Winter's Night
Author: Sherrilyn Kenyon
Date: 2015-10-13 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance; Paranormal; Paranormal Romance; Christmas; Fiction; Fantasy; Short Stories; Anthologies; Historical Romance; Novella
Description: Now in an exclusive ebook edition comes Winter’s Night, two previously published fantastic Christmas stories, now in a 2-in-1, with A Dark-Hunter Christmas and Santa Wears Spurs, from #1 New York Times bestselling author Sherrilyn Kenyon. From demons to cowboys, from werewolves to mistletoe, this 2-in-1 will keep you warm during cold December nights. Set in Kenyon's imaginative world, A Dark-Hunter Christmas shows Gallagher, in New Orleans, at Christmastime, without his family. Missing the ones he loves is a powerful force, and threatens to cast a pall over the Big Easy's Christmas cheer. But
Publisher: St. Martin's Paperbacks

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A Dark-Hunter Christmas

Prologue

Born to impoverished Irish immigrant parents at the turn of the century, James Cameron Patrick Gallagher entered this world with a large chip on his shoulder.

It didn’t help any that he was birthed in the backroom of a sweatshop that should have been condemned, to a timid, fretful woman who’d been forced to return to work just hours after she had delivered him into the hands of his nervous, alcoholic father. A father who was indifferent to the boy at best and violent at worst.

From the moment of that first wail forward, Jamie spent his life fighting for respect. Fighting his way out of the poverty that haunted him as he grew up in the Irish slums of New York.

At age fifteen, he found his way out.

The year was 1916 and two important events happened to him. His father died after he slipped and fell into the river on his way home from a three-day drinking binge. Two weeks later, Jamie went to work for the renowned gangster Ally Malone so that he could support his mother and eight younger siblings. A thug and a bully, Ally had shown him a way to make money that had made Jamie’s poor mother’s knees ache from the untold novenas she had prayed for her son.

But that was okay as far as Jamie was concerned. His new lifestyle afforded him the ability to buy his mother silk pillows to cushion her work-worn knees, and instead of praying with a cheap wooden rosary, she now had one made of gold and ivory.

It was a rosary she’d thrown in his face the day she had learned the real truth about her son: Jamie wasn’t a poor innocent lad being led astray by those out to take advantage of him. By the time he was twenty, he was a fierce gangster to be reckoned with.

Disowned by his mother, he’d given his younger brother a reputable job so that Ryan could care for the family without their mother knowing it was Jamie’s ill-gotten gains that kept them all fed.

Jamie had learned to harden his heart and to care for no one or nothing. He became Gallagher. A man who had no other name. One who let no one near him, let no one know him. He was ice-cold and rock-solid.

Until the day Rosalie had come into his life and chiseled away his granite casing. The daughter of Portuguese immigrants, she had been walking home from an all-day Mass.

Jamie had stumbled over her in his haste to catch up with a “business” associate he needed to take care of.

It had been a cold winter evening with snow falling down on the city. February 11, 1924—a date that was branded into his heart and mind for all eternity. The minute Rosalie had turned her dark brown eyes on him, his entire body had been consumed by fire. For the first time in years, he felt something more than cold, blind hatred.

“I’m so sorry,” she had whispered in her exotic accent, brushing at his expensive, handmade suit. “I didn’t see you for the snow.”

“It was my fault,” he hastened to assure her. No doubt any other man in his position would have hit her or yelled at her. That thought sent a wave of unreasonable fury through him.

She was a complete stranger and yet he felt possessive toward her. Respectful. Two emotions he’d never accorded any woman not related to him.

“Rosalie!” her mother had snapped as she came back for her daughter. “You do not talk to such men. How many times must I say that to you.” She took Rosalie by the arm and offered him a pleading, servile glance. “Forgive my daughter, senhor. She is young and foolish.”

“It’s fine, senhora,” he said quickly. Then he met Rosalie’s wide-eyed stare. She was truly beautiful. Her black hair was braided and coiled around her head, exposed to him when her church veil had fallen off after they collided. Her dark brown eyes were pure. Innocent. Completely unspoiled by the bloody violence that made up his life. Most of all, her eyes were kind.

He didn’t want anything to sully that gaze. To make it hard and cold. Bitter.

Like his.

“May I have permission to court your daughter?” The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Her mother’s expression was one of pure horror. White Irishmen didn’t court Portuguese women. Society would never tolerate such a thing.

“No,” she said sharply, hauling her daughter away from him.

Jamie might have taken no for an answer.

Gallagher didn’t.

It had cost him well over one hundred dollars in bribes to locate Rosalie, but she had been worth every cent of it. Regardless of her parents, his associates, and society as a whole, he had made her his wife on June 17, 1925.

Rosalie alone had known Jamie. And he had died trying to get to her side while she struggled to bring his one and only child, his son, into the world.

It had been a cold snowy night then, too. Just days before his thirty-third birthday. He’d known the authorities were after him, had known he had a mole in his company even though he had been trying to go straight.

None of that had mattered.

Rosalie had needed him, and he had refused to let her down.

It was a decision that had cost him his life and his soul.

1

Seventy years later

New Orleans

Gallagher frowned as he felt something tickling his lower back. It was a sensation that he’d learned years ago signaled a Daimon was nearby. He turned his one-of-a-kind 1932 Bugatti Atlantic Aerolithe down a side street and parked it.

Oh yeah, the feeling was there, even stronger than before. He left the car and paused as he got his bearings. In the last seventy years, he’d only been to New Orleans a handful of times, and though the city didn’t change much, it still took him a couple of minutes to remember the lay of the French Quarter.

The moonlight filtered down past the wrought-iron railings and hanging plants to illuminate the old brick of the buildings. Faint laughter and music could be heard as well as cars passing by. He cocked his head to listen, hoping for a sign of where the Daimons were.

A scream rang out.

Rushing off after it, he tore through the back alleys until he found the young woman near a garbage pile, surrounded by four male Daimons while a fifth Daimon had already sunk his fangs into her neck.

Infuriated, Gallagher rushed them. They charged him in unison, not that it did them any good. A couple of well-placed blows and one quick stab to their chests, and they were history.

Gallagher ran to the woman and knelt down by her side. Gently, he turned her over to find a girl no older than twenty. He cursed at the fate that had brought her into the path of the Daimons.

Luckily she was still alive, even though she was struggling to breathe. He pulled his monogrammed handkerchief out of his coat pocket and used it as a makeshift tourniquet over her vicious neck wound.

Moving quickly, he carried her back to his car, then rushed her to the nearest emergency room where he learned that the hospital staff wasn’t big into admitting unknown women who were carried in by strangers in bloodstained clothes.

Once he had Nick Gautier on the hospital phone with the clerk and he was sure the unknown girl would be cared for, Gallagher took a deep breath.

He hung around the hospital, wanting to make sure she would live. Anxious and unable to just sit while the staff tended her, he found himself wandering around the corridors. The place was really decked out for the holidays. The green and red garlands and poinsettia cut-outs added a warmer feel to the antiseptic white. A couple of nurses and young female visitors smiled invitingly at him as he passed by. But then, women always had. At six-foot-four with black hair and eyes, he was well-muscled and hard-edged. The kind of guy that dames tended to notice.

He’d never been vain about it. It was just a fact of life that women liked to look at him and often propositioned him. And though he’d been tempted a time or two over the decades, he had never touched another woman.

Not so long as his wife had lived. Gallagher might have broken every law on the books, but he had never broken a single vow. Especially not one made to someone he loved. Even after Rosalie’s death, he still hadn’t felt the inclination to touch another woman. So Gallagher just nodded kindly to them and kept walking.

Before long, he found himself on the pediatric ward. His stomach knotted as he realized where he was. There had been a time once when he’d hoped to come to a hospital to see his son.

He’d never made it.

Hurried and not thinking, he’d left his office building at a dead run and had been trying to get into his car when he’d found himself surrounded by cops.

Gallagher, who had never backed down from a fight, had held his hands up. For Rosalie’s sake, he’d been willing to surrender to them.

They had shot him dead in the street like a rabid animal.

Unable to deal with the memory, Gallagher was just about to turn around and leave when something odd caught his eye …

He saw a strange-looking elf dressed in a red Santa shirt with a very short red skirt, and red-and-white thigh-high stockings that vanished into a pair of scuffed-up black combat boots. She sang to a group of kids with a voice that would rival a heavenly choir for its melodic beauty. The woman was tall and in a freakish way extremely attractive, with eerie, reddish-brown eyes that must have been some kind of contact lenses, pointed ears, and hair that was jet black and streaked with red.

But what floored him most was the man with her.

Acheron Parthenopaeus. The glorified leader of the Dark-Hunters sat on the floor, surrounded by children while he played a black guitar and sang chorus to the woman’s lead.

Gallagher was stunned by the sight. In all the years he’d known Ash, he had never seen the man relaxed. Normally, Acheron had a presence about him that was decidedly lethal and cool. One that warned people to keep their distance if they wanted to live.

But that wasn’t the Ash he saw now. The man on the floor looked more like a kid himself. Approachable and kind. Ash’s deep voice mingled with the elf’s as they sang Jackie Deshan’s “Put a Little Love in Your Heart.”

“Now there’s a sight you don’t see every day, huh? Two punked-out Goths throwing a Christmas party for sick children.”

Gallagher turned to find a middle-aged African-American doctor beside him. She looked tired, but amused, as she watched Ash and his elfin helper with the children.

“You’ve no idea,” he said to her.

The doctor smiled. “I have to admit it took me some getting used to when I started working here a few years ago. I thought they were joking when they first told me about the Goth Guardian Angel and his children’s fund.”

Gallagher arched a brow at the nickname. “So he comes here a lot?”

“Every few months or so. He always brings gifts for the children and staff, and then plays with the kids for awhile.”

Gallagher couldn’t have been more stunned had she told him Ash routinely burned the hospital to the ground. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. We figure he must be some rich kid with a need to do some good. The darnedest thing is, whenever he comes, the kids become perfectly calm and serene. Their blood pressure goes down and we never have to give them any painkillers while he’s here. After he leaves, they sleep comfortably for hours. And best of all, the cancer patients go into remission for several weeks afterward. I don’t know what it is about that young man, but he really makes a difference in their lives.”

Gallagher could understand that. Even though Ash could be terrifying, there was something oddly comforting about the Atlantean.

The instant Ash realized he was there, he saw the veil come down over the man’s face. The humor faded, and Ash stiffened noticeably. Ash became the grim, take-no-prisoners leader that Gallagher was well-versed with.

As soon as the song was finished, Ash handed his guitar off to one of the older children and excused himself. He stood up and left the room with a loose long-limbed, predatorial gait. Ash’s face was impassable as he crossed his arms over his chest and approached Gallagher.

