Hero for Christmas Page 11

  "Yes," Robin answered cautiously, taking it from him. "But it will be over soon."

  "I know. In April. Though mine and my troops' part won't be over until June."

  At her look, he smiled. "You are not the first person to come through the portal, my dear. And although I don't know everything – details and such, I know what will be told in history." He set the other bowl down beside him, then turned a speculative gaze on Jake. "I promised Miss Mallory I would see her to safety, Lieutenant. Have you any ideas as to how that might be accomplished?"

  Jake quirked a brow at Watie. "Plenty of them. Sir."

  Watie gestured for him to continue, and Jake shifted his leg, letting his breath out on a sigh as he moved slowly to sit up. He leaned his back against the cave wall. "Obviously, as you pointed out to me earlier, she can't travel with us. Living as we are having to right now – it's rough—"

  Watie nodded, finishing his thought. "It's no way for a lady to live, I agree. Even for another few days, much less another six months."

  His look became thoughtful. "You have a place not too far from here, don't you, Jacob?"

  Jake nodded, keeping his expression bland. "Yes, sir. Close to Tahlequah."

  Watie turned to look at Robin. "I assume you plan to accept Lieutenant Devlin's suit, do you not, Miss Mallory?"

  Robin colored at his brash conclusion, her breath hissing inward in surprise as she tried to formulate her response.

  "You…wouldn't have returned, otherwise, would you, my dear?"

  She shook her head. "No, but I – Jake hasn't even asked—"

  Watie swiveled to look at Jake. "Make it so, Jacob."

  Jake grinned. "I intended to, General. I just haven't had the opportunity."

  "If you are waiting for moonlight and roses, Lieutenant, might I remind you December is upon us?" He waved an impatient hand. "Never mind. How long 'til you think you can ride, with that leg of yours?"

  Jake tested it, bending his knee. It throbbed, but not as painfully as he'd expected it would. "Feels pretty good. I think maybe one more day."

  "Tomorrow?"

  Jake nodded. "Yeah. I think so. But what about Robin?"

  "Excuse me," Robin interjected sweetly. "While you all are discussing what's to become of me, I'd like to have a little input."

  Jake shook his head, ignoring her outraged look.

  "The only way I see to keep her safe," Watie continued, handing Jake the bowl of stew, "is for you to take her back to your place and make it livable again."

  "That could take weeks. Months." What he wouldn't give to ride northeast, back to the small homestead that he'd abandoned two years earlier. To start living the dream he'd held dear for so long.

  "Hmm. Yes. You're right." Watie fell silent, then seemed to come to a decision. "Still, it's the only solution, it seems. And a workable one, at that. Miss Mallory can't travel alone, not in these dangerous times. She will need an escort, and who better than her husband?"

  Jake cast a glance at Robin, gauging her reaction. Her gaze locked with his, telling him silently she'd do whatever needed to be done.

  "It'll take some recovery time for that leg, Jake," Watie was saying. "I wouldn't want to take any chances of it getting infected again. I…think it might be in the best interests of all concerned if you mustered out a few months early, and went back home to heal."

  "General, that isn't—" Jake started to argue, but broke off when he saw the spark of amusement in Watie's eyes.

  "Never argue for something you don't really want, son." The general's voice was low. "You're one of the best men I have, Jake, but your heart has never been in this. You and Miss Mallory need to start your lives together. She's come an awfully long way across time to be with you."

  Jake had known Stand Watie long enough to read what he wasn't saying as well as what he was. There was a cryptic note in the tone of his voice, as well, that had Jake wondering.

  He focused on eating the stew. Robin was strangely quiet, and Jake was surprised that she didn't have something to say about the General's edict. She glanced up at Jake, and he clearly read her thoughts in her expression. It was obvious she'd come to the same conclusion he had. The general knew more than just what was told in the history books of the future.

  "I'm anxious to do that, General. But I don't want you to think I'm running out on you. Are you certain that I won't be needed in the next few months?"

