The Rancher's Christmas Princess (4 page)

“Oh, Preston. Yes. Yes....”

“What? Yes, you know her? Yes, she mentioned me?”

“I...both. Anne has been my dearest friend in all the world. We
met at Duke University. She was getting her undergraduate degree and I was
studying nursing. She had no extended family, but her parents had been wealthy.
They adored her. She was their only child and she never wanted for anything. Her
father died when she was eight. And her mother raised her alone—and then died
the year Anne graduated from high school. She was on her own in life by the time
I met her. And I was far from home. She and I...we became like sisters.”

He still didn’t get it. What did any of this have to do with
him? “What are you saying? Anne wants to talk to me, is that it?”

“I...oh, I really am trying to explain. I’m not doing a very
good job and I realize that...”

He felt that need again, the one he seemed to have around
her—to go to her, to hold her, soothe her, tell her that everything was going to
be all right.

How could he tell her that? He didn’t know that. He was the one
in the dark here. “Just go ahead, okay? Just...continue.”

“Oh, sweet Lord...” She pressed the back of her hand to her
mouth, steadied herself, lowered it. “I’m sorry to tell you, so sorry. Not long
ago, Anne was diagnosed with ALL—acute lymphocytic leukemia. I went to her, took
care of her, but she didn’t make it.”

He tried to wrap his mind around that one. “You’re telling me
that Anne is dead?”

She swallowed, convulsively. Her eyes brimmed. She shook her
head, blinked the tears away. “Yes. She died ten days ago.”

“My God.” It seemed impossible. “She was such a great woman. So
young, so full of life...”

“Yes. And she...had a little boy. His name is Benjamin. He’s
eighteen months old.”

Pres remembered. “The boy folks in town say you brought with
you to Elk Creek?” He watched her head bob with her swift nod. She swallowed
hard again. And right then, as he stared into her wide, wounded eyes, he made
the connection. He raised both hands, palms out, shook his head. “Wait a minute.
I still don’t even know for certain if she...if we...”

“
I
know.” Belle’s voice had gained
strength again. She spoke firmly now. “Anne would never claim you were Ben’s
father if she didn’t know beyond a doubt that you were. She named me his legal
guardian. She knew I would always take care of him and that I would give him all
the love in my heart and an excellent start in life. She also knew she should
have contacted you. She realized that both you and Ben deserve to know each
other, that Ben needs his father and you have a right and a duty to be with your
son. So she set me the task of making that happen.”

Pres was not keeping up with this flood of information. He was
still stuck back there with the fact that, apparently, he actually did have sex
with Anne Benton on the night that Lucy married Monty Polk. “Damn it to hell. If
it happened, it was only one night.”

Beautiful Belle gave him a sad little smile. “Sometimes one
night is all it takes.”

“Dear God.” He realized he was on his feet. And his knees
didn’t want to hold him up. He sank to the chair again. “A boy. A little
boy...Ben, you said? His name is Ben?”

“Yes. Ben.” Belle produced an envelope from the pocket of her
skirt. Her hands were shaking. “She gave this to me two days before she died. It
was tucked inside a note she wrote to me. She told me to...” The tears welled
again. She pressed her lips together, forced herself to go on. “...to read the
note addressed to me after she was gone. That note told me who you were and
where to find you. Also in that note, she asked that I give you this.” She
extended the envelope across the coffee table toward him.

He took it from her trembling fingers. Struck with a sense of
complete unreality, he tapped the end on the table, tore off the other end and
removed the single sheet of folded paper within. He unfolded the thing, stared
down at the words on it, words written in a hand that didn’t appear to have been
all that steady. Those words ran together at first, kind of wiggling, like a
caravan of ants trudging without direction across the paper, refusing to take
any recognizable form. With effort, he read it through once.

And then again.

And finally, on the third time through, the ragged writing made
sense to him.