“St. Ash—who knew?”

Ash ignored his comment. “What are you doing here?”

Gallagher shrugged. “I was just passing through.”

He cocked his head. “Passing through? Last time I checked, Chicago was north of Baton Rouge, not south.”

“I know. But since I was so close, I just wanted to stop in at Sanctuary and wish everyone a Merry Christmas.”

Ash listened to Gallagher’s thoughts and let the man’s emotions wash through him. Jamie’s wife had died of old age this past summer, and her death had hit the Irishman hard.

As soon as he’d “heard” about her death, Ash had gone to Jamie immediately only to find out that Jamie had broken his Code of Conduct and visited her while she’d been in the hospital. Ash had chosen to overlook the breach. He might not have ever known the love of a human being, but he did understand those who were lucky enough to have it.

“Tell you what, since you’re here, why don’t you just stay on until after the New Year?”

Jamie scoffed at that. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity. It’s an order. Since Kyrian is retired, Talon could use an extra hand. Things get rather rowdy this time of year. Lots of Daimons head down south where it’s warmer and people are out for New Year’s.”

“Are you full of crap or what?”

Before Ash could answer, the elf woman came out of the room holding a young toddler to her hip.

“Akri?” she said to Ash in a strange sing-song kind of voice. “Can I keep him?” She patted the plump leg that was exposed from beneath the hospital gown. “See, he good eating. Lots of fat on this one.”

The dark-headed toddler laughed.

“No, Simi,” Ash said sternly. “You can’t keep the baby. His mother would miss him.”

She pouted. “But he want to go home with the Simi. He said so.”

“No, Simi,” Ash repeated.

She huffed at him. “No Simi, no food. Nag, nag, nag. Does your daddy nag you, too?” she asked the boy.

“Nope,” he said as he pulled at one of the black and red horns on top of her head.

Ash sighed. “Simi, take the baby back inside.”

She moved to stand before Ash. “Okay, gimme a kiss and I’ll go.”

Ash looked extremely uncomfortable as he glanced at Gallagher, then back at her. “Not in front of the Hunter, Simi.”

She made a strange animal-like noise as she looked at Gallagher. “The Simi wants a kiss, akri. I’ll wait all century. You know I will.”

To say Ash looked peeved was an understatement. He leaned over and kissed her quickly on the brow.

She beamed proudly, then trotted off with the child.

“Who is that?” Gallagher asked. “Or should I say, what is that?”

“In short, she’s not your concern.” Ash rubbed his hand over his forehead as if he were in pain. “Where were we?”

“I asked why you were giving me temporary duty in New Orleans.”

“Because Talon could use a hand.”

“I wonder what Talon would say?”

“He would tell you not to piss me off.”

Gallagher gave a half laugh at that. “All right then. I’ll take it under advisement.”

Ash watched the woman in the room with the kids. “You can camp with the Peltiers at Sanctuary. Right now I better go before one of those kids ends up on a milk carton.”

Gallagher watched as Ash rushed into the room to take a little girl from the elf and then set the child aside. The elf danced away and moved on to another child.

Shaking his head at the oddity, Gallagher headed for the elevator to go back below and check on his patient. The nurse told him she would be fine. Gallagher let out a relieved breath.

The nurse stood up and patted his arm. “Come on,” the woman said, inclining her head toward the back. “She wants to thank you.”

“I don’t need any thanks.”

“Sug, we all need thanks. C’mon.”

Before he could stop himself, he let the nurse lead him back to a small emergency room that had curtained walls. The petite brunette sat up on her stretcher with an oversized bandage on her neck. Her large green eyes were a bit dazed, but they brightened as soon as she looked up to see him. The nurse left them alone.

“Are you the man who saved me?” she asked.

Feeling awkward, he nodded.

The girl fidgeted with the blanket that covered her. “Thank you. Really.”

“My pleasure. I’m just glad I found you when I did.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Gallagher turned to leave. “Well, I need…”

His voice trailed off as a lovely young woman came through the curtains. She was tall, probably around five-ten or so with jet-black hair and deep blue eyes. “Jenna!” she cried as she saw her friend on the stretcher. “Oh thank God, you’re okay. The lady on the phone said you’d been attacked.”

Jenna’s eyes teared up. “I don’t know what happened. I was just going out to my car, and I don’t remember anything after that. If not for him, I’d probably be dead.”

The girl turned around and froze. She looked at him as if she’d just seen a ghost.

Gallagher stared back defiantly. “Something wrong?” he asked.

She frowned. “No.” She waved her hand around as if feeling silly. “I’m sorry, you just remind me of someone.”

“Old boyfriend?”

“No, my great-grandfather.”

“That’s not particularly flattering. I thought I looked rather good for my age.”

She laughed at that. “No, I mean … oh, never mind.”

Jenna cocked her head as she looked at him. “He does look like him, Rose. You’re right.”

Rose. The name hit him like a blow.

Before he could move, the girl named Rose approached him. She pulled out an engraved gold locket from underneath her brown sweater. It was a locket he knew intimately. Right down to the garnet and diamonds that formed a circle on the front of it, to the inscription on the back.

For my Rose.

Happy Anniversary 1930.

She opened the locket to show him the two pictures inside. One was the photograph Rosalie had requested he have made just months before he died and the other was of his son at age two. “See,” the girl said, showing him the photograph. “You look just like my Grandpa Jamie.”

His heart aching, Gallagher swallowed. He wanted to reach out to touch it, but his hands shook so badly, he didn’t dare. “Where did you get that?”

“My great-grandmother gave it to me last spring. Since I was named after her, she wanted me to have it.” She smiled sadly and then closed the locket and returned it to rest under her sweater. “My father said Grandpa Jamie was a gangster, but I don’t believe it. Gram Rose would never have married someone like that. She was a saint.”

It was all he could do to breathe. To not crush her into his arms and weep. His great-granddaughter.

Rosalie.

This vibrant young woman was his living tie to his wife. When he spoke, his voice was thick and deep. “She must have loved you a great deal to give you that.”

“I know. She wore it every day of her life until she gave it to me. It’s just weird, you know? You looking so much like him and all.”

Gallagher cleared his throat. “Yeah. Weird.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He didn’t see much of himself or Rosalie in the girl, but he felt the bond of kinship deep in his heart.

She was his family. And he could never tell her. Just as he had never been able to tell her father or her grandfather.

Gallagher had bartered his soul for vengeance and then been forced to step back into the shadows and surrender the care of his family over to strangers. But at least the Squire Council had been there. After Gallagher had become a Dark-Hunter, they had sent in people to make sure his family survived.

The government had taken everything from Rosalie. Confiscated even his legitimate assets and left her destitute. The Squires had given her a job, and after a few years, they had sent in suitable beaux to date his wife and one of them had finally married her.

While Harris had lived, he had sent Gallagher updated photos and news about Gallagher’s son and grandchildren. The Squire’s Council had ensured the safety and well-being of his family while he had gone about his business of hunting and killing Daimons.

Ash had warned him how hard it would be.

“So long as you have direct descendants still living, it will haunt you. But it does get easier … in time.”

Other Hunters had told him the same thing, but right now with his great-granddaughter standing before him, he didn’t believe it. God, it was so unfair.

Or maybe this was his atonement for living the violent life he had chosen.

Always an outsider. A part of the world, but not in it. He winced at the truth.

Weary and hurt, he excused himself from the girls and made his way out of the hospital. The street outside was virtually empty. The late hour had sent everyone home seeking warmth. Comfort.

He doubted if he would ever feel either again.

When he pulled into the private garage that was across the street from Sanctuary, Elizar Peltier came out of the back door and stopped. The man’s long, curly blond hair was pulled back from his face. He wore a pair of black chinos and a baggy black sweater.

“Jamie Gallagher,” he said slowly. “I’ll be damned.” He turned and called into the open door, “Kyle, go tell Maman to put on a plate of corned beef and cabbage. We have a Dark-Hunter in need of food.”

Gallagher nodded his thanks. “Hi Zar, it’s been awhile.”

“About thirty or so years, I think, since we last had the pleasure of your company.”

Time was truly fleeting to an immortal. “Yet you still remember my favorite food.”

Zar shrugged. “I never forget a friend.”

Neither did Gallagher. They were too few and far between.

Zar led him to the building next door to the Sanctuary bar. Built at the turn of the century, Peltier House was the home of the Katagaria family and their hodgepodge group of refugees. The house connected to the bar through a downstairs door that was guarded at all times by one of the eleven Peltier sons.

In the Hunter world, they were legendary because they greeted everyone as friends: Were-Hunters, Dream-Hunters, Dark-Hunters or others. It mattered not. So long as you minded your manners and kept your weapons concealed, they let you enter and leave in peace. Those who broke the one house rule of “No Spill Blood” quickly found themselves leaving in pieces.

The elegant Victorian mansion was quiet now except for the muffled sound of the Howlers playing on the stage next door in the bar. It was furnished in expensive turn-of-the-century antiques that had been in the house since they were new. The bear clan didn’t like change. Gallagher was glad for that. It felt strangely like coming home again.

“How long are you staying?” Zar asked as he led him up the hand-carved mahogany stairs.

“Until the New Year.”

Zar nodded. “Maman will be glad to hear that.” He showed Gallagher to a room at the end of the hallway.

Gallagher stepped inside and found a warm, cozy bedroom. The windows were well-shuttered and covered by heavy drapes that would keep the daylight from reaching him.

“Here’s a cable modem for your laptop if you brought one.”

The corner of Gallagher’s mouth lifted. “All the comforts of home.”

“We try. I remember well the days of running and hiding, and never having a single comfort. Take a few minutes to get settled in and join us when you’re ready.”

Gallagher watched Zar leave while feelings and memories went through him. He appreciated the bears’ courtesy, but he would trade all his money and immortality for one single night spent with his wife and son.

One single Christmas with them, watching Rosalie’s face light up as she opened a gift.

The pain of his loss racked him. He didn’t want to hurt and wish for things he could no longer have. He sat on the bed and stared at the wall. He saw his great-granddaughter’s face and wondered if she would go home at Christmas to be with her family.

For that matter, he wondered if he should go home himself. At least Chicago was familiar to him. Weary and heartsick, he lay down on the bed to just rest for a second. He only wanted to escape for an instant into memories of a time when he had been human.

*   *   *

Gallagher woke up to find that three days had passed while he slept. He didn’t remember anything about his dreams.

“Why did you let me sleep so long?” he asked Mama Peltier as soon as he left his room and found her in the downstairs parlor on the right.

In human form, she was an elegant, tall blonde woman who most often wore a stylish suit. Though she looked no older than forty, she was in fact close to eight hundred years in age. “Acheron said you needed to rest and I agreed.”

