpaper; the set of mullioned windows strategically placed to allow her parents to watch the changing seasons on the surface of the pond outside; the “impractical skylight” that her father had insisted be built into the pitched roof so they could awaken to the light of Montana's “big skies” every morning.

Nicholas stepped up to the maple bureau and removed a picture of a smiling couple carrying a small, red-haired girl of about six, whose own smile was missing a couple of front teeth. His index finger traced over each face before he turned to her.

“Your parents and you?”

“Yes.”

“When did they die?”

“Eight years ago. Next February.”

“How?”

“They went ice-skating up at the big pond on the other end of the valley. The temperature rose unexpectedly. The ice proved too thin. They fell through. No one was around to help. They...never got out.”

He let a moment of silence pass before he returned the picture to the dresser. After a cursory look inside the closet, he stepped completely out of sight, into the bathroom.

Noel stood waiting, with Mistletoe at her heels. She snatched another look at her watch.

Nicholas came into view again a moment later, shaking his head. “This is the ‘shack' your grandfather spoke of burning for firewood this winter?”

“He didn't really mean that. He, well, he was just trying to make a point. It's a bit complicated. We can go into it another time. I'm sure you must be tired. If you need any help bringing in your things from the truck, I could—”

“I do not need any help. I am not tired. I would like to see the rest of your home.”

“Let's do it by daylight. You'll be able to see it better then.”

“So, we will talk, instead.”

“Talk?”

“Yes. Please to sit here. On the bed.”

Noel licked her lips nervously as she looked at the large man with the stone face standing in the middle of her parents' bedroom—an alien dropped so suddenly into the middle of her life. He was watching her with those intense, dark eyes.

The enormity of the decisions she had made so quickly over the last two days hit her then, hard and fast. This man, this stranger, was her husband. And she was alone with him. On their wedding night. In his bedroom. They were miles from anywhere, anyone. What's more, he was telling her to sit on his bed. To talk? And how often had she heard that line before. Dear heaven, if she were to call out for help, no one would hear her.

Now what? Her eyes shot hopefully to Mistletoe, standing by her side. He was wagging his tail at this dark, foreboding stranger. Lickety-split. His little head tilting in curiosity.

Great. Some help he'd be.

“It is all right,” Nicholas's bearlike growl assured with its contrasting, remote politeness. “I am a man of honor. I have given you my word.”

She looked up at him, almost embarrassed at what she had been thinking and at what must have shown on her face because of those thoughts. She let out a slow, relieved breath.

How could she have doubted this man? After all, he was the one willing to go back to Moscow and be a street cleaner rather than make false promises. If there ever was a man who would keep his word about maintaining this marriage on a platonic basis, it was Dr. Nicholas Baranov.

Still, her heart beat too strongly every second she remained in this room with him, under the scrutiny and power of his penetrating gaze.

She rubbed her hands together nervously. “Look, we'll have to postpone this talk until tomorrow. I'm dead on my feet.”

His eyes swept to her shoes. “Dead...feet?”

“An expression. Just means I'm very tired. It's way past my bedtime. And I have to leave early for work tomorrow, so if I don't see you before I go—”

“You will see me. I, also, rise early. We must speak about many important things.”

Noel backed out of the room. “Right. Tomorrow. Rest well, Nicholas.”

“
Spakoynap Nochi,
Noel.”

The growly Russian words echoed through Noel's ears, setting off strange licks of heat in her belly. Noel hurried down the hall and into her room and closed the door behind her and Mistletoe, all the time wondering why her heart was beating just a bit too fast and her breath was proving just a little too hard to catch.

She was already in bed, when she heard Nicholas return to the room on the other side of the wall. Mistletoe jumped onto the bed and lay beside her on top of her daisy-splashed comforter. She stroked his head as she listened to the sounds coming from the man in the next bedroom. The opening and closing of the dresser, the closet door. The water running in the bathroom sink.

She hugged her knees to her chest in thought. As she'd made up the bed that morning, she had begun to resent anew this husband her grandfather was foisting on her as she imagined him taking over her parents' room, touching their furniture, their things.

But now she found a strange comfort in his sounds. Life had returned to their room that had sat silent for so long.

She liked the way he had picked up the picture of her parents and herself, too, and how he had run his thumb gently over their smiles. There was understanding in that touch—an understanding of loss and loneliness that could only have come from personal experience.

Personal experience?

She released her knees, lay back and rested her head against her pillow as Mistletoe snuggled up against her. Her eyes remained open in the pitch-dark room as she tried to imagine Dr. Nicholas Baranov having had such experiences, succumbing to such emotions.

No. Not him. He was so strong. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. A man in total mastery of himself. Foreboding. Awesome.

Yet there was that contrasting, surprising subtle sense of humor, too. And that deep, resonant laugh that had erupted so spontaneously. She could still feel the vibrating echo of it humming in her blood.

She heard the small squeak of the springs as he lay on the bed where her parents had rested so many years in each other's arms. Sudden, unbidden tears formed in her eyes, complicated tears of a loss accepted, yet still remembered and mourned. Her emotions seemed so close to the surface tonight. So bare.

It was the wedding, of course. Even their flippant vows had somehow sounded hallowed within that beautifully decorated hall her grandfather had gone to such care to make so right—for her.

He had given Nicholas her grandmother's ring to put on her finger, too. She had been surprised and touched to see it, just as he, no doubt, knew she would be. That sly, sweet old schemer.

Yes, the wedding and reception had been far too special. Nicholas had looked far too handsome in that tuxedo, too. All of Midwater's single women had ogled him in open appreciation.

Yet he seemed not to have noticed. He had watched her most of the evening. That had been special, too. Feeling his eyes.

She could still feel the heat of his hands as he led her in that waltz. Who would have thought that a nuclear physicist who had also been a Siberian fisherman and a Moscow street cleaner could waltz?

Dr. Nicholas Baranov was proving very unexpected—in so many ways. And, if this humming he had set in her blood tonight was any indication, not nearly so harmless as she'd assured herself only moments before. No, not nearly so harmless.

Who was this mysterious, dark man?

Maybe, just maybe, a little voice warned her, she should stifle her rampant curiosity for once and not try to find out.

* * *

N
ICHOLAS DID NOT
sleep well. He dozed for a few minutes only to awake again. He told himself it was because of the new surroundings, the soft, unfamiliar bed that felt like a pillow beneath his body. But new surroundings and a similarly soft bed had not kept him awake at Winsome's ranch the night before.