He dropped the letter onto the coffee table and tossed the
envelope on top of it. And then he made himself speak, although his voice
sounded rough, ill-used, raggedy as Anne Benton’s handwriting. “She says the boy
is mine. She says she woke up in that motel by the roadhouse with me and...she
didn’t know what she would say to me. So she just...left. She says when she
found out she was having my baby, she didn’t know how to tell me. She kept
meaning to do it, but she never managed to work up the courage.”

Belle was nodding again. “She told me she always intended to
get in touch with you, to tell you...”

“But she didn’t.” How could she not? How could she keep the
reality of his own child from him? It wasn’t right. For the first time since
he’d met the princess across from him, he felt the heat of anger in his veins,
the blood pumping in furious spurts. Wrong. All wrong, what Anne Benton had
done. “By God, she
didn’t
come to me, didn’t
tell
me....”

Belle stood up. He stiffened in the chair and watched her
warily as she came around the coffee table to his side. Gingerly, she touched
his shoulder. “Preston, please... Try to understand...”

He jerked free of her hand and glared up at her dead on. “I
want you to go.”

* * *

Belle longed to stay, to soothe him, to ease his
confusion and frustration—and perhaps even to come to an agreement about how
they would proceed from there. She had plans, detailed plans. She knew what to
do and was prepared to move forward.

But she understood that she couldn’t force him. He would need
time to process such momentous news.

Plus, there was the way she’d handled telling him the
situation: badly. She should have told him sooner—and she should have done a
better job of it. So far, she’d mucked everything up, taking forever to get to
the point, finding endless excuses to put off the inevitable.

And kissing him
. What had possessed
her to think that it would be all right to kiss him? It wasn’t. It was
wrong.

So very wrong. She’d...completely misled him. Indulged herself
in an impossible romantic fantasy when she should have kept her focus on the
important information Anne had trusted her to deliver with a certain delicacy
and tact.

Of course he was angry. With Anne.
And
with her.

“Please go.” He wasn’t even looking at her. He had his elbows
on his knees and his head in his hands. “Go now.”

She thought again of all the things she still had to say to
him. And then she reminded herself that none of those things had to be said that
night. The least she could do after botching her first task here so completely
was to leave the poor man alone to deal privately with the life-altering
information she’d finally managed to deliver to him.

She turned for the foyer, where she took her coat off the hall
tree and put it on. She pulled her gloves from the pocket and put them on, too.
Then, quietly, she left through the front door, closing it gently behind
her.

Out in the snow-dusted driveway, Marcus was waiting. He had the
SUV’s engine idling, ready to go. He got out when he saw her emerge from the
house and opened the door to the backseat for her.

She ran down the front steps, pausing only for one brief second
to glance up at the star-thick indigo bowl of the sky, hoping to see a last echo
of the northern lights.

But there was nothing and that made her sad, made her feel as
though the magic had never been.

* * *

Pounding sounds invaded her dreams.

Belle struggled up through dragging layers of sleep, groaning.
The room was dark. The time glowed at her from the bedside clock: 6:14 a.m.

More pounding—on the door that led out to the landing. What in
the...

In the crib across the room, Ben woke with a startled cry. He
began calling for Anne. “Mama! Mama!”

Belle flicked on the lamp, threw back the covers, pulled on her
robe and went to him. The pounding continued.

“Mama!” Ben cried.

She scooped his warm, plump body up into her arms and hugged
him close.

Ben pushed at her with his little fists and kept crying. “Mama!
Mama...”

Outside, she heard Preston’s voice, followed by another that
sounded like Silas. She held on to Ben, stroking his back, rocking him from side
to side, kissing his forehead, whispering, “Shh, shh, now. It’s all right,
sweetheart. It’s all right...” as he continued to wail and push her away.
Outside, there were scuffling noises. Someone fell heavily against the door.