“But three days?”

She shrugged. “Do you feel better?”

Strangely, he did. At least physically.

It was just after dark on Christmas Eve. The bear clan was slowly filing down the stairs and gathering into the two main parlors where dual twelve-foot-tall pines were decorated.

Gallagher stood back, watching the whole crew of Katagaria and Arcadians who made Peltier House their home, gather around for the coming celebration. The tiny bear cubs climbed over presents and tried to eat and climb up the trees while their fathers and mothers, in human form to make Gallagher feel more at home, pulled them back. Justin Portakalian came down in his panther form and picked up one of the smaller cubs by the scruff of his neck and rolled him playfully across the floor.

It was the most bizarre Christmas gathering Gallagher had ever seen in his one-hundred-plus years of living. He felt even more out of place than he had felt three days ago when he arrived. As members from The Howlers came in to join the party, Gallagher decided he needed a breath of fresh air and a moment of quiet to clear his head. He headed out into the cold dark night and drifted aimlessly through the French Quarter. Before he realized it, he was outside the St. Louis Cathedral.

It had been a long time since he’d last been in church. There were only a few people headed inside. No doubt most of the parishioners would wait until the Midnight Mass. He started to turn away, but instead found himself heading inside with the others.

The foyer was dark, but his Dark-Hunter sight saw the interior clearly and he moved toward the small font of holy water that rested on the wall to his left, just beside the church store. He blessed himself, then opened the dark wood doors that led into the cathedral. The beauty of the stained glass and statuary immediately took him back to the days of his youth.

Gallagher genuflected, then sat down on the last row. Here, he felt his Rosalie. Devout, she had never missed a Holy Day of Obligation or Feast Day. He had dutifully gone with her even though he’d hemmed and hawed about it. Ever patient, she would sit by his side, patting his arm and smiling to herself over the fact that she had gotten him to do the impossible.

“I miss you, Rose,” he breathed, his chest tight with the pain of her loss.

He wanted to stay here where he felt her, but he couldn’t. No Dark-Hunter could remain in any old church for very long before the ghosts of the past came out to possess them.

And he was too weak at this moment to fight them.

Getting up, he made his way silently out back to the font, then out to the street.

It was cool out, but nowhere near the coldness he felt inside himself. Gallagher headed down Chartres Street. He didn’t know where to go. He didn’t feel like going back to Sanctuary and there was no real need to hunt on Christmas Eve. Since most humans were at home with their families, the Daimons tended to stay in as well.

“Hel-lo!”

He paused at the familiar sing-song voice. Turning around, he found “Simi” behind him.

“Hi,” he said, half-expecting to see Ash with her.

But apparently she was out alone. Simi bounced up to him. “What’cha doing out here all alone?” she asked. “Did you forget how to find Sanctuary?”

“No. I want to be alone for a bit.”

She cocked her head and frowned. “Why? Were the bears mean to you? Mama can get a bit cranky whenever I play with the cubs. She thinks I’m going to eat one, but bleh! They’re way too hairy. Now if she’d let me skin one, I might be interested.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “Are you joking?”

“Oh no. I never joke about hairy food. It’s disgusting.” She looked up at him. “If they weren’t mean to you, then why did you leave?”

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t feel right being there.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “What are you doing out here?”

“Not much. Akri is off with that red-headed demon so he said I could go play just so long as I don’t eat nothing not cooked by a human. But all my favorite places are closed so I thought I’d go find the bears myself and see if Jose, since he’s human, would make me up something good that wouldn’t make akri mad if I ate it.”

“Akri is Ash?”

“Yes.”

“And the red-headed demon?”

“Artemis the bitch goddess. You know her. She’s the one who stole your soul.”

“She didn’t steal it.”

Simi blew him a raspberry. “Of course she did. She steals everything.” She stood up on her tiptoes and stared into his eyes. “Hey,” she said, taking his chin in her hand so that she could move his head back and forth while she examined him. “You’re hurting in there. That would make akri very sad. He doesn’t like for his Dark-Hunters to hurt and the Simi don’t like it when akri is sad. Why are you hurt?”

“I miss my family.”

Releasing him, she nodded sympathetically. “I miss mine, too. My mama was good people. ‘Simi,’ she would say, ‘I love you.’ Akri loves me, too.”

She tilted her head down so that he could see her horns which were now covered by what appeared to be very small knitted hats. “See, akri even gave me hornay warmers so my horns wouldn’t get cold. You want some hornay warmers, too?”

This had to be the oddest conversation of his life. He didn’t know why he stayed here talking to her. Maybe it was her childlike manner. There was something very charming about her.

“I don’t have horns.”

“You want some?” she asked hopefully. “I could give you some real colorful ones. Akri has some black ones, but he doesn’t let other people see them.”

“Ash has horns?”

“Oh my, yes. They are quite lovely. Not as lovely as mine, but they are still very nice. The Simi would say she hopes you see them, but if you ever did, you’d be dead and I think the Simi would miss you. You seem very nice, too.”

Gallagher frowned as she rummaged around in her giant oversized, beaded purse. After a few seconds, she pulled out an oven mitt that looked like a fish. She handed it to him.

“That is quality. From QVC. My favorite place. Do you watch QVC?”

“No.”

“Well, you should. Akri says I watch it too much, but he never complains when I shop there. They like me, too. Put me on television and call me Miss Simi. I like that.”

He handed her the fish back.

“Oh no, that’s for you. Presents make people happy. The Simi wants you to be happy.”

Oh yeah, this was without a doubt the strangest moment of his life. Both mortal and immortal. “Thank you, Simi.”

She waved his words aside with her hand. “No need to thank me. See, that’s what families do. They take care of each other.”

His stomach tightened at her words. “I no longer have a family. I had to give them up.”

She looked at him curiously. “Of course you have a family. Everyone has family. I’m your family. Akri your family. Even that smelly old goddess is your family. She’s that creepy old aunt who comes around but nobody likes her so they make fun of her when she’s gone.”

He laughed again. “Does she know you say that about her?”

“Of course. I say it to her face all the time. That’s why akri told me to come play while he’s with her. He don’t like it when we fight.”

She took his hand into hers. “Listen and I’ll tell you what akri once told me. We have three kinds of family. Those we are born to, those who are born to us, and those we let into our hearts. I have let you into my heart so the Simi is your family and she won’t give you up. If you are sad right now, then I’m thinking your family is still in your heart, too, and they are taking up so much room that you have no room for anyone else.”

“I can’t give them up.”

“And you shouldn’t. Ever. No one should ever forget those they love. But it’s like with QVC—whenever I fill up my room with too much stuff, akri builds me another room. Somehow there’s always space for more. Your heart can always expand to take in as many people as you need it to. The people who live there, they don’t go away. You just make room for one more person and then another and another and another.”

With her arm in his, Simi walked him down the street. “Don’t you want Simi to be your family?”

He thought about her words and strange analogy.

She leaned forward and whispered. “This is the part where you say, ‘Yes, Simi, I would like to be your family.’ ’Cause if you don’t, then I’ll have to take my mitt back and barbecue you. Akri is still upset about the last Dark-Hunter I barbecued and that was … oh, a thousand or so years ago. He part elephant when it comes to remembering things. So tell me, do you want Simi to be your family?”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, Simi, I would like to be your family.”

She beamed. “Good. You’re such a smart Dark-Hunter.”

Before Gallagher realized it, Simi had led him back to Sanctuary. She opened the door and stood back, waiting for him to enter. The earlier loudness was nothing like what was happening now. There were four hawks lined up on one curtain rod, dancing in time to the rocking Christmas carols. The Howlers (all in human form) were singing while Dev Peltier played the piano. A white tiger was lying on its back on the sofa while Marvin the monkey jumped up and down on its belly.

A large black bear he assumed was Aimee Peltier was feeding two baby cubs peanut butter sandwiches. A red-headed human woman with a scar on her face came up to them and grabbed Simi into a hug. “Hey little demon, where’s boss man?”

Simi shrugged. “He off attending to Lord Queen Pain-In-My-Butt. How are you, Tabitha? Is your sister and Kyrian coming?”

“No, they’ll be here tomorrow. Morning sickness hit Amanda as they were leaving, but Talon said he’d be here just as soon as he could.” The two of them drifted off into the crowd.

Gallagher stood back, watching the revelry. There were Arcadians here, Katagaria, Dark-Hunters, demons, humans, and who knew what else. By all rights none of them should get along and yet they were together tonight.

Bound by something other than blood. They were bound together by their hearts.

Colt came up to him. An Arcadian Sentinel, his job was technically to hunt and slay the Katagaria. But years ago the Peltiers had rescued and protected Colt’s mother and then raised him after her death. He was as loyal to the bear clan as any of their natural sons.

Smiling, he pulled a pineapple mitt out of his back pocket. “Man, Gallagher, you must really rate. You got one of the good fish. All I got was a lousy pineapple.”

“What, does everyone she meet get one?”

“Nope. Only family.”

Gallagher looked around at that and saw something he hadn’t noticed earlier.

Everyone there had a mitt.

Santa Wears Spurs

Prologue

Danger. O’Connell felt it on the back of his neck and deep in his bones as he raced his pinto across the dead winter Texas plains toward a town he’d never known existed.

After all this time, he ought to be used to danger. He had lived his life under its constant stalking shadow, and kept it as his faithful companion. Danger was his ally and his enemy.

It defined everything about him. There had only been one time in his life when he had felt safe. But that was a long time ago.

It was biting cold out, not that he felt it much. His thrumming blood kept him warm as he rode through the night.

“You should have been there, Kid. It was like taking candy from a baby,” Pete had laughed. “Hah, now that I think about it, I did take candy from a baby. I just wish I could see their faces when they wake up and find their money gone.”

Then as now, O’Connell hadn’t found the words amusing. He knew Pete could be as cold-blooded as they came—the bullet wound in his arm was testimony to that. But not even he had thought Pete would steal from an orphanage just two days before Christmas.

The man had no soul.

There was a time when O’Connell had been just the same. When hatred had strangled his heart and left him unable to feel for anyone save himself.

And then he’d met her.

His heart lurched, just as it always did when he thought of her. She had shown him another way, another life, and had changed everything about him in the process. She’d given him hope, a future. A reason to live. And life without her had been nothing more than a bitter hell.

In all honesty, he didn’t know how he managed to make it through the endless, miserable days that had turned into years.

Somehow, he just survived. Cold. Empty.

Alone.

God, how he missed her. How he ached for some way to go back and relive just one second of the time he’d shared with her. Just to see her face one more time, feel her breath on his skin.

For a moment, O’Connell let his thoughts drift to the past. And like they always did when he was unguarded, they went to a remembered dream of long dark brown hair and eyes as clear and warm as a summer’s day. Of a woman who had told him she loved him without making a single sound.