  Watie nodded. "I'm certain. Miss Mallory can tell you, we are fighting a losing battle. And, there are other matters that will – require your attention." He leaned closer to Jake. "Think you could stand up long enough to say your vows? I hate to leave anything to chance, now that you and I are in agreement. That doesn't happen very often. You might say this was meant to be."

  Jake met his gaze directly, setting the bowl down. "Anything you want to share with us, General?"

  At that, Watie shook his head. "No." He looked at Robin and smiled. "I think in your time, the expression is, Have a nice life."

  * * * * *

  Four days later

  Jake's arm tightened around Robin's waist as they cleared the top of the small rise. Robin felt the tension in his muscles. He'd been more worried than he'd ever let her know. She smiled to herself. She'd known, anyway.

  The cabin still stood. The fences and corral, though in need of repair, still held the ground they'd been built for. A light dusting of snow remained on the rooftop, like sugar on a gingerbread house.

  Relief flooded her as the stiff set of Jake's shoulders relaxed. He kneed the horse forward again, down off the hill toward the cabin, stopping as they neared the porch.

  "Thank God," he muttered. "I thought maybe someone else might've tried to move in."

  "You've done a lot of work here," Robin said softly. "It's beautiful."

  He gave a soft chuckle close to her ear, nuzzling her neck. "It's probably not nearly as grand as what you're use to, Robbi."

  The apologetic note in his voice broke her heart. She turned in the saddle to look up into his face. "Jake, it's all I could ever want."

  He laughed outright. "Not yet, it isn't, pretty girl, but once we get to work on it, bring in a few horses—" He nodded as if he could see it already in his mind's eye. "It'll be a good place. You won't be disappointed, Robbi." His eyes met her. "I'll always see you have the best I can give you."

  He seemed to search her features, and it occurred to Robin that he was wondering if she thought she'd made a mistake – staying here – now that she'd seen the cabin. She gave him a reassuring smile. "I'll never regret my decision, Jake. It's not every day a girl gets to choose her future."

  He pulled a wry face. "I'm sure we'll have our times—"

  She put a finger against his lips. "Not that many."

  He kissed her finger. "You're going to miss your truck. And driving."

  "A fair trade, I think, for all I'm getting in return."

  Jake dismounted carefully, then reached up to help Robin down. She moved into his arms as they stood at the bottom step of the front porch.

  "And just what are you getting, ma'am?" he teased, pulling her close to him.

  "You, Jacob Devlin, and our life together – the very best Christmas present ever." She tilted her face up, to receive the late afternoon sunshine and Jake's light kiss. His eyes reflected the joy that filled her soul. "There's no doubt, it was meant to be."

  The End

  Scarlet Ribbons

  Miguel Rivera is known as El Diablo, The Devil. Men avoid meeting his eyes for fear of his gun. Upon returning to a town where he once knew a brief happiness, Miguel is persuaded by a street vendor to make a foolish holiday purchase; two scarlet ribbons.

  When Catalina, his former lover, allows him to take a room at her boarding house, Miguel soon discovers a secret. Realizing he needs the scarlet ribbons after all, he is stunned to find them missing. Can a meeting with a mysterious priest and the miracle of the Scarlet Ribbons set Miguel on a new path?

  Chapter One
r />   He didn't know why he bought them. The man they called El Diablo was not given to any kind of sentimentality. A devil had no soul, no heart.

  But, by his small purchase, Miguel thought, he had shown himself, and the world, that was not entirely true.

  When the street vendor had made eye contact, Miguel knew something odd was about to transpire. Most men glanced away quickly if they chanced to meet his eyes, afraid of what he might do—or what they might see. Many men had seen their deaths reflected in the dark blackness; too many, he thought with disgust.

  But the street vendor—he'd looked at Miguel and had not turned away. He had actually smiled and given a friendly nod. Miguel had been drawn to the vendor, not understanding why. Obviously, the merchant had not known who he was; a hired gunman wanted on both sides of the border; a killer. The vendor had given Miguel an even wider smile as he neared, holding up a handful of trinkets that glittered in the warmth of the sun for a moment like diamonds.

