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Chapter Seven
John steered his horse, with a pack mule strung behind, into Isabel's yard. As the tall weeds cleared his view, he saw the cabin and Isabel. She stood on the porch with a small cup of white paint, brushing snowflake patterns on her windowpanes. Her back was to him, and his gaze roamed the length of her as she worked.
Rich black hair coiled in a bun at her nape. He relived the sensation of sifting through the silky strands with his fingers… touching her satiny skin… kissing her… holding her… making love to her.
They'd returned to town that afternoon with holly berries in the baskets on his horse—but not nearly as many as they could have collected if they hadn't spent the night in each other's arms. The hours on Ventura beach were the best in his memory. He'd wanted to tell her so, but he'd held back. Admitting the truth had never been easy for him.
She'd given herself to him freely and he could only hope she had no regrets. He didn't. Nor did he expect her to fall into a sexual relationship with him. That wouldn't be fair for either of them, and he surely didn't want Isabel to think that's all he cared about.
Although she'd once had house and hearth, she hadn't had it with a man who was right for her. John could be the one who showed her what marriage ought to be—if she let him.
But a single question continued to hammer in his mind, making him keep silent. Would she have him if he told her he loved her? Fearing she wouldn't caused him to be cautious.
When she heard his horse, Isabel turned and smiled. "Hello."
He gave her a smile back, stopped, and dismounted.
What he had tied on the pack mule was obvious, so he just came right out and said what had to be said about the fir tree that had taken him two hours to get and bring back. He felt a little self-conscious about it now, hoping the gift wasn't too presumptuous. "Isabel—" he shucked his Stetson and tucked it beneath his arm "—I noticed you didn't have a Christmas tree in your window. So I got you one."
"Oh…" She set the paintbrush aside and stepped down from the porch to look at her present. Walking to the mule, she lifted her hand and ran her fingers down the fir's blue-green needles. Her eyes shone with genuine gratitude when she turned toward him. "This is such a surprise. Thank you."
To his chagrin, his neck heated. Damn.
"You'll stay and help me decorate it?"
"Sure."
It didn't take John long to set the tree up in her front room—actually it was the great room. The cabin only had two: a large living area with a kitchen, and a bedroom off to the right. He could see the end of the plain poster bed with its quilt of colorful squares. He let himself wonder what it would be like to wake up in that bed with Isabel snuggled beside him.
The front door had been left open and sunshine spilled through the doorway as he worked to secure the tree in a bucket of rocks. No problem getting the rocks. Her yard was full of them. He'd noticed she used them to decorate the pathway to her door and the edges of her flower beds.
Pouring water into the bucket and giving the tree a slight shake to make sure it wouldn't topple, he stood back. "It's all set. You can put the doodads on."
Isabel lifted a gar
land of angels and snowflakes cut from white paper out of a crate. She handled them with care, gingerly giving him one end to hold. "You stay there and I'll walk around the tree."
He felt a little foolish. He couldn't recall ever having trussed up a Christmas tree before and having it mean something special.
"Put your end right there," she guided.
Tucking the last angel into the highest limb, the garland was in place. He stood back and examined the cut paper. "Who made that? "
"I did," she declared proudly. "When I was fourteen. My mother suggested the project, and both Kate and I sat at the table and began cutting out strips of paper." She made a few adjustments in the garland. "What about you? Did you and your brother ever do any Christmas things?"
John's brows rose in thought. "Nope. Tom and me, we're different. We don't stay in touch too good."
"I know. I should write my sister more. Maybe we ought to make a New Year's resolution."
"Maybe." Only he was into Tom for a hell of a lot of money—that's why he rarely wrote. He didn't want to have to own up to never being able to pay him back.
Feeling guilty and wanting to say something nice about his younger brother, John added, "Tom's got a sporting goods store in Harmony, Montana. Does a pretty good trade. Sells hunting stuff. Sporting gear—your big animal gewgaws. No golf clubs, though. Tom never did like the game."
"How is it that you know golf?"
"Well," he put his weight from one foot to the other, "I knew this cattle guy." John didn't mention that he'd rustled calves off him. That was during the prime of his troublemaker ways when he still lived in Texas. "He was a rich baron type, a tycoon. Played it out in the pasture. Showed me how." After he'd caught John red-handed and hadn't turned him in to the sheriff, he made him work off the price of the calves as a hand for a whole damn year. But it had given John a sense of morality he hadn't learned at home.
Isabel produced paffs of cotton wool, and John changed the subject.