The startling sound brought another frightened cry from Ben.
Then he grabbed on to her, buried his face against her neck and sobbed, “Mama,
Mama...” The words broke her heart. And his plaintive, lonely little cries made
her feel powerless and useless and somehow cruel—to deny this perfect, beautiful
child what he needed most of all. He shook his head against her neck, his hot
tears smearing on her skin at the same time as he pressed himself so close
against her, needing comfort so desperately, he grabbed for her even as he cried
for the one he really wanted.

“Darling, shh. It’s all right. You’re all right....” She
pressed her lips to his fine blond hair, breathed in the baby smell of him,
milky and warm, a scent like fresh bread and baby lotion enchantingly
combined.

“Mama, Mama...” He let out a garbled string of sad little
nonsense words.

“Shh, Mama loves you. She loves you so much. But she can’t
come,” she whispered against skin. “I’m here, though. I have you. You’re safe,
you’re all right....”

Outside, the scuffling sounds continued. Again, something heavy
bounced against the door.

And then she heard her cousin Charlotte’s sharp voice. “Stop
this. Stop it this instant.”

A few more thuds and grunts followed.

And then she clearly heard Silas McCade say, “You damn fool,
get hold of yourself.”

After that, there was silence from outside at last.

Charlotte spoke again, more quietly. Belle couldn’t make out
the words. Then a door shut.

A moment later, Charlotte tapped on the door that joined their
rooms. Ben had stopped wailing. He had his head buried in the crook of her neck
and he was sniffling dejectedly, his little body shuddering in the aftermath of
his tears.

She carried him to the inner door, rubbing his back, her lips
to his temple as she went. When she reached the door, she settled the baby a
little higher on her shoulder and turned the lock to admit her cousin, companion
and dear friend.

“The...father has arrived,” Charlotte said, her prominent
gray-green eyes wider than ever. She clutched the high neck of her ruffled robe
with one hand and held the other hand around her middle.

“I heard,” said Belle.

“He wants to see Ben. He and Marcus had a bit of an
altercation. They’re waiting outside with a loud-mouthed older fellow whom I’m
assuming is the grandfather.”

“Has he been drinking?” Belle asked.

Charlotte frowned. “Which one?”

“Preston—but when you come right down to it, have
either
Preston or his father been drinking?”

Charlotte thought it over. Finally, she decided, “I don’t
believe so. I think it was a case of the blood running high, as it were. They
both appear sober and I didn’t smell liquor on either of them.”

“Very well.” Belle kissed Ben’s velvety cheek. He had his fist
in his mouth by then. With a final hiccup and a weary little sigh, he laid his
head on her shoulder. “Tell Preston we will meet him...where? It’s so early. I
have no idea.”

“The restaurant across the street should be open,” Charlotte
said. “I checked the hours yesterday. Six in the morning until eight in the
evening.”

“Wonderful,” Belle said wearily. Maybe fortune would smile on
them and the restaurant would be empty at this hour, giving them all a little
privacy to deal with this difficult situation. “Tell them the diner, then. We’ll
meet them there in twenty minutes.”

Chapter Four

B
elle, Charlotte and Ben entered the Sweet
Stop together. Ben was bundled up and tucked in his stroller. The ever-present
Marcus, sporting a black eye, followed close behind them. The diner was far from
empty. Apparently, many of the good citizens of Elk Creek took breakfast before
dawn. As had happened the day before, a hush fell over the establishment when
Belle and the others came in. People paused with their coffee mugs halfway to
their lips and stared.

Preston and Silas had taken a back booth and were waiting for
them. One of them must have thought to ask for a high chair. It stood at the end
of the booth. Preston, who faced the door, had a swollen lower lip and a small
cut above his right eye. His gaze locked with Belle’s for a too-brief moment. An
echo of last night’s magic arced between them.

And then was gone.

He and Silas both stood up as Belle, pushing Ben’s stroller,
came toward them, Charlotte at her side. Marcus hung back near the door.