  As Miguel came closer, they lost their sparkle, and the vendor laid them back on the rough wooden display table. Miguel's hand hovered near the butt of his low-slung pistol for a moment as he gave a quick look around the market square of the small village.

  "Hola, Senor," the vendor greeted him. "Como estas?"

  "Bien," Miguel responded automatically, hearing the coolness in his tone. No need for that, he thought. The man was genuinely friendly. And as Miguel returned his gaze to the vendor, he saw a flicker of recognition in the heavy-set man's eyes. But there was no censure or fear. Unusual. How long had it been since he'd looked into another man's face and not seen one emotion or the other? Or both?

  "Christmas is tomorrow. A special gift for your lady, perhaps?"

  Miguel's lips lifted in sardonic amusement. Christmas. He had not had a lady for a very long time. "You know who I am?"

  "Oh, yes." The merchant nodded. "Who doesn't?"

  "Then…you must know that El Diablo doesn't celebrate Christmas, old man." His tone was sharp and he turned away. "And I have no 'lady.' Keep your trinkets." He started back down the street toward the decrepit hotel.

  "As you wish."

  The response was so smugly complacent, Miguel couldn't help turning back to the vendor. The man smiled and nodded at him, as if he'd just wished him a pleasant good afternoon. A hot wind kicked up the dust in the street, and as the vendor squinted into the whirlwind, Miguel felt a niggling of recognition in the back of his mind.

  "You were born here, weren't you, Miguel?" The old man went on without waiting for an answer. "Your mother was a friend of my youngest daughter. They always had their heads together, plotting and planning—as young girls do." He smiled in remembrance. "I was…surprised when Elena married—your father."

  The censure had come at last, Miguel thought. He wanted to laugh. This man cared nothing for the fact that he was a hired killer; only disapproving of the choice his mother had made—to marry an American.

  "It broke your grandfather's heart."

  Miguel gave a short, mirthless chuckle. "I guess so. He disinherited her. I never met him." The admission sent an unexpected shot of disappointment through him. It was something he'd lived with since birth. Why should it begin to hurt now?

  The vendor shrugged, looking down as he carefully rearranged his wares. "Things change."

  "People don't."

  The merchant's head came up swiftly, his eyes hardening. "You've much to learn, Miguel Rivera. Or is it Michael Rivers on both sides of the border now?" He nodded at Miguel's surprise. "You use a name that's not yours. As I say, you have much to learn, if you can find the soul you lost so long ago."

  Miguel shook his head, amusement at the man's words warring with the disbelief at his audacity. He better leave now, he decided, and put an end to this strange conversation. "I've taken enough of your time. If you'll excuse me—"

  "How about these?" The vendor held up two beautiful red ribbons that gleamed in the sunlight.

  For some reason, he felt compelled to taunt the merchant. "Those will be perfect for my horse's tail."

  The round-faced vendor laughed companionably, as if nothing were amiss. "I'm sure you'll find a better use than that for them. They are lovely, aren't they, these scarlet ribbons?"

  Miguel put a finger out to touch the satiny smoothness. "Lovely" wasn't adequate to describe them. They were woven of the finest silk, a deep, rich crimson that bespoke a high quality dye. Ribbons he had absolutely no use for.

  "How much?" he heard himself asking.

  "Twenty pesos." The vendor raised a gnarled finger. "Not one peso less. These are of the very best quality."

  "No doubt," Miguel muttered caustically. "They're worth the cost, but they are useless to me."

  "Trying to haggle, eh?"

  "No, I just—"

  The vendor shook his finger, his bronze brow wrinkling like old leather. "I won't bargain."

  "I'm not asking you to. I don't have any need for—"

  "Fine then. Be gone." He turned back to his display, dismissing Miguel.

  Good manners would dictate a purchase, Miguel knew. He'd taken up much of the man's time. "Here." Sighing, he reached into his pocket and drew out the pesos, counting them into the merchant's hand. The vendor rolled up the ribbons, wrapped them in brown paper, and tied them with a flourish.

  "You won't be sorry," the old man said, handing the package to Miguel.

  I already am.

