Maggie Daniels - Moonlight and Mistletoe

And Scarlett?

Ah, Scarlett , Buck thought, still fingering the forgotten paper Santa Claus in his hand. What would he like to buy for her?

She wasn’t like Susan, he thought, bemused. She was a different person in her own right, soft and sparkling behind that tough Scraggs façade and, when you came down to it, an enchanting mystery. Both she and her sister were fascinated with the old Grissom house and what it represented, the kind of home they’d never had. The littlest one couldn’t keep her hands off the Christmas tree. And Scarlett was a natural-born chef.

Something for cooking, Buck thought, maybe one of those hand mixers. A set of chef’s knives. A frilly apron.

Black silk underwear, he thought suddenly. The idea of Scarlett in a frilly apron with nothing but black bikini panties and a black lace bra on under it made Buck’s fingers contract convulsively.

Looking down, he saw what he had done. He mashed the paper Santa Claus back into shape and nicked away the loosened parts of its beard.

You had to have a taste for trouble, he told himself as he turned out the Christmas tree lights, shoved the dog out of the way, and went out into the downstairs hall, to even think about Scarlett O’Hara Scraggs. Any professional lawman who gave a passing thought to the granddaughter of one of the state’s biggest criminals was out of his damned mind.

At the top of the stairs, he paused at their bedroom door and listened. Asleep, both of them.

Buck felt oddly disappointed. He’d almost wanted to find Scarlett awake, so he could talk to her. Maybe she had some ideas about this infernal mess with the council’s skydiving Santa Claus and fireworks. She seemed to have a pretty sharp mind.

He stood there, shifting from one foot to the other, not wanting to do anything as boring as go to bed, even though he was dog-tired.

At that moment the door opened.

The hall was dark and there was no light in his sister’s bedroom, but he knew at once it was Scarlett.

“What?” she said in a husky, sleepy voice.

Buck could just make out that cloud of dark hair, the pale oval of her face, the shadowy pools of her eyes. She was wearing the Atlanta Braves nightshirt that clung to her beautiful breasts and came only to the middle of her long legs. Buck tried not to look at it.

“I see you’re up after all,” he said, promptly cursing himself for the year’s stupidest observation.

“I heard you come up the stairs,” she murmured.

Buck knew he should say good night and turn to go to his room, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood drinking in the sight of Scarlett Scraggs, her lissom form in the nightshirt, her lovely face, her curving mouth that was sweetly, seductively, parted.

As if to ask, Buck thought suddenly, the question he’d never answered that night in his room. Aren’t you going to kiss me again ?

“Scarlett,” Buck said hoarsely. Those luminous eyes regarded him cautiously. “Are you – ah, comfortable in – in there?”

She considered that. “Well, it’s nice. Farrie especially likes the bed.”

Bed , Buck thought. It would have to be that word. He resolutely put thoughts of aprons and black lingerie out of his mind. Instead, he studied her hand resting against the doorjamb: the long, graceful fingers, the delicate wrist, amazed all over again that something so beautiful, so exquisitely fashioned, could be produced by that cesspool of criminal genes, the Scraggses. She hasn’t had a chance, Buck told himself.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t need a window open, or anything?”

“No.” That sad, slightly quizzical look was still there.

She’s wondering what I’m doing, standing here, Buck thought desperately. What I want from her.

He felt a slight sheen of sweat break out on the back of his neck, under his collar. They were so close now they were almost touching. With a little effort he could put his good arm around her, hold her warm, slender body in the Atlanta Braves nightshirt up against him, as he had before.

He couldn’t leave, yet he sensed something was different. If she was unhappy about something he wanted to comfort her. With a groan, Buck reached out with his left arm and scooped Scarlett Scraggs to him. He heard her gasp before he covered her mouth with his own.

Kissing Scarlett Scraggs was dangerous; it got better each time. She flowed into his arms, soft and tantalizing, sweetly giving – Buck drowned in that kiss. He could barely tear himself away.

When he looked down into Scarlett’s face, he saw her eyes were still closed. “Oh,” she was murmuring softly. “ Oh! ”

The astonishing part of this whole thing was not that kissing Scarlett O’Hara Scraggs was a sweet seventh wonder of the world, a dazzling trip through outer space and back again, but that they didn’t need to talk, say anything at all. The kiss said it all for them, a tender, fragile bubble of feeling that was wonderful.

Buck, still locked in the magic, didn’t want to let her go. It was Scarlett who pulled away. “I gotta go,” she said.

He supposed she was right. But he couldn’t help thinking she didn’t seem very enthusiastic about what had just happened. Not the way she’d been before.

Buck thought he’d detected an odd sadness. There was certainly no mistaking the faint, teary wobble in her voice.

“Scarlett, wait,” Buck said.

But the door closed softly. He stared at it, still not able to figure out what this was all about. She’d acted like he’d broken her heart instead of kissing her.

He was damned if it made any sense, he thought grumpily as he opened the door to his bedroom and the Scraggs dog rushed past him to leap on his bed. But that’s what you got being involved with the Scraggs tribe. What was it Susan had said? They were hardly rewarding .

But for a moment, Buck knew, he’d held a soft armful of heaven in his arms. It was a long time before he got to sleep.

“This is the last rehearsal,” Mr. Ravenwood shouted. When the talking and giggling in the upper levels of the Living Christmas Tree platform didn’t die down, he took a deep breath and yelled into the bullhorn, “If I could have your attention – ATTENTION – please?”

“It’s COLD, “someone yelled back.

It was. The cold front that had come through in the night had written fern frost on the window glass of parked automobiles, frozen the ground, and rendered human beings blue with cold after more than fifteen minutes. The upper levels of the wooden tree were chilled to the bone, having been there since seven A.M. From time to time some of the singers breathed into their hands and looked up at the sky, hoping for a little heat, but the sun hung obstinately behind a bank of gray clouds, and the weather report said it was going to be even colder for the performance that night.

“I wouldn’t mind the cold so much,” Judy Heamstead whispered to Scarlett, “if I could just move around. My feet are turning numb!”

Scarlett merely nodded. She was busy watching Farrie being hoisted to a spot above them at the top of the tree. Mr. Heamstead and the Presbyterians had worked late the night before, hammering the foothold in place. Her little sister was like an excited little bird perched up there in her blue ski jacket and pompom cap. All of Farrie’s dreams were coming true, but Scarlett was having a hard time fighting down her own misery.

“What’s the matter?” Judy Heamstead asked, leaning to her. “Are you sorry you ran away? Do you miss home?”

Miss Devil Anse and Catfish Holler? Scarlett could only shake her head.

Judy and Scarlett were in full costume for the dress rehearsal, wearing long white gowns over their coats, tinsel halos, and carrying flashlights with big aluminum-foil collars cut to look like stars. The Angels’ long skirts made it hard to climb the catwalks, but they were a lot more comfortable than the Bells, who wore red turtleneck sweaters and had stiff cardboard cutouts shaped like red Christmas bells around their faces. Instead of flashlights they carried dinner bells from the Nancyville hardware store, donated by the Downtown Merchants Association.