Closing his eyes, he saw her bright smile and heard the music of her laughter as she lay naked beneath him while he claimed her for his own. He clenched his teeth at the white-hot desire that coiled through his belly. And for a moment he swore he could still feel her hands against his back as she held him tight and cried out in ecstasy.

Not even five years could dull the memories. Or his craving for her touch. He could taste the salty sweetness of her body, feel her hot and tight around him, and smell the sunshine that had always seemed to be in her hair.

Catherine had touched him in ways no one had before or since.

“I remember you,” he breathed. But most of all he remembered the promise he had made to her. The promise he had broken. And in that moment, he wished Pete’s bullet had gone straight through his useless heart.

Lord above, if there was one last wish he could have, it would be to set things right. He’d sell whatever was left of his blackened soul for a way to go back and change what he’d done to her.

But it wasn’t to be.

He knew that.

There was nothing left for him to do except see the money back to the orphans Pete had stolen it from.

After that, he didn’t know where he’d go. He’d have to find another place where the law and Pete couldn’t find him. If such a place existed.

Briefly, he considered trying to find her. After all, she had been his safe harbor. His greatest strength.

But then, she had also been his greatest weakness.

No, it wouldn’t do to seek her out. Too much depended on him staying away from her. Because one thing his brother, Pete, had taught him years ago—there was no such thing as a second chance.

1

“All I want for Christmas is a man as handsome as the Devil himself. One with a charming smile, at least some semblance of intelligence, and a great, big, bulging—”

“Rebecca Baker!” Catherine O’Callahan gasped, shocked at her friend’s words.

“Bank account,” Rebecca said as she dropped her hands down from the graphic illustration she had been providing. She picked up the frying pan near Catherine, then placed it on top of the black iron stove. “I was only going to say bank account.”

Trying not to smile lest she encourage her friend’s libidinous conversation, Catherine looked askance at Rebecca as she continued washing dishes.

Rebecca’s olive cheeks colored ever so slightly as she walked back to the sink. “Well, maybe I wasn’t. But as a married woman yourself, you know what I mean. How long am I supposed to go around mourning Clancy anyway? Good grief, it’s been almost four years since he died. And I barely knew him before we married.”

As was her habit, Rebecca gestured dramatically with her hands to illustrate her next words. “My father practically dragged me to the altar to marry a man almost twice my age. I tell you, snuggling up to a man whose hands and feet are colder than icicles in January isn’t my idea of wedded bliss.”

Catherine could well agree with that point.

Rebecca sighed dreamily as she idly put the plates on the shelf above her head. “What I’d like to have is a gorgeous, warm man I could be cow-tied to forever. A man who could enter the room and make me all hot, and cold, and all jittery.” She looked at Catherine and smiled. “Know what I mean?”

Blushing, Catherine grew quiet as she rinsed a large black pot. She knew exactly what Rebecca meant. She’d lain awake many a night as memories washed over her of a pewter-eyed demon who had promised her everything, including the moon above.

A man who had made her body so hot there had been times when she was certain she’d perish in flames.

But unlike her friend, she wasn’t a widow. For all she knew, her husband could come waltzing up to the front door at any time and knock on it.

As if that would ever happen, Catherine chided herself.

When would she give up her useless, unwavering hope of seeing him again? Why couldn’t she just put him out her mind?

What was it about him that made her yearn for him after all this time?

Of course, she knew the answer to that question—everything about him. He’d been so wonderful and kind, considerate and giving. Up until the day he left her without so much as a by-your-leave.

She must be insane to still yearn for him.

And after five years, he might be dead. Heaven knew, a lot had happened to her since he’d run off. She’d moved to a new town, started her own restaurant and boardinghouse, and created a respectable life for her and her four-year-old daughter, Diana.

Last summer, after the yellow fever epidemic, she and Rebecca had taken in five of the town of Redwood’s orphans.

A lot had happened.

Rebecca sidled up to her and took the pot from her hands to dry it. “So, tell me, if not a gorgeous St. Nick to come knocking on the door, what do you want for Christmas?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Catherine said as she reached to wash a pan. “I guess if I had my druthers, I’d like for our money to be returned. It bothers me that someone would steal from the children right before Christmas.”

Rebecca agreed. “I know how much you wanted to spend it on them. It’s such a shame. I can’t imagine what kind of monster could so something so terrible.”

Neither did she.

They didn’t speak for a few minutes. Only the sound of sloshing water and clanging dishes broke the silence as they worked.

All of a sudden, the hair on the back of Catherine’s neck stood up. Turning her head, she saw Rebecca staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Is that really all you want for Christmas?”

Catherine handed her another pan to dry. “Why, yes. I’m quite happy with everything else.”

Rebecca arched a questioning brow.

“I am,” Catherine insisted.

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Rebecca said, putting the pan away. “Can you truly tell me that you haven’t once given thought to having a handsome man come sweep you off your feet?”

Catherine laughed halfheartedly. “I already had that happen, and I must say I found the experience less than desirable.”

Rebecca shook her head. “You know, I came to work here almost four years ago and never in that time have I heard you speak of your husband. That is who you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

Catherine nodded, refusing to meet Rebecca’s inquisitive brown-eyed stare as she moved to pump more water into the sink. “There isn’t much to tell.”

Rebecca nudged her away from the pump and took up the motion. “Come on, Catherine. All the children are in bed for the night. Why not open up a little?”

Catherine buried her hands back in the suds and sighed. “What do you want me to tell you? Plain preacher’s daughter fell in love with the gorgeous stranger who came to work for her father’s ranch? He married her a month after they first met, took her off to Nevada, and left her the first chance he got.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Rebecca paused. Her brown eyes darkened in anger. “I’ll never understand a man who could do something so cold-blooded or mean.”

“Me either,” she whispered under her breath.

“I don’t see how you stand it.”

Catherine shrugged. “I got used to it. Five years gave me time to lay aside my hatred. Besides, I have Diana to think about. I’m the only parent she has and I decided on the day she was born that I would never mention his name or dwell on what he did to us.”

“Well, I respect you for that. Me, I wouldn’t have rested until I found the polecat and skinned him alive.”

Catherine relished the image of her husband’s tawny skin being flayed from him as he screamed for mercy. Now that Rebecca mentioned it, she did rather enjoy the thought of him being skinned. It would certainly serve him right. “You know, I do want something after all.”

“And that is?”

Catherine scrubbed her pot with renewed vigor, wishing it were her husband’s head she held beneath the water. “I wish I could lay eyes on him one last time to tell him what a no-good, lousy, rabid dog he was for leaving me.”

“That’s my girl.” Rebecca laughed as she patted Catherine on the back. Then, she leaned forward and said in a low tone, “But the real question is, was he any good where and when it counted?”

“Rebecca!” Catherine gasped, trying her best not to think about just how good he had been there.

Though why Rebecca’s words continued to shock her after all these years of knowing her, she couldn’t imagine. Rebecca had never had an ounce of shame in her.

But then, it was her outspokenness Catherine liked most of all. She always knew where she stood with Rebecca. Her friend never held anything back. And after having lived with her husband and his secrets, she found Rebecca’s candor a true blessing.

Suddenly a knock sounded on the door.

Catherine wrung the suds off her hands, then wiped her hands dry on her apron. “Why don’t you go on to bed?” she said, rolling her sleeves back down her forearms and buttoning them against her wrists. “I’ll get the door. I’m sure it’s just someone needing a room.”

“Poor soul to be out on Christmas Eve without a bed,” Rebecca said. She inclined her head to the sink. “You sure you don’t want me to finish up the dishes?”

Catherine shook her head. “There are only a handful left, and we already have all the gifts under the tree. Why don’t you just go and enjoy what’s left of Christmas Eve?”

“All right, then. I’ll look in on the kids and then retire. Let me know if you need me.”

“I will.”

Rebecca headed to the back stairs while Catherine took the lantern off the kitchen table and walked down the narrow hallway to the front door.

Through the lace curtains, she could see the outline of a tall man with broad shoulders.

A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. Perhaps Rebecca would get her wish after all.

Rolling her eyes at the very indecent thought that flicked across her mind, Catherine opened the door.

She took one glance at the handsome stranger, who had his head turned to look at his horse, and dropped the lantern straight to the floor.

*   *   *

O’Connell cursed as the lantern’s fire exploded on the pine boards of the porch. Reacting without thought, he dropped his black Stetson and saddlebags, and stamped at the flames, his spurs jingling loudly as he stomped. Then, to his chagrin, the flames spread to his boots and set fire to the toes of his left foot.

He hissed in pain as he whipped his black duster off and put out the fire on his smoking boot. Then he quickly used the duster to extinguish the rest of the fire.

Luckily, the fire didn’t do much in the way of permanent damage, but the porch and door would need a good washing come morning.

“Good Lord, woman,” he snapped as he surveyed the damage. “You ought to be more…” his words trailed off as he looked up and met wide, startled brown eyes.

His jaw went slack. Those were the same eyes he’d been dreaming of not more than a few minutes before.

“Catherine?” he whispered in disbelief.

Catherine couldn’t move as she stared into the handsome, devilish face that had coaxed her away from everything she had ever known.

Ask and ye shall receive, her father’s favorite phrase echoed in her head.

Stunned by his sudden appearance, she took his form in all at once. He was still as handsome as sin. His dark brown hair was short in back with long bangs that draped becomingly into eyes so silvery gray they appeared almost colorless.

Captivating and searing, his eyes could haunt a woman night and day. And she ought to know, since they’d done nothing but torment her since the moment she had first seen them.

That same air of danger still clung to him seducing her, wooing her. Oh, but he was a man to make any woman’s heart pound.

His face had grown thinner over the years, adding sharp, angular planes to it. But they in no way detracted from the perfection of his patrician features. Dark brows contrasted sharply with his silver-gray eyes, and his broad nose still had the tiny bump in the center where she’d broken it.

Glory, but he was scrumptious. Completely and utterly scrumptious, like a rare treat of succulent chocolate after a long abstinence.

He’d always possessed a powerful, compelling, masculine aura that was downright salacious in nature. An aura that reached out and captured the attention of anything female within its mighty grasp.

And heaven only knew, she was far from immune to it.

But the Devil would move his home to Antarctica before she ever let him know that.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Catherine asked as she finally found her voice.

“Needing a doctor,” he said sardonically, shaking his left foot.

Catherine looked down to see the charred black leather in the bright winter moonlight. A rush of embarrassment filled her.

“Why is it,” he asked, “every time we meet, I end up needing a doctor?”

She lifted her chin at his playful tone. Her days of finding him amusing were long past. “Are you trying to charm me?”