  Chapter Two

  He'd put the small brown package in his saddlebag, given a last nod to the vendor, and headed back down the dusty street.

  Nothing had changed much since he'd left, that time before. Hard to believe he'd been gone so long. Memories of his last leaving assailed him, and he pushed them back. There had been a girl. The look in her dark eyes had haunted him more than he cared to admit over the last five years.

  He stopped at the livery stable to leave his horse in the care of the stable owner, Juan Perez. At least, here, he wouldn't be greeted with a look of reticence or fear. He and Juan had been friends for many years.

  Miguel was taking off the saddle and saddlebags when Juan came into the livery. "Miguel?" As he stepped into the darkness, Miguel turned to face him. He set the saddle down on the rail of the stall and grinned at Juan.

  Juan came toward him. "Feliz Navidad, amigo!" He embraced Miguel, clapping him on the shoulder. "Merry Christmas! So you came back for the holiday festivities?"

  Irritation gripped him for a moment. Damn Christmas! Was everyone determined to drop it at his doorstep like an unwanted visitor? "No," he answered honestly. "Not for Christmas. I'm just passing through."

  "Well, I know someone who'll be glad to see you." Juan reached for a brush and turned to curry Miguel's horse.

  Juan's matter-of-fact statement surprised Miguel. Who would possibly be glad to see him? Juan was his only friend in this godforsaken town. He made his tone light. "Who would that be?"

  Juan stopped his movement, looking across the horse's back. "Dios! You have been gone too long! Far too long."

  Catalina. The look in her eyes when he'd left five years ago rose up in his mind again.

  Juan began to brush the horse once more, this time tight-lipped and silent.

  Miguel wished he could saddle up and ride out of town now. Catalina. Eyes like dark pools, brown-black hair… And declarations of love between them. That's what he remembered about her. Reluctantly, he faced the memories. No one else had ever given of themselves to him as she had—fully, and unafraid. And no one else had ever told him they loved him.

  Now what? The silence felt or seemed awkward between him and Juan, and somewhere at the back of his mind, he remembered that Lina was a distant cousin of Juan's.

  "Are you running?"

  Juan's voice called him back to the present. He gave a slow grin. "I'm always running …from something."

  "Yes," his friend murmured, shooting him a dark look. "And that's just what I told Lina when you left last time." He shook his head, paying i
nordinate attention to the black's glossy coat. "I told her not to wait. You would never—" He broke off and glanced into Miguel's eyes quickly.

  "Never?"

  "Nada. It isn't important."

  There was a silence for a moment, then Miguel said, "I didn't know she expected me to stay."

  "She didn't," Juan said darkly. "But she did expect you to come back before—now."

  Juan was not telling him everything. Suddenly, he had to know. "Is she married? Got kids? If so, Juan, I swear I'll just mount up and keep riding."

  Juan shook his head. "No, mi amigo. I think it is time you stopped running. They call you El Diablo, the devil, but I don't believe that. I think… I think he chases you." As if coming to a decision, he laid the brush down and hefted Miguel's saddle bags across his own stocky shoulders. "It is time for you to end it. Turn and fight him. You can't stay a step ahead forever."

  Chapter Three

  As they walked down the rutted main street together, Juan didn't speak. They were going in the opposite direction from the hotel.

  "Where—"

  "You'll see. The hotel is not a good place. There is a boarding house. Clean, reasonable—and the food is good." Juan pointed to a two-story house at the far end of the street.

  A feeling of trepidation prickled Miguel's spine, just as surely as if a gun had been pointed at his back. His thoughts turned to Catalina as he walked. He'd thought of her plenty of times before today. Plenty of times. He'd even thought of coming back here…back to the woman who professed to love him. But the fear had held him back. He almost laughed aloud at that thought. He had never been afraid of any man, no matter how tough, how strong, or how fast he proved to be. He'd had a lot of close calls due to his fearlessness—arrogance, some called it. But here he was, despite it all, walking, talking…living.

  He didn't allow himself to dwell on the thoughts of the time he'd spent here in Rio Verde five years earlier. The happiest time he'd ever known.