Suzannah Davis - A Christmas Cowboy

“Let me go!”

Shutting the garage door behind them, Mac obliged, thrusting her down onto a pile of stacked boxes. “Sit. And shut up. We’re going to get a few things straight.”

“I’m sick of you!” Marisa whipped off her cap, shook her hair free and wiped her damp face. “Sick of the sight of you, do you hear?”

“Yeah. You’re my favorite person, too.”

Mac looked around. The garage was frigid, but being out of the wind was a relief. Several generations of tarps and tools and outdated farm and sporting equipment of every description hung from the rafters and walls. A gray sedan sat in one of the parking spaces, the vehicle Marisa had used on her escape from Los Angeles. Which brought him back to the reason he was here.

“Are you ready to tell me what really went down with you and your husband and Dr. Morris?”

Marisa spluttered in fury. “Nothing, I told you! I never heard of him until that day in Jackie Horton’s studio! Nicky’s adoption was handled by the Latimore Corporation attorneys, and it was all perfectly legal, Mr. Hotshot Reporter!”

Mac’s voice was quiet. “Then why did you run?”

“I did not—” She caught a shaky breath.

“This place wasn’t as far as you planned to go with the kid, was it? What were you thinking? Canada, maybe? Some Greek Island? Talk about parental kidnapping with a twist, jet-set-style.”

Hot color burned her cheeks, but she looked him in the eye and denied it. “Assumptions, Mahoney. You’ve got no facts, and no self-respecting journalist is going to run a story based merely on air. You used to be capable of better than this.”

“You’d do anything to protect the kid, wouldn’t you?”

“He’s my son. What do you think?”

“I think there’s a birth mother out there who’s owed some explanations.”

“Look, I feel for the women this Dr. Morris exploited, but that’s only one side of this story. There are families involved, families and lives that you’re disrupting, even destroying—hasn’t that occurred to you?”

“We find the truth, we get justice. It’s as simple as that.”

“God, it’s not!” She stood up, staring at him in sheer disbelief. “Why must it always be either black or white with you, Mac? The world has shades of gray, too.”

“All I want to do is shut down the baby mill.”

“At what cost?” she cried. “Do the ends always justify the means to you?”

“If it keeps the bastard from using other innocent women like he did the kid’s mother.”

“ I’m his mother! And I’m just as innocent and undeserving of this mess that you’ve made of our lives! Can’t you for one minute see past your damned story to realize that?”

“The facts say otherwise. And you’re going to have to face up to them eventually, one way or the other.”

“I’ve told you, your facts are all wrong!” Marisa shoved him hard in the chest with both hands. “And the kid’s name is Nicholas!”

He nodded, barely rocked by her puny blow. “As in the saint, right? Which reminds me. You’ve got a problem. He thinks Santa Claus is bringing him a horse for Christmas.”

“A horse. For Christmas? That’s just—” she gulped “—four days?”

Mac nodded again.

Her expression was stricken with a horrible realization. “Oh, God. We won’t be able to drive out by then.”

He shook his head.

“Everything’s at home. All Nicky’s presents. I had everything on his list. I can’t even get to a store! I never thought...I never dreamed...” Feeling behind her, she sat down heavily on the boxes again. Her eyes filled. “Oh, no.”

Mac felt something hit him in the gut. “Hey, don’t do that.”

She wasn’t listening. A tear splashed over her lashes and trailed down her cheek. “He’s just a baby. He’ll be so disappointed. How will I explain?”

Mac was gruff. “You’ll think of something.”

“It’s all your fault.” Her eyes were indigo, swimming in liquid crystal. “If you hadn’t started this, he’d be safe at home where he belongs, sleeping in his own bed, waiting for Christmas morning. I’ll never forgive you for this, Mahoney.”

“Marisa...” He was beside her, cradling her tear-streaked face in his gloved palms, bending forward so that his forehead almost touched hers. His throat felt thick. “Lord, help me, you’re still such a baby yourself.”

“Because I believe in dreams, Mac?” She held on to his wrists, looking up at him in misery. “You never really understood, did you? You were always too much the cynic to realize that dreams are the most important things in life. Especially a little boy’s Christmas dreams.”

From deep in his memory came a vivid picture of a small dark-haired lad—Mac, himself—with his nose pressed to a store window, longing with every fiber of his six-year-old being for the magnificent red dragline with the Tonka name on its side. It was better than a dinosaur, better than a fire truck, and most certainly better than the pair of sturdy school shoes that had been the only present to appear that long-ago Christmas morning.

Mac swallowed. “That’s not true.”

Her lids dropped and more tears slid down her face. “What am I going to do?”

“Marisa, don’t.” Seeking to comfort, he nuzzled her temple, then the corner of her eye, tasted the salty essence, murmured soothing nonsense. Like a flower turning to face the sun, she raised her face to his. Mac’s gloved thumb caught at the corner of her mouth. Slowly her eyes opened and she searched his expression, wondering and wary. She did not pull away from his touch. “You’re trembling,” Mac said.

“It—it’s cold.”

“I know.” He looked at her mouth and groaned. “It’s been winter forever.” He couldn’t help himself. He had to see if her mouth was still the flavor of honey and spice. Lowering his lips to hers, he kissed her.

She tasted even better than he’d remembered—a lush, soft sweetness, intoxicating, addicting. Mac sensed the little sighing breath she gave and opened his mouth to inhale it, to breathe her. Her hands tightened on his wrists. Forgetting himself, the past, the cold, he drew his tongue along the seam of her lips and was rewarded when they parted. Deepening the kiss, he drank deep of her, making love to her with just his mouth until neither of them could bear any more and they drew apart.

Mac dropped his hands and stepped back. Dazed, Marisa touched her lips, and he watched as the light in her eyes faded and changed into a look of dismay. “That shouldn’t have happened,” she said, her voice unsteady.

“No.” Mac felt as stunned and rocky as she looked.

For a moment, neither of them could say anything else. Then Marisa stood and moved toward the door, brushing non-existent dust from her slacks. “I’ve got to get back to Nicky.”

“Marisa, wait.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, about this Christmas thing...I’ve been thinking.”

She hesitated. “Yes?”

“We’re two reasonably intelligent, imaginative people. Surely somewhere around this place we can come up with a treasure or two that would please your little cowpoke come Christmas morning—until you can get to the store-bought stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Well...” Scanning the dim interior, Mac spotted a likely item and hauled it down. “How about this sled? I could fix the runner, splash a little paint on it—there’s bound to be some paint around. And what would be more perfect for his first white Christmas?”

“You—you’d do that?”

“Sure.” He set the rickety sled aside. “And you were always pretty good with a needle. Maybe you could whip something up that would appeal to him.”