Not even the dark could mask the wickedly warm look in his eyes. “And if I were?”

I’d probably end up surrendering to it.

But she had no intention of letting him know that, either. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. She couldn’t afford to let him break her heart again. The first time had been painful enough. And in truth, she wasn’t sure if she could survive losing him again.

Instead, she sought to protect herself by putting an end to whatever thoughts might be playing through his mind.

“I’m not a girl anymore, Mr. O’Callahan. I no longer dance to your tune.”

O’Connell took a deep breath as he sized her up. He’d almost forgotten his old alias. But the cold tone of her voice chilled him more than the winter wind at his back.

Still, it did nothing to daunt the fire in his gut that her presence stirred. She looked even better than he remembered. Gone was the willow-thin frame of her youth and in its place were the luscious curves of a woman full grown.

She wore her hair in that tight bun he’d always despised. Catherine had such beautiful hair—long, thick, and wavy. He, the man who was wanted in six states, had spent hours brushing her hair at night. Running his hands through it.

And he wondered if it still smelled like springtime.

In that instant, he remembered the way he had left her. Without a word, without a note. He had simply gone off to work and had never returned.

Shame filled him. He should have at least sent a letter. Although, honestly, he had tried to write one a thousand times. But he’d never completed it. What did a man say to a woman he’d been forced to give up against his will?

Especially when he didn’t want her to know the real reason he’d left?

Picking his hat up from the porch, he cast a sweeping, hungry look over her body, and wished for the millionth time, that things had been different between them. That he could have had a long life spent by her side, being the husband she deserved to have. “It’s good to see you again.”

Her look froze him as she untied her apron, then stooped to pick up the broken glass and place it in the cloth. “I wish I could say it’s good to be seen by you, but in this case I think you’ll understand if I’m a bit cool toward you?”

“Cool” was a mild term for her demeanor. In truth, he suspected icebergs at the North Pole might be a shade or two warmer.

He’d expected more anger from her. The Catherine he remembered would have been cursing him like a slow-walking dog for leaving her.

This Catherine was different. She was composed and serious, not laughing and playful.

Passionate, he realized with a start. That was what was missing. She’d lost the verve that used to have her laughing one minute, sobbing the next, and then kissing him blind two seconds after that.

And without a doubt he knew he was to blame for it. Being abandoned had a way of affecting a person adversely. His gut drew tight. He had a lot to answer for in his life. He just wished she wasn’t one of those things he’d messed up.

“Where’s your anger?” he asked as he leaned over to help her pick up the mess.

Catherine considered her answer. She should be enraged at him, but oddly enough, once the initial shock of the encounter wore off she found herself completely numb to him.

Well, not completely numb.

In fact, “numb” described his effect on her like “handsome” described Abe Lincoln.

A woman would have to be dead not to feel a vigorous stirring for a man so incredibly handsome as her wandering polecat. Especially a man possessed of such raw, primal appeal.

Everything about him promised sheer, sexual delights. And all too well she remembered the way he had felt in her arms, the strength of his long, lean body caressing hers in playful abandon as he sent her spiraling off into blissful ecstasy.

And right then, with his head just inches from her own, she could smell the raw, earthy scent of him. That leather and musk that had always titillated her. That warm, wonderful smell was a part of him like the innate power and authority that bled from every pore of his body.

And those lips …

Full and sensuous, those lips of his had kissed her until she lost all reason, until her entire body buzzed with lust and desire. And those wonderful, sensual lips had teased and tormented her body to the ultimate pinnacle of human pleasure.

Good heavens, how she ached for him. Even after the way he had hurt her.

What are you thinking?

Catherine mentally shook herself. No, she didn’t hate him for leaving her the way he had—five years had given her time to lay her hatred aside.

She wouldn’t get mad at this point.

She would get even.

He deserved to feel the sting of rejection. Then he would understand exactly what he had done to her. How it felt to be denied and forgotten.

“I got over my anger for you, Mr. O’Callahan,” she said tartly, rising to her feet carefully lest she cut herself on the glass in her apron.

She raked a look from the top of his head down to his still-smoking boot, took a step back into the house and spoke, “And then I got over you.”

With one last stoic look at him, Catherine closed the door in his stunned face.

2

Catherine’s words rang in O’Connell’s ears as he stared in disbelief at the closed door.

Well, what did you expect? he asked himself as he retrieved his charred duster from the porch.

Her hatred, in all honesty. That he had been prepared for. But her apathy toward him …

Well …

It was … insufferable.

Anger over her rejection blistered his gut. How dare she dismiss him so. What did she think he was, some lost little puppy come to lick scraps off the floor?

Well, he wasn’t a lost puppy. He was a man. A man sought by every woman who had ever laid her eyes upon him. Not that he was vain about it. Not overly so, anyway. It was merely a fact he’d long grown accustomed to. A fact everyone who knew him just plainly accepted.

Women had always been partial to him.

In Hollow Gulch where O’Connell had been working the last few months, the women had singled him out the moment he rode into town—baked him fresh pies, batted their lashes at him. Hell, one gutsy blonde had even snuck into his room and hidden herself naked in his bed while he’d been out drinking.

Not that he had been interested in the blonde or any of the others. Unlike any normal, sane man, he’d sent her home as soon as he tossed some clothes on her body. And all the while she’d whispered to him the torrid, lusty things she’d do to give him pleasure.

Her salacious comments had set fire to his loins, but even so, she hadn’t appealed to him in the slightest. His heart belonged to Catherine. It always had.

And he refused to sully Catherine’s memory by bedding down with any other woman. That was the one vow he’d never break.

Hell, he’d given up everything he valued to see Catherine safe.

And she had banished him from her thoughts?

He saw red.

In the last five years there hadn’t been an instant when he hadn’t been consumed by thoughts of her. Not a minute he hadn’t wondered what she was doing. How she was doing.

And she felt nothing toward him.

Nothing.

He didn’t even warrant her hatred.

“Fine,” O’Connell muttered at the closed door as he shrugged his duster on, then settled his Stetson on his head. He grimaced at the front of the brim that had been partially burned away by the fire. “I don’t need you to feel anything for me, woman. I don’t need you at all. In fact, I can put you right out of my mind, too.”

Spinning on his heel, he took a step for his horse. Pain exploded across his foot and he cursed out loud as he limped away.

The woman had damned near maimed him. And all the while she felt nothing toward him.

Nothing.…

*   *   *

“What do you mean, you got over me?”

Catherine turned around to see him standing in the doorway. His face awash with shadows, she could feel his angry glare more than see it.

Go ahead and seethe, Mr. O’Callahan. Stew in your rage until your entire body becomes pruney from it.

It was terrible to take such delight in a man’s misery, but delight in it she did. Catherine kept her face from betraying her glee. She’d known he couldn’t resist her words. That was why she’d left the door unlocked. The last thing she wanted was for him to break it down. And knowing him, he most certainly would have done it had she tried to bar him from her house.

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. He wouldn’t escape her clutches until she had exacted five years of rejection from his rotten hide.

“Did you need something?” she asked coolly.

O’Connell forced the emotions from his face as he swept his hat from his head. How could she stand there so all-fired calm and dismiss him like an old shoe?

Well, he wasn’t some old shoe, to be cast aside and forgotten. They had been more than merely intimate. The woman had actually touched his unrepentant soul. And after all the years he had tortured himself with guilt over his actions, she had forgotten him?

Oh, he wasn’t about to leave here until he made her remember what they’d shared. Stepping into her house, he closed the door behind him.

“What do you mean, you got over me?” he asked again as he closed the short distance between them.

She shrugged casually. “It’s been five years, Mr. O’Callahan.”

As if he needed her reminder. It had been five long, gut-wrenching years of missing everything about her. Of feeling her presence, smelling her scent. Of longing to hear her voice, feel her tender caresses on his flesh.

Like an arrogant fool, he had assumed she’d missed him as well. Obviously, he’d been wrong.

Well, he wasn’t going to let her know how much it bothered him. If she wanted to play this with a cool hand, he was certainly one to give it right back to her. He could hide his emotions better than anyone else alive. Indeed, how many times had that trait made her loco?

“You’re right, Mrs. O’Callahan,” O’Connell said in a deceptively calm voice. “It has been five long years. For the sake of old times, could you at least tell me where I might find a doctor for my foot?”

A becoming pink stained her cheeks as she glanced down to his injured member. “I’m afraid Dr. Watson died a few months back and as yet we have no replacement. But since I’m the one who burned you, I’ll tend it.”

“Well it would definitely appreciate that since it is throbbing.”

And now that he mentioned it, the other it was throbbing, too. Especially as his gaze dipped of its own volition to her succulent breasts. His body grew even hotter and stiffer as his palm itched to caress the firm round mounds, and his mouth watered to suckle the soft pink tips until they hardened into rippled buds under his tongue.

And she felt nothing for him.

Nothing.

Stifling his growl, he vowed that that would soon change. If it was the last thing he did, he would make her remember how good they were together.

How much pleasure he could give her.

And if any other man had dared enter her bed in the last five years, the law could add the crime of murder to his wanted poster.

“If you’re through ogling me,” she said, “I keep my medicinal basket in the back.”

“I wasn’t ogling you,” O’Connell muttered, unwilling to admit to her what he’d been doing.

She headed down a narrow hallway toward the back of the house. “Then please forgive me,” Catherine said over her shoulder. “I guess after five years, I’ve forgotten what an ogle looks like.”

Biting back his response, O’Connell limped his way down the narrow hallway, past the stairs. He looked around at the burgundy walls and the paintings lining the hallway. She had a beautiful home. He just wished he’d been the one to give it to her.

Even worse, a homey feel enveloped her boardinghouse.

There had been a time once, long ago, when he had dreamed of having such a place to call home. And the thought of sharing such a place with Catherine had been his idea of paradise.

But fate had turned her back on him and he had long given up that delusion. He could never have a life with her. He knew that.

“Nice place you have here,” he said.

“Thank you. I made the down payment on it with the money you left behind.”

“See?” he said defensively as he limped. “I wasn’t all bad.”

“Which is why I don’t hate you.”

O’Connell cursed under his breath. Back to square one. That hadn’t helped his case the least little bit.

He wanted her anger, her hatred. He wanted … no, he corrected, he needed her to feel something for him. Something other than apathy.

There had to be some way to stir her up.

He paused in the doorway of the kitchen as she crossed the floor to put the apron and glass in a wooden trash receptacle. “If you’ll sit at the table and remove your boot, I’ll be right back with the burn salve.”

She disappeared into a room off the kitchen.

O’Connell crossed the floor to the table. He set his hat down on the table, shrugged off his duster, then straddled the wooden bench seat and did as she ordered.

Grimacing in pain, he removed his scorched sock. He had to admit his foot had looked better. And it had most definitely felt better.

He blew air at his throbbing toes, noting the reddish skin that was already showing signs of blistering.

Damn, but it hurt. Even more so than his nose had when she’d accidentally smacked him in the face with a broom handle because of some spider web she couldn’t stand being in the corner of the room. Personally, he’d have much rather suffered the spider than the broken nose.

Being around Catherine could be quite dangerous to one’s health. Though, to be fair to her, he’d never seen her clumsy around anyone but him.

Then again, he’d never really minded her clumsiness, since she had such wonderful ways of making amends for it.

His breath caught in his throat at the memory of how she had made amends for his nose. Closing his eyes, he could still see her lowering herself down on him, feel her mouth teasing his flesh. Her teeth nibbling him all over.

And his body grew harder, hotter, until he could barely stand it.

Lord above, but she had such a sweet little mouth that tasted like honey and felt like hot silk as it slid over his flesh.

It really was true a body couldn’t feel pain and pleasure simultaneously. Because when she teased his flesh with her tongue and teeth, all his pain evaporated like dew on a hot July morning.

Catherine returned to the kitchen, carrying a small wicker basket in her hand. She placed it on the table beside his hat, then leaned over to examine his foot. A stern frown drew her brows together. “Did I do all that?”

“Yes, you did,” he said petulantly.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’d best get some butter for it.” As she reached for the porcelain butter jar on the table, she accidentally brushed the wicker basket off the side.

It landed straight on his injured foot.

O’Connell sucked his breath in between his teeth as pain exploded up his leg.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated as she bent over to retrieve the basket.

His gaze feasted hungrily on the site of her round bottom as she fished for the basket under the table. Oh, but she had such a nice, round bottom. One that felt incredible under his hands, or against his loins.

He forgot all about his foot until she straightened, teetered ever so slightly, then grabbed his injured foot to steady herself.

This time he cursed out loud.

Color exploded across her face. “I’m—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, cutting her off. “I know you didn’t mean to, just please give my foot time enough to recuperate before you do anything else to it.”

Her cheeks darkened even more as she set the basket back on the table. “It’s your own fault, you know.”

“How is that?”

“You make me nervous,” she confessed.

“I make you nervous?” he asked in disbelief. If anyone had a right to be nervous, it should be him, since he never knew what injury she might inflict on him next.

“Yes, you do. The way you sit there and stare at me like I’m some prime roast and you haven’t eaten anything in a week. It’s quite disconcerting, Mr. O’Callahan. If you must know.”

He stopped fanning his foot and looked up at her. “Why did you never tell me that before?”

“I used to not mind the way you looked at me.”

“And now?”

“I mind it and I wish you’d stop.”

O’Connell locked his jaw at her words. There had to be some way to chisel away the ice around her.

Of course, he’d never in his life had to practice chiseling ice away from a woman. Women had always melted in his presence. They had only shown a token resistance before lifting their skirts to him.

Catherine had been the only one he’d ever courted. But then, she’d always been different in his book. Her shy innocence had been what captivated him. The way her smile carried all the warmth of the sun in it.

Pete had mocked him for his love of her. “The woman’s as plain as yesterday’s bread.”

But to him, she’d always been beautiful.

Catherine leaned over him and gently spread the butter on his foot. Her light touch shook him to his core, and a thousand needles of pleasure tore through him.

In spite of himself, he smiled. Her ministrations on his foot reminded him of how they first met.

He’d just turned nineteen and had only been working for her father a few weeks. The main gate to her house had been damaged by a storm and he’d been trying to patch it when all of a sudden she had come riding up over the hill like the Devil himself was chasing her. He had barely ducked out of the way before her horse leapt over him.

The post he’d been hammering into the ground slipped sideways and as he tried to grab it, the hammer had fallen from his hand and crashed down on his toes, breaking the little one. If that hadn’t been painful enough, the entire post had also fallen on him.

She had instantly turned around and come back to check on him. Even now he could see her in the dark green riding habit that had no doubt cost more than a year’s worth of his pay as she helped him push the post off his legs. Without any thought to her dress, she had knelt down on the muddy ground, carefully removed his boot, and checked on his toe even while he told her not to.

She had insisted that since she broke it, she should tend it.

That had been the first time in his life anyone had ever truly been kind to him without expecting something back in return.

Later that night when she brought out a tray of steak, potatoes, and biscuits to the bunkhouse he shared with the rest of the ranch hands, he’d known he was in love.

She had looked like an angel coming through the door with that large silver tray in her hands.

And that stupid daisy she’d put on it … The other men had mocked him for weeks after that. But he hadn’t cared.

Nothing had mattered to him, except her smile.

“You’re doing it again,” Catherine snapped, drawing his attention back to the present as she reached for her burn ointment. Her touch even more gentle, she spread it over his burned toes.

“Doing what?” he asked.

“Ogling me.”

O’Connell smiled at her. “Do you know why I’m ogling you?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Because you’re still the most beautiful woman on earth.”

Disbelief was etched onto her face as she straightened and looked at him. “Is that why you left me?”

“No.”

“Then tell me why.”

3

O’Connell barely caught himself before he spilled the truth out. Now as then, he couldn’t stand the thought of her knowing what he’d been.

What he’d become.

He’d never been proud of what desperation and family obligation had led him to. He knew he should have walked away from Pete and his crazy schemes years ago. But every time he thought about hurting Pete, he remembered his childhood, when Pete had been the only thing that stood between him and starvation.

The world was a harsh, cold place for two orphans alone, and filled with unscrupulous people who would quickly take advantage of them. But Pete, who was seven years older than him, had always kept him safe.

If only Pete could let him go. Unfortunately, his big brother saw them as inseparable twins joined at the hip.

And no matter what he did to escape, his brother managed to track him down like some possessed bloodhound.

No, there was no way he could ever have her while Pete trailed him. Sooner or later, his brother would show up and use her as leverage against him—just as he’d done five years ago in Nevada.

O’Connell could only stand strong against Pete when just the two of them were involved.

Catherine made him weak. Vulnerable.

Besides, she was a good woman, with a good heart and he would rather she think him a sorry good-for-nothing lowlife, than ever learn she’d married an outlaw. No good could come of her knowing the truth.

So he answered her question with the first stupid answer that occurred to him. “I don’t know.”

She arched one dark brown brow at him as she lifted her gaze from his foot to his face. “You don’t know?”

“It just seemed like the right thing to do,” he offered as a consolation.

By the irate look on her face, he realized too late he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Catherine narrowed her eyes on him. “Why don’t you just go and…” her voice trailed off.

He waited for her to finish.

She didn’t. Instead, she stared strangely at his right arm.

“And?” he prompted.

She stepped around the bench until she rested by his side. She grabbed at the sleeve of his black shirt, and bent down to look closer at it. The contact brought her head right up under his nose. His gut wrenched. She still smelled like springtime. Her hair held that same delectable scent of fresh flowers and warmth.

And right then, all he wanted to do was lay her down on the kitchen table, lift her skirt up, and bury himself deep inside her warm body.

It took all of his willpower not to yield to that desire as the scent of her circled him, making him dizzy. Hungry. Inciting him beyond thought or reason.

A full minute passed before he realized she was staring at his blood on her hand.

“You’re bleeding?” she asked.

Unwilling to explain to her that Pete had shot him as he ran off with the stolen money, he rose to his feet. “I probably should be going now.”

“Sit!” The sharp tone coming from her was so unexpected and out of character that he actually obeyed.

“Take your shirt off and let me see what you’ve done now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured sarcastically as he unbuttoned his shirt and obliged her.

Catherine opened her basket, then made the mistake of glancing back to him.

His slow, languid movements captured her gaze as those long, strong fingers of his worked the buttons through the black cambric. She had always loved those hands. The way they felt laced in hers, the pleasure and comfort they had always managed to give her.

Her throat dried at the memory.

He opened his shirt, then set to work on the buttons of his white union suit. And with every white button that opened, she saw more and more of his perfect, tawny flesh.

She had forgotten just how nerve-wracking the sight of his bare skin could be. The years had done nothing but make his muscles leaner, more defined. And all too well she remembered what it felt like to slide her hand over those taut ripples. The way his hard stomach felt sliding against her own as he held himself above her and drove her into paradise with long, luscious strokes.

Her body growing hot, it took all her concentration to force herself to reach for the makeshift bandage on his right biceps. His arm flexed seductively as her fingers brushed his skin, and a jolt of molten lust tore through her. There were few things on earth that felt better than those hard, strong biceps flexing beneath her hands.

Catherine clenched her teeth in frustration. How could he make her so breathless after what he had put her through?

Why was her body so determined to betray her? And right then, she wished desperately for an off switch to stop the overwhelming desire coursing through her veins.

Tend his wound, tend his wound—she mentally repeated the words over and over, hoping to gain some control over herself.

I will not succumb to him!

By all that was holy, she wouldn’t.

Untying his bandage, Catherine immediately saw the bullet wound. “You’ve been shot?”

“And can you believe it wasn’t by you?”

She stiffened at his playful tone. “You’re not funny.”

“Not even a little?”

“I told you, Mr. O’Callahan, I’m immune to your charms.”

Don’t you wish! If only she could live up to those brave words.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” he snapped at her. “I have a name and you used to use it.”

She didn’t dare use it right then, because if she did, she had no doubt she would be his to do with as he pleased. Just the sound of those syllables on her tongue would be enough to finish her off.

She struggled to bring herself under control. “I used to do a lot of things with you that I don’t do anymore.”

“Such as?”

“Use your imagination.”

That silver-gray gaze dipped to her breasts, which drew tight and heavy at his heated perusal. “Oh, I’m using it, all right. And I can well imagine the sound of your sighs of pleasure in my ear as I nibble the flesh of your neck. Do you remember?”

“No,” she lied, her voice amazingly calm.

But in spite of her denials, she felt her body melt against the heat of that silver-gray stare. Even worse, she could smell the warm, uniquely masculine scent of him. It was all she could do not to bury her face in the crook of his neck and inhale the intoxicating scent.

Tend his wound, tend his wound! She forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand.

“Is the bullet still in there?” she asked as she examined the hole in his arm.

“Woman,” he said huskily, his gaze never leaving her breasts, “right now I have a loaded gun just waiting to…” his voice trailed off.

He finally looked up and met her gaze, but she couldn’t read anything in the smoldering depths of his eyes except the raw hunger that scorched her through and through. “Did I just say that out loud?”

She nodded.

He cleared his throat and looked across the room. “No,” he said quickly. “The bullet passed clean through.”

Disregarding his answer, she gingerly examined the wound to see for herself. As he predicted, it looked to be clean. “It needs to be stitched.”