Belle reached the men looming by the booth. She moved around to
the side of the stroller to take care of Ben and suggested over her shoulder,
“If you two gentlemen wouldn’t mind sitting in the inner seats? Charlotte and I
need to be next to the high chair for Ben.”

Neither of the McCade men answered. She glanced over at them.
Neither had moved either. Both of them stood stock-still, wearing identical
expressions of dumbstruck wonder, staring down at the child in the stroller.

Ben, bundled up in blankets and a miniature down jacket, a blue
wool hat over his white-blond hair, gazed solemnly back at them.

Charlotte broke the silence. “Ahem. Sit down, please.” She made
a shooing motion with both slim hands. “Sit down and slide over. Both of
you.”

That seemed to break the spell. The men sat and slid to the
window side of the booth. Charlotte hung up her heavy coat and took the
remaining seat on Silas’s side of the table. Belle got Ben out of his warm hat
and fat coat.

When she eased him into the high chair, he smiled up at her,
sweet as any angel, his earlier misery completely forgotten. “Belle. Eat!” He
pounded his hands flat on the chair tray—but not too hard. Just enough to
punctuate his excitement at the thrilling prospect of breakfast. He loosed a
happy string of nonsense noises.

She laughed low as she took off her coat. It was so good to see
him back to his cheerful little self again. “Yes, Benjamin. We shall eat.” She
gave him a biscuit to keep him occupied until his meal arrived and then took the
seat next to Preston, who wore a winter-green corduroy shirt and a look both
stern and completely stunned.

The waitress from yesterday, Selma, arrived with a coffeepot
and an order pad. She poured coffee for all of them. Belle and Charlotte
ordered.

Selma glanced at Silas and then at Preston. Both of them said,
“The usual.”

The meal was a strange one, which really wasn’t all that
surprising under the circumstances. Charlotte bravely tried to contribute
something resembling conversation. She spoke of the weather and of the beauty
and majesty of the local forests and mountains. Belle agreed with her companion
that Montana was wild and rugged and beautiful. Charlotte had purchased a copy
of the most recent edition of the
Elk Creek Gazette.
She’d read about the various holiday events that were coming up in the next few
weeks.

“If we’re still here, we must attend the craft fair,” she
said.

Belle agreed that, indeed, they must.

Preston methodically shoveled in food. He had nothing to say.
Neither did the previously talkative Silas. Both men continued to seem astounded
by Ben. They would glance in the child’s direction and then blink and gape.
After a moment or two, they would catch themselves at it and resolutely return
to devouring the enormous breakfasts they’d ordered.

Ben watched the two rugged ranchers warily at first. But then,
after fifteen minutes or so, he seemed to realize that they presented no threat
to him. He grew accustomed to their staring and he ignored them. He ate his
cereal and fruit with gusto and drank watered-down apple juice from the sippy
cup Belle carried along wherever they went.

There was so very much to discuss. But every time she glanced
at Preston’s battered face and saw his blank-eyed expression, she realized she
didn’t know where to start. And even if she had known what to say, the busy
diner didn’t seem the right place to talk. So she said nothing—except to agree
with Charlotte that the scenery in Montana was spectacular and she would love to
visit the Christmas Craft Fair.

When the meal was finally over, Preston claimed the check,
piled some bills on top of it and cleared his throat. “Belle, I’d like a few
words. Alone.” Grudgingly, he added, “Please.”

She took a wet wipe from a pocket of Ben’s diaper bag and
cleaned the little sweetheart’s face and hands. “Charlotte, could you take Ben
back across the street with you?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” She faced Preston again. “How about a stroll?”

“Fine.”

Charlotte rose, put on her coat and scooped Ben out of the high
chair. She put him in the stroller and bundled him up again.

He laughed, a delighted chortling sound that warmed Belle’s
heart. “Shar-Shar. Kiss.”

“Oh, yes.” Charlotte leaned close to him and he made a loud
smacking sound with his little mouth against her cheek. She beamed at him.
“Thank you, young man—now let’s put on this nice, warm hat.” She put it on him
and tied the yarn ribbons under his chin. “There. Are we ready?”

“Yes!” declared Ben.

“Bundle up,” she instructed Belle in that motherly way she
sometimes did as she got behind the stroller and aimed it at the door. “It’s
bitterly cold out there.”

“I will,” Belle promised.

Marcus opened the door when Charlotte reached it. She pushed
the stroller through. Wordless, Preston and Silas watched them go.

And then, out of nowhere, Silas found his voice. “That boy’s a
McCade if I ever saw one.” He said it loud enough that every listening ear in
the diner was treated to the big news. And then he spoke to Preston. “And damned
if he didn’t get those baby blue eyes of yours.”

“Keep it down, Dad,” Preston growled, already on his feet. He
shrugged into his sheepskin coat and shoved his hat on his head. Then he grabbed
Belle’s coat and held it open for her. “Belle.”

She got up and let him help her into it. “Thank you.”

Silas was sliding from the booth.

Preston stopped him. “You stay here, Dad. Have yourself to
another cup of coffee. This won’t take long.”

“I’m up to my eyeballs in caffeine as it is,” Silas grumbled.
But he did sit back down.

“After you,” said Preston.

She led the way to the door.

Outside, the gray sky was growing lighter. She pulled on her
winter gloves and put on her wool hat against the blustery cold. With Marcus in
their wake, they hunched down into their coat collars and forged off up the
street, snowflakes whirling around them. Christmas decorations, battered by the
harsh wind, clinked rhythmically against the Victorian-style streetlights that
lined the street.

“I would like to...apologize,” he said stiffly as they passed a
jewelry store and then a gift shop, neither of which were open at that hour. “I
got completely out of hand this morning at the motel.”

She sent him a sideways glance. He had his head hunched very
low and his hat tipped down against the wind, shadowing his eyes. His swollen
mouth had a grim twist to it. In spite of the fact that he was going to take Ben
from her, she felt a tug of sympathy. “I imagine it must be a lot to take
in.”

“Yeah, it is—and I shouldn’t have been so hard on you last
night. You’re only the messenger, right?” He laid on the irony.

That got her back up a little. “I am, as a matter of fact,
Ben’s legal guardian. So my responsibilities in this matter far exceed those of
one who merely bears news.”

“Fancy talk,” he muttered.

“It happens to be the truth.”

He made a low, scoffing sound. “Here’s a truth for you. He’s
my
son.”

“I know that, Preston.” She kept her voice carefully even.

“And he’s what—a year and a half old?”

“Yes, he is.”

“But this morning is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on him.
That’s
the truth. And it’s not right.” He
waited—apparently for her to say something, to argue the point. When she didn’t,
he added, “She should have told me.”

“I know. And
she
knew it, too. I
don’t know why she didn’t get in touch with you before she—” it was still hard
to say the words “—before she died. After college, we didn’t see each other as
often as we might have wished. She had her work. I had mine. I lived in
Montedoro and traveled a great deal, raising funds and awareness for Nurses
Without Boundaries. She was living here, in America—in Raleigh, North Carolina,
and often off on a dig somewhere for her studies. I hadn’t seen her in person
for two years when she called to tell me she was sick.”

“You’d never seen Ben until then?”

“No. I kept meaning to go to her, to meet her new baby, to
spend some time catching up. But somehow, I never managed to make the time. Not
until she called and told me about her illness, about how bad it was. I went to
her then, at the end of October. We were with her until the end, Charlotte and
I. I asked her more than once about...the baby’s father.”

He did look at her then. His eyes were haunted beneath the brim
of his hat. “This way.” He offered his hand. She took it and couldn’t help
thinking of the night before when he had kissed her, when he had raised her hand
to his warm lips.

He led her off the sidewalk, into a courtyard between the
buildings, out of the wind. He let go of her fingers to brush snow off one of
the benches there. They sat down, side-by-side but not touching.

He asked, “What did she say, when you asked her about Ben’s
dad?”

“That it was a one-night thing. That she hardly knew the man.
And that she kept meaning to get in touch with him. That she
would
get in touch with him—with
you,
as it turned out. But she did nothing to make that happen
through her final month of life. When she gave me that letter I showed you last
night, I was reasonably certain of what would be in it. By then, I had a good
idea of what she intended. I understood that she wasn’t planning to be the one
to get in touch with the father of her child. I accepted that. I couldn’t do
otherwise. She was so sick. She was in no condition to reach out to you, to tell
you what you needed to know.”

“But there
was
plenty of time
before she got sick for her to have done the right thing. Why didn’t she?”

“You would have to ask her that question.”

“That would be a little difficult at this point.”

She folded her hands and lowered her head. “Yes, it would.”

He was silent for a moment. He stared at the brick wall
opposite the bench where they sat. Then he asked, “Before that letter, she never
told you my name or anything about me?”

Belle shivered, folded her arms around herself and shook her
head. “No. Didn’t I already say that?”

“I just want to get real clear on all this.”

“She asked me not to read the letter until after she was gone.
I did what she asked. I did it her way. It wasn’t an easy time. My main concern
was for my friend, to help her get through the final days of her life. The only
other thing that mattered then was Ben—to make that horrible time as bearable
for him as I possibly could, to make certain he knew that he was loved and safe
and would always be cared for.”

There was a moment. He stared straight ahead. She feared he
would say something angry and hurtful. But he surprised her. In the end, he
leaned toward her, bumping his shoulder against hers in way that struck her as
reluctantly companionable. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I am. I know this isn’t
your fault, that you’re doing the best you can here. I’m sorry you lost your
friend. I’m furious at Anne, but I still can’t believe that she’s...no longer on
this earth. It’s awful that she died. But the hard truth is that I’ve been a
father for a year and a half and I just found out yesterday that I have a son. I
want someone to blame for that and you’re way too damn convenient.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I can see that.”

He stared at that brick wall some more. “She died less than two
weeks ago, you said?”

“Yes.”

“I gotta hand it to you.” His voice was rough with carefully
contained emotion. “You got here fast.”

“There seemed...no excuse to put it off. Though I must confess,
Preston, I wanted
only
to put it off, to take Ben
home with me to Montedoro and bring him up as my own.”

“But you couldn’t.
You
did the
right thing.”

She turned toward him on the bench. “Please. She’s gone. Don’t
hate her. She did the best she could. And she was Ben’s mother. Don’t...poison
her memory for him.”

He was looking in her eyes now. His mouth was grim, but his
gaze was warmer than before. “I would never do that.”

She did reach out then. She laid her hand on his arm. Beneath
the sleeve of his coat, she felt the strength of him, that steadiness she’d
admired from the first. “Good. I didn’t think you would.”

He looked down at her hand. She withdrew it. He said, “It was
wrong what she did. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that. But that’s not
something the child has to know about. From what you’re describing, she was a
good mother. A loving mother.”

“Oh, yes. She was.”

“I’ll, uh, focus on that.”

“I’m grateful that you will.” She wished she could make him
truly understand the good, generous heart of her lost friend. But she didn’t
really understand herself why Anne hadn’t done the right thing concerning her
child’s father. She put her hands between her knees, rubbed them together—and
gave it one more shot. “Anne was...so independent. She never wanted to be tied
down. She had her work that she loved. I don’t think she ever planned to marry.
And when she got pregnant with Ben... I don’t know. She was happy to be having a
baby. She told me so more than once, when we would speak on the phone. And then
after Ben was born, I could hear the joy in her voice every time she mentioned
her baby. But she still had no desire to have a husband, to make the traditional
sort of family.”