Christine Rimmer - The Rancher's Christmas Princess

His horses were healthy and beautiful. She admired his way with them, could see that he treated them well, noted the way they chuffed and nuzzled him, responding eagerly to the sound of his voice. She saw how they sought the touch of his hand.

“You’re like my sister Alice,” she said as they were leaving. They stood under the bright lights suspended from the ceiling beams, the smell of hay and horses all around them. “Her horses love her.”

“I read about your sister.”

“On the internet, you mean?”

He nodded. His eyebrows were burnished gold in the light from above. “I read that she raises Akhal-Tekes.”

“Yes, she does.”

“The most ancient breed on earth, a breed prized by Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan.”

She was impressed. “You know the legend of the Tekes?”

“I know horses. The Nez Perce Indians are currently breeding them with Appaloosas, did you know that?” She did know, but she kept quiet, hoping he might continue. And he did. “It’s an effort to replicate the legendary Nez Perce horse, which is believed to have originated from Akhal-Teke stock brought to the New World by Russian traders.” He touched her hair, the lightest breath of a touch. “A Teke is a loyal horse,” he said. “A sensitive, one-owner horse.”

Belle watched his shadowed face so closely as he spoke. Why, oh why did she find it so difficult to tell him? Beneath the tough exterior he needed to make a life in such a rugged land, he truly was a fine man, a sensitive man. He would be a good father.

Her throat was tight again, her eyes brimming. Because she knew what held her back.

As soon as she told him, she would be out of time. Out of hope. Any faint dream she might have nourished in her secret heart that Ben could somehow stay with her...that dream was dying.

She didn’t need to wait for any private investigator’s detailed report. Just being around him had told her all that she needed to know. He was a good man and he had a father’s rights. And once he knew, once he got over the shock and the disbelief that Anne had never said a word to him, never made any attempt to contact him after that one night they spent together, once he knew the truth at last, he would set about claiming what was his.

She was going to lose Ben as she had lost Anne. There was absolutely no doubt about it now. She had known from the moment Preston walked into the diner that morning. It was just taking her poor, battered heart a little while to catch up with her mind.

“Belle?” He looked stricken. “What did I say? I swear, I don’t get it. Whatever it is, whatever you want from me, you only need to say it.” He reached for her. She knew he would touch her tear-wet cheek.

“Don’t.” She shoved his hand away, swiped the traitorous tears from her face. “Please. I...let’s go. Back to the house. We’ll talk. I’ll...explain.”

He was silent. His expression changed, grew harder. Closed to her. He didn’t understand.

But how could he? She’d told him nothing. Yet.

Unspeaking, they turned for the stable door. He pushed it open for her. She went through, her head lowered, steps dragging. He followed, pausing, turning to secure the latch.

She was aware, for a moment, of the ever-present Marcus, silent and watchful in the shadows not far away. But only for a moment.

Because magic happened.

Magic happened and the crushing weight of her unhappiness, of her terrible obligation, of her loss—all of that was lifted. She raised her head and saw the miracle that waited overhead.

The sky was alive with melting, pulsing, vivid color. A concert of color.

“Preston...” She didn’t even stop to think about the confusing mishmash of signals she was giving him. Automatically, she reached for his hand.

“The northern lights.” He said it softly, with reverence, his gaze turned upward to the sky. And his warm, strong fingers closed around hers. The distance she’d put between them moments ago vanished. It was gone as though it had never been.

There was only pure beauty lighting the heavens. And the two of them, together, hand in hand, watching the wonder unfold.

Red, yellow, green, blue, a purple as deep as the heart of the night, a pink like the blush on the cheek of an angel, the colors moved and slid and dipped and danced across the giant canvas of the sky. Alive, rhythmic, majestic, otherworldly—perfect notes in a silent symphony.

Preston pulled her closer as they watched, until she stood tucked up against him, his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t think to resist. Why should she resist? How often in a lifetime did magic like this occur? She’d been born in a palace, seen the wonders of the world. But a concert of pure color pulsing above her, filling the endless star-scattered darkness of the sky?

Never, until that night. Never in her life before.

How long did it last? Minutes only. Minutes that seemed to her sweetly, enchantingly, perfectly endless.

But then the brightness began to fade. She sighed when she saw the end coming after all. The bands of color were losing brightness and form. Much too soon, it would be over.

And he was gazing down at her. She saw the magic reflected in his eyes. He touched her chin, brushed that rough, warm hand across her cheek.

She didn’t stop him. She couldn’t, not right then. And even if she could have, she wouldn’t have. She wanted what happened next.

He lowered his golden head. His fine lips touched hers. She sighed again and turned her body into him. It was wrong of her, and she knew it. But for that moment and that moment only, wisdom was silenced for the sake of a kiss.

For that moment, it was the most natural, the most right thing—to press her lips to his under the last pale and fading echoes of the aurora borealis.

And it was a beautiful kiss, as magical as the sight they had just witnessed together. She forgot everything—the bodyguard waiting close by, her duty to her lost friend, even the precious child she would soon have to surrender to him.

Finally, he lifted his head. He stared down at her, bemused. “Belle...” The way he said her name required no answer. He raised her hand to his mouth. She shivered at the touch of his lips. It wasn’t with cold. “Come on. Inside...” He still had his arm wrapped around her. She let him hold her, let him guide her. Together they turned for the warmth of the house.

In the foyer, he took her coat. She gave it reluctantly. She knew what came next and it was not going to graceful or pleasant.

She turned to Marcus, who had followed them in. “Will you wait in the car, please?”

Marcus frowned, but he did as she bade him. He went out the front door, closing it quietly behind him.

Preston said nothing. He’d grown watchful again.

“Could we perhaps...sit down?” she asked, the words carefully measured.

He gestured her ahead of him. They went into the living room. As before, she sat on the sofa, in the same spot she’d taken earlier.

He offered, “Coffee, maybe?”

Perhaps a little false courage. “I don’t suppose you have any brandy?”

He went to the cabinet in the corner, got out a crystal decanter and a proper brandy snifter. He poured her the drink and brought it to her.

She thanked him and took a larger sip than she should have. Brandy, after all, was meant to be savored. It burned going down. And when it spread its warmth in her belly, she felt no braver than she had before. She set the glass on the low table in front of her.

He settled into the easy chair. “All right, hit me with it. Why are you here in Elk Creek, Montana, at Christmastime, Belle?”

Where to start? “Do you...happen to remember a certain archaeology student named Anne Benton? She came to Elk Creek three summers ago.”