He met her gaze again. Only three inches separated their faces and she could feel his breath on her face as he spoke. “Then by all means, have at it. I’m sure nothing would give you greater pleasure than to take a needle to my hide.”

She should take pleasure in it, but she knew she wouldn’t. How could she ever delight in hurting the man who had stolen her heart?

But she would never let him know that. Not after he’d hurt her. No, she’d never let him know just how much power he still held over her.

Never.

“Actually, I won’t feel anything,” she said, reaching for her basket.

O’Connell clenched his teeth in repressed frustration.

I won’t feel anything, he mocked silently as she reached for a needle and thread.

You stitch the wound, and when you’re finished, I promise you you’ll feel something, all right. She was going to remember his touch if it was the last thing he did.

O’Connell felt himself harden even more as she placed the thread between her lips and licked it. The tip of her tongue poked out as she threaded the needle.

I can’t stand this. His mind screamed from the needless torment. If he didn’t know better, he would swear she did it on purpose.

When she set to work on his wound, he felt no pain, only the pleasure of her soft hands against his bare flesh. Her breath fell against his shoulder as she leaned so close to him he could smell the fresh sunshine of her.

Over and over he could envision letting her hair down and burying his hands in the thick waves. Feeling it fall across his chest as he placed her above him and feasted on those plump, luscious breasts.

Catherine could barely steady her hand as she closed the wound. Her memory of touching his hard, hot muscles couldn’t compete with the reality of her hand against him now.

Her head swam at the contact. Worse, she could feel his heat surrounding her, feel his breath against her neck. His shoulder pressing against her right breast.

A thousand chills shot through her. It was all she could do not to moan and demand he take her right then and there. Oh, it was torturous. Especially after all the years she had yearned to see him again, all the years she had lain awake remembering the feel of him lying against her. The feel of him sliding inside her.

After what seemed an eternity, she finished the four tiny stitches that closed the wound. She had barely tied the knot off when he reached up, cupped her face in his hand, and took possession of her lips.

Catherine sighed at the contact.

He’d been the only man who had ever kissed her and the taste of him had been branded into her memory long, long ago.

He pulled her to him possessively and sat her down on the bench before him as he plundered her mouth.

Catherine buried her hands in his silken hair and pressed her breasts against his hot, naked chest. She should stop him, she knew it. But for her life she didn’t want to. All she wanted was to savor him like she’d done all those years ago.

Volcanic heat poured through her body, pooling itself between her legs as she ached for him in the most primitive of ways. She wanted him desperately. And only he could pacify the aching heat that demanded his body inside hers.

He was her husband and the part of her that still loved him came rushing to the forefront. Under the assault of his scorching kiss, that part of her took possession of her common sense and forced it to flee her mind.

Before she knew what was happening, she felt her hair fall down around her shoulders and it was only then that he pulled back from her lips to kiss her cheek, her eyelid, the tip of her nose. His lips were hot and moist as they branded a fiery trail over her face.

“My precious Catherine,” he whispered in her ear. “Let me love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

She felt his hands unbuttoning her shirtwaist. She wanted to tell him no, but in truth she couldn’t. The words lodged in her throat because deep down she wanted him. She had always wanted him, and no matter how badly he had hurt her, there was still a part of her that needed him.

And she gave herself over to that part.

He opened her shirtwaist, then buried those hot lips against the tops of her breasts as his hands reached around back to unlace her corset. She sighed in pleasure as she buried her face in his hair and inhaled the wicked, warm scent that was her husband.

O’Connell’s head swam from the scent of her as he buried his face between the soft mounds of her breasts and licked her salty skin. It had been so long since he tasted her, felt her, and he knew that he would spend the rest of this night making up for the five years they had been apart.

The five long years he had been without a woman.

In her arms, he had always felt that anything was possible. That he could do anything, be anything. No other person had ever lifted him to the heights of goodness and pleasure that she did.

She was the one truth in his life that he could depend on. The one person he truly needed.

He ran his tongue over the tops of her breasts, delighting in the way she shivered in his arms as he struggled with the corset laces.

And at that moment he despised whoever had invented the cursed thing. It had to be some old, doddering matron seeking to preserve her daughter’s virtue, for no man would ever design so inconvenient a contraption.

At last he loosened it to where he could free her breasts to his hungry mouth.

Catherine cupped his head to her as she stifled a moan of pure pleasure. His hand caressed her swollen breasts, drawing the taut nipples so tight she could barely stand it. Heat tore through her body as an ache started deep in the center of her. It was a familiar longing that she only felt in his presence.

No other man had ever aroused her the way he did. No one. And she doubted if anyone ever could.

And then his hands were under her skirt, stroking and teasing as they skimmed over her calves and thighs. One hand cupped her buttocks as he wrapped his other arm around her and drew her up tight against him.

He reclaimed her lips for one hungry, pulsating kiss, then pulled back.

He cupped her face in his hands and tilted her head to look at him. His lips were swollen from her kisses and he stared at her as if he were dreaming.

The need and hunger in that silver-gray gaze mesmerized her. Her breathing ragged, she could do nothing but stare up at him in wonderment.

“Say my name,” he demanded, stroking her swollen lips gently with his knuckles.

She hesitated.

But what was the point? She had already surrendered herself to him. And for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she wanted to please him.

“Michael,” she breathed.

He smiled, then returned to torture her mouth with sweet bliss.

He rose with her in his arms. “Where’s your room?”

“In there,” she said, pointing to the back hallway and the room on the left.

Limping all the way, he carried her to it then shut the door with the heel of his burned foot. “Where’s the lamp?”

Catherine squirmed out of his arms and moved to find her chest of drawers to the left of the door. Too dark to see, she groped along the smooth top as he came up behind her and cupped her breasts in his hands.

She moaned as he toyed with her and heat swept through her body.

“You’re making this difficult,” she said, then sighed at the feel of his lips on the back of her neck as he pressed his swollen shaft against her hip.

He gave one last possessive squeeze to her breasts, then released her. “Light the lamp,” he said, his voice ragged. “I want to see you. All of you.”

Quickly, she found the glass lamp. Lifting the globe, she took one of the matches beside it and lit it. She turned the wick down to a low, warm glow that made their shadows dance on the far wall.

Michael came up behind her again and placed a kiss on her shoulder as his arms wrapped around her waist to pull her close to his chest. She leaned her head back, savoring the feel of him. The strength and warmth in his powerful arms. His deep groan echoed in her ears and she sighed contentedly.

Slowly, he began undoing her clothes.

“Michael, what—”

“Shh,” he said, placing a finger to her lips. “I want to savor you like a wrapped gift. Slowly. Carefully and with relish.”

And so he did. She didn’t move as he took her shirtwaist off, then her skirt and petticoats. Her corset went next, exposing her upper body to him. She shivered from the cool air against their skin, but his hot gaze warmed her as he untied her pantaloons, then dropped them to the floor.

She swallowed as she stood naked before him.

O’Connell thought he’d go mad as he stared at her bare body. Not even his memory had been able to hold on to the true beauty that was his Catherine.

And for this one night she was his.

All his.

He reached out and ran one hand over her right breast, delighting in the way her nipple hardened to his touch. Then, he trailed his hand over her abdomen to the curls at the juncture of her thighs. She moaned as he slid his fingers against her.

His mind reeled at the hotness of her body, at the sleek wetness in his hand. She was as ready for him as he was for her, but he didn’t want to rush this.

He wanted this night to last a lifetime.

“I am going to savor you,” he told her. “Every single inch of you.”

Catherine couldn’t respond verbally. Her mind numb, she could do nothing more than watch him watch her.

He picked her up again and carried her to the bed, where he removed her shoes, then carefully rolled down her stockings, nibbling her legs as he went.

As she started to sit up, he held her in place with one hand and shook his head. “Let me look at you lying there. I want to see you naked in your bed.”

And look he did. His gaze traveled from the top of her head down to her breasts, to her stomach, her hips and legs, and then it returned to the center of her body, which thrummed with a hot, demanding need.

He lifted his hands to her thighs and spread her legs wider.

“Michael—”

“Let me look at you.”

So she did, and his look burned even more than his touch. He leaned his head down and placed a tender kiss just below her belly button. His hot breath scorched her as his teeth tormented her flesh. He trailed his kisses lower, down to the inside of her thighs. Catherine closed her eyes and moaned as his lips brushed up against the center of her body.

Then he pulled back.

As if sensing how she ached for him, he quickly shed his own clothes, then climbed up between her legs. His entire body caressed hers in a long, luscious stroke.

She moaned at the erotic pleasure it delivered as her body arched to meet his. She felt him from the tips of her toes to the tips of her aching breasts, all the way to her forehead, where he placed a tender kiss.

His hot, stiff shaft rested on her belly.

Wanting him too badly to wait, she reached down between their bodies and stroked the velvety hardness of him. He hissed in her ear as she cupped him gently, then sought to guide him into her.

But he would have none of it.

Without entering her, Michael rolled to her side before his mouth returned to hers. He skimmed his hand over her body, then buried it between her legs.

Catherine hissed in pleasure as her hips lifted instinctively toward his hand.

He pulled back to stare down at her. “So,” he whispered as his fingers toyed with the sensitive flesh between her thighs. He plunged one finger deep inside her, swirling it around and teasing her with pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Do you remember me now?”

“Yes,” she gasped as his fingers did the most wicked things to her body.

He teased and toyed, his fingers circling and delving, faster and faster, until she was breathless from her aching need.

“And do you remember this?” he asked as he circled the core of her body with his thumb.

“Yes,” she gasped again as her entire body throbbed.

He smiled a tender smile. “Now tell me what you want.”

“I want to feel you deep inside me. Now.”

He released her.

Catherine whimpered until he picked her up and moved her yet again. “What are you doing now?”

He led her to where her mirror stood in the corner. “You’ll see,” he whispered in her ear, raising chills on her arms.

He stood her before the mirror, where she could watch his hands as they caressed her body, kneaded her breasts, and masterfully stroked the flesh of her stomach.

He brushed her hair over her right shoulder to where it covered most of her and buried his lips in the curve of her neck.

Reaching up over her head, she buried her hand in his hair and groaned in pleasure.

“You still smell like sunshine,” he whispered in her ear before swirling his tongue over the sensitive flesh. And when he plunged his tongue inside her ear, she melted and moaned as her entire body erupted into flames.

Catherine trembled all over as she watched his hands cup her breasts possessively. He pressed them, kneaded them, caressed them until she could barely stand it.

“I want to touch you,” she said hoarsely, trying to turn around in his arms.

He stopped her. “You will,” he said. “But not yet. Not until I devour you.”

“Then devour me.”

His rich laugh echoed in her ear. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered. “I’m more than happy to oblige you.”

And then he trailed kisses down her spine. Slowly, methodically, covering every tiny inch of her flesh. She didn’t know how her legs managed to keep her standing, for they trembled until she was sure she would fall.

His warm breath caressed her flesh as his hot, wet mouth teased her skin. He paused at the small of her back, his tongue gently stroking her buttocks. His hands circled around in front of her as he knelt on the floor at her feet.

Then his lips kissed the backs of her thighs, her knees, her calves, and when he got to her ankles, she jumped in erotic pleasure.

He laughed, then nudged her legs farther apart.

Fevered and hot, she did as he wanted and watched in the mirror as he positioned his body between her legs and kissed the front of her knees, her thighs.

He paused at the juncture of her thighs.

Her gaze transfixed by the sight of him in the looking glass, Catherine’s entire body pulsed as his hot breath scorched her skin. He ran his left hand through her dark, short curls, kneading her erotically. Then, using both hands, he gently separated the tender folds and buried his mouth at the center of her body.

Tremors of ecstasy shook her.

O’Connell wanted to shout in victory as he tasted the most private part of her. She was his and this part of her was for him alone.

He would never share her! Never.

He ran his tongue over her, delighting in her moans and sighs. In the taste of her body, hot and moist against his starving tongue.

“Please,” she begged. “I can’t stand any more.”

He nipped her tender flesh. “Oh, yes, you can, my love. I’ve only started with you.”

Deciding he had tortured the two of them enough for the moment, he moved to nibble the sensitive flesh of her hip. She buried her hand in his hair. He delighted in the feel of her hands on his scalp.

More hurriedly than before, he kissed his way up her body until he could bury his lips in the hollow of her throat.

He held her tightly against him, reveling in the feel of her naked flesh against his, the feel of her tight nipples burning into his chest.

Catherine lifted one leg up to cup him to her as she arched her body against him, needing desperately to be closer to his heat. His lips burned her throat. She rubbed her hips against his in a silent plea for him to have mercy on her and to squelch the fire scorching her from the inside out.

To her chagrin, he pulled back. Then he took her hands in his and braced them on the frame of the mirror as he moved to stand behind her.

She met his lustful, hot gaze in the mirror. Never had she seen such a look of love and lust intermingled. His breathing ragged, he whispered to her, “I want to see you see me take you.”

And then with one powerful stroke he drove himself up inside her. She sucked her breath in sharply at the feel of his fullness stroking her.

“Oh, yes, Michael, yes!” she cried out.

O’Connell thought he would perish at the sound of his name on her lips while she surrendered herself to him.

At that moment, he knew what paradise meant. Nothing could ever be more pleasurable than being with the woman he loved, hearing her sighs, and feeling her body from the inside out.

“Show me,” he said in her ear. “Show me that you remember me.”

She hesitated only an instant before she lifted herself on her tiptoes, drawing her body up to the tip of his shaft. Just as he was sure she’d drive him out, she dropped herself back against him, wringing a deep-seated moan of pleasure from him. He ground his teeth in the bittersweet torture of her milking his body with hers.

To hell with dreams! he thought rabidly. They were nothing compared to this reality. To the true feeling of her body sliding against his.

Catherine smiled at the look of ecstasy on his face as she watched him in the mirror. Unabashed, she gave him what he wanted and took what she needed. Perspiration broke out on his forehead as he met her gaze in the glass.

She could feel her body starting to teeter, to spiral to the pinnacle only he had ever shown her.

But before she would go there, she wanted something else from him. She delivered one last, long stroke to him, then paused.

He arched a questioning brow.

“Did you ever remember me?” she asked.

“Every minute of every hour. I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

The sincerity in his gaze told her he spoke the truth. Joy spread through her as she again rocked herself against him, then pulled away.

He looked at her questioningly.

“I want to hold you when it happens.”

Unwilling to make the short distance to the bed, he laid her down on the floor and again entered her.

Catherine moaned at the sensation of him thrusting between her legs as she encircled his body with hers. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she ran her hands down his spine and cupped his buttocks to her, urging him on. Her pleasure mounted higher and higher until she felt herself slipping again.

This time she let herself teeter over the edge.

Crying out, she shook as tremors of pure pleasure tore through her.

Still he thrusted, deepening her ecstasy until he threw his head back and cried out as well.

With a contented sigh, he collapsed on top of her and she reveled in the weight of him.

It had been too long. Far too long.

O’Connell couldn’t breathe or move. Not until the throbbing returned to his arm and foot. “Ow,” he breathed.

“Ow?” she repeated.

“My foot,” he said as he rolled off her. “It’s hurting again.”

A blush stained her cheeks. She rose slowly from the floor and reached her hand out to him. “I think I know a way to make you forget about that.”

He smiled and rose to her invitation. She took him to the bed and laid him back against the soft, feather mattress.

Surrendering himself to her whims, he watched as she crawled up his body like a naked wildcat. She wriggled her hips and then straddled his body.

O’Connell moaned at the feel of the hairs at the juncture of her thighs caressing his bare flesh as she sat down upon his stomach. She leaned forward, spilling her breasts across his chest as she wiggled that delectable bottom against him.

“Now let’s see how much I remember,” she whispered before burying her lips just below his ear. “Does this help the pain?”

“A little,” he moaned.

She trailed kisses over his skin until she got to his chest. She stroked his nipple with her tongue and he hissed in pleasure. She nibbled him ever so gently.

“And that?” she asked.

“A little better than before,” he said.

“Still not gone entirely?”

He shook his head.

“Well, then, let’s see what it takes.”

She moved to his side and as she bent over him her hair fell against his flesh, raising chills all over him. She lashed his chest with her hair, over and over, and he arched his back against the pleasurable beating.

“Better?” she asked.

“Somewhat.”

She arched a brow. “Somewhat?”

He shrugged.

Her smile was wicked and warm. “In that case…”

She lowered her head and took him into her mouth. O’Connell pressed his head back into the pillows as his entire body jerked in pleasure.

“Catherine,” he said hoarsely. “Next time, you can set fire to my entire body if that’s the cure for it.”

She laughed against him. “Don’t tempt me,” she said, looking up an instant before she returned to the part of him that was steadily growing larger. Harder.

Before he could move, she straddled him again and lowered herself on his shaft. “How’s that?”

“Hot and wet, just like I like it,” he said.

And this time when they came, it was in unison.

O’Connell didn’t know what time they finally fell asleep. All he knew was that for the first time in five years, his body had been fully sated. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this good. This free.

He cradled Catherine’s slumbering form against his chest and buried his face in her hair. If he could, he would die right then and there.

Because with the dawn that would invariably come, he knew he would have to leave her. And he would rather be dead than walk out on her again.

But he had no choice.

4

Catherine awoke to the sound and feel of Michael’s breathing in her ear, to the warmth of his body pressed against her own. It had been so long since she last had the pleasure of him sleeping by her side.

How could she have told him she didn’t remember, when all she did was remember the feel of him? The smell of him? The essence of him?

And how could she ever reject a man she loved so dearly?

Catherine opened her eyes and saw him lying on his side, facing her. His left leg snuggled between hers, he had his left arm draped possessively across her body.

Impulsively, she brushed the brown wisps of hair off his forehead and placed a tender kiss to his brow.

“I still love you,” she whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear her. That was one thing about Michael—once he slept, it would take the end of the world to wake him.

She heard footsteps outside in the kitchen. Afraid it was one of the children or Rebecca, someone who might enter her room to wake her, she quickly got up and dressed.

With one last look to savor the sight of him sleeping naked in her bed, she drew her quilt up over his sleeping form and tiptoed from the room.

Entering the kitchen, she didn’t see anyone.

How strange.

She had definitely heard someone a moment ago.

With a frown, she walked into the parlor where they had placed the Christmas tree and toys. To the right of the tree, hidden in the shadows, she found her daughter, Diana, cradling the doll St. Nick had brought her.

Catherine paused, staring at the product of her love for Michael. Diana was a bit small for her four years. She had Catherine’s long, wavy dark hair and Michael’s silver-gray eyes. It never failed to amaze Catherine that something so pretty and smart had come from her.

Smiling, she approached her daughter who looked up, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Diana, what is it?” she asked, instantly concerned as she knelt by her side. She brushed the dark bangs back from her daughter’s face.

“He didn’t come,” Diana whimpered as a solitary tear fell down her face.

“Of course St. Nick came, sweetling. You have the doll and everything.”

“No, Mama, he didn’t come,” she repeated, hugging her doll even closer as more tears fell. “It was all I wanted for Christmas and he didn’t come.”

“Who, baby?”

“Daddy,” she sobbed.

Catherine’s breath caught in her throat at the unexpected word. Diana had only started asking about her father a few short months ago, and the fact that he had shown up in the night …

It was enough to give one the shivers.

“What are you talking about?” Catherine asked her daughter.

“You told me St. Nick could make miracles, remember, Mama?”

“Yes.”

“And I told you I wanted a special miracle.”

“I thought you meant the doll.”

Diana shook her head. “I wanted St. Nick to bring me my daddy. I wanted to see his eyes like mine.”

Catherine wrapped her arms around her small daughter and held her close. She wasn’t sure what she should do. Part of her wanted to take Diana into the bedroom to meet her father, and the other part of her was too terrified of how Michael might react.

She should have told him last night, but she had turned coward.

It was one thing for him to abandon her. She could deal with it. But hurting Diana was another matter.

No, it would be best to wait and tell him about their daughter when Diana wasn’t around. That way only she would be hurt if he ran for the door. Again.

With the edge of her shawl, Catherine wiped Diana’s eyes. “No tears on Christmas, please?”

Diana sniffed them back.

She kissed the top of Diana’s little dark head and squeezed her tight. “I’ll talk to St. Nick after breakfast and see what I can do.”

“But he’s already gone back to the North Pole.”

“I know, sweetling, but didn’t anyone ever tell you that mommies have a special way of letting St. Nick know what their babies want?”

Diana wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “After breakfast?”

Catherine nodded. “Keep your fingers crossed and maybe he can manage something.”

“I will. I promise.”

She smiled at those silver-gray eyes that shone with innocence. “Good girl. Now go check your stockings and see what else St. Nick might have left while I go start breakfast.”

Diana scooted out of her arms and Catherine rose slowly to her feet.

In truth, she felt ill. Her stomach knotted. How would she break the news to Michael?

Would he even care?

Taking a deep breath for courage, she knew one way or the other she had to tell him. Even an irresponsible scoundrel deserved to know he had fathered a beautiful little girl who wanted nothing more than to meet him.

“Just don’t hurt her,” she whispered. “Because if you do, I’ll kill you for it.”

*   *   *

O’Connell came awake slowly to the smell of bacon and coffee, and the