Suzannah Davis - A Christmas Cowboy

“Hey, I was wet. You want me to sleep in damp clothes and catch my death?”

“It’s a thought.” Without looking at him, she kicked off her shoes and crawled onto the sofa beside her son, arranging the blankets over them both.

Mac wrapped himself in a fluffy comforter and sat in the chair to pull on the dry socks. He made his tone conversational. “You know, the most sensible thing would be for us to cuddle together to conserve body heat.”

“In your dreams, Mahoney.” Her voice was muffled by the piles of blankets, but the agitation in her tone was plain. “Shut up so we can sleep.”

Reaching for the sandwich, Mac propped his long legs in the seat of the matching chair. Yeah, in my dreams, he thought. If she only knew.

Halfway through the sandwich, he paused long enough to examine it more closely. Ham, cheese, mustard, no mayo. He hated mayonnaise. She’d remembered....

The next mouthful went down hard. She remembered. As much as he did? With as much pain? They’d had so much. At least he’d thought they had. Did she regret at all that she’d left him without a word?

Mac set aside the unfinished sandwich, huddling down in the chair and pulling the comforter up around his ears. Dancing orange shadows illuminated the room and the rounded forms of the woman and child on the big sofa. Although the cadence of her breathing was even, he knew she wasn’t asleep.

“Marisa?” His voice was low, barely audible above the howling of the unrelenting storm outside.

“Hmm?”

“Where did it go wrong?”

There was a long silence, so long that Mac decided she wasn’t going to answer him.

Finally, she replied. “Does it matter?”

Mac had no answer that he could voice, but it did matter. God help him. It did.

Marisa awoke smiling, her dreams melting into gossamer images of beaches and a green-eyed man and the sensation of sunshine warming her skin. She stretched, indulging in the perfect euphoric moment. In the next instant, sleep slipped completely away, and she sat up with a gasp.

Nicky! The space on the sofa beside her was empty. Blood surging, Marisa threw back the blankets and rolled to her feet in a panic.

Above the crackle of the steadily burning fire, high-pitched childish chatter drifted from the direction of the kitchen. She stumbled toward the rear of the lodge, stopping short at the cased opening into the cozy dining area and country kitchen.

“My mommy can do that better.”

“Yeah, kid? Well, your mommy’s still snoozing like Goldilocks, so I guess it’s up to me. See if this suits you.”

Marisa quit breathing. Mac Mahoney stood with his back to her—his bare, beautifully muscled back—pushing a glass of orange juice across the counter to Nicky. Her mouth went dry. Mac’s shoulders were as broad as ever, the well-defined muscles covered by bronzed skin. Her fingers tingled with the urge to explore the velvety texture.

The dim natural light filtering into the kitchen revealed spoons, pitchers and puddles of sticky orange concentrate littering the dividing bar. Outside, the wind continued to howl and the sky, still a sullen lead color, filled the air with flurries of gray snow, but the lodge was noticeably warmer, thanks to Mac. Yet the image of him stoking the fire during the night while she slept unsettled her. So did the realization that a pair of snug jeans on the right man could be utterly devastating to the female libido.

“Don’t like ‘The Three Bears.’” Nicky perched on a tall stool, slurping juice from a tumbler. “Too sissy.”

Mac poured bottled water into a battered percolator and rummaged in the cabinets for coffee. “You never heard the real story then.”

“What story?”

“Not the one they tell babies.” Mac frowned over the measuring scoop and read the side of the red coffee can again. “The one about how the bear family gobbled up Goldilocks for breakfast instead of porridge. Fricasseed blonde.”

“Really? Cool.”

“The twit got what she deserved for breaking and entering, so let that be a lesson to you, kid. There aren’t any free lunches in this world.”

“Mommy makes my lunches. And she puts four scoops of that stuff in the coffeepot. Are you sure you’re not a cowboy?”

Marisa couldn’t resist a smile at that. Mac surreptitiously unscooped a couple of spoonfuls of coffee grounds out of the strainer basket with his fingers, then turned on the gas burner of the bottled-propane stove. Marisa couldn’t help noticing how his thick, mahogany-colored hair grew long at his nape. He’d always been too impatient for regular haircuts.

“Sorry,” he said to the boy. “I wouldn’t know the north end of a horse from the south.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Nicky sighed, then his blue eyes brightened. “Are you the new daddy I asked Santa to bring?”

“Nicky!” Marisa nearly swallowed her tongue in chagrin. Face flaming, she stepped into the kitchen to quiet her all-too-outspoken offspring. Mac turned toward her, and she drew up sharply with a horrified gasp. “Oh, my God.”

A painful-looking blue-and-purple streak ran from the top of Mac’s muscled shoulder to his collarbone—her doing. That blow with the poker had done more damage than she’d realized. Remorse flooded her.

“Mac, I’m so sorry!” Without thinking, she lifted her hand, hovered hesitantly over the livid bruise for a moment, then gently stroked the area of abused flesh as if to draw out the pain.

The instant she touched him, Mac shuddered. Swift as a striking snake, he captured her wrist, holding her in midstroke, her fingers barely brushing his skin. His lips compressed, and something emerald and potent and wild flared behind his eyes in a look so heated Marisa felt dazed and dizzy.

“Don’t do that again—unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His voice was rough, his lean jaw shadowed by dark stubble. He looked like a pirate, ruthlessly masculine and intent on plunder.

Marisa blinked, unnerved and confused. Her breathing came short and choppy, and her skin felt unnaturally sensitized. Mac’s fingers were like a fiery bracelet burning into her wrist, tracking the pulse that thundered there. Was he merely warning her against trying to wallop him again, or was that dangerous golden glint in his green eyes the product of something else? Something as elemental as the arc of electricity that had passed through them both at her innocent touch. Thoroughly rattled, Marisa twisted her hand free and stepped back in haste.

“No. Of course. That is—” Realizing she was babbling, she shoved her disheveled hair from her face and drew a deep breath. “No, I won’t. You should put ice on it. Or maybe a hot pack? There’s bound to be some liniment...”

Their contact broken, Mac was once again his usual mocking self. Half-smiling, he gave an easy shrug, as if that disturbing moment had been only in Marisa’s imagination. “Relax, princess. I’ve had worse.”

“Oh. Yeah, right.”

A shiver ran down Marisa’s spine at his casual acceptance of the dangers inherent in his work. Over the years, it had been hard for her to miss Mac’s news reports from hot spots all over the globe. Not that she’d been looking for him on purpose, of course. It was just that any time there was a political crisis, a natural disaster or another injustice to be revealed to the world, the viewing public could count on Mac Mahoney reporting from the thick of things. In his dedication and passionate pursuit of truth, Mac had never let a little thing like personal safety stand in the way of a good story.

“Just don’t let it happen again.” Mac’s voice was gruff as he turned back to the stove. “Coffee will be ready in a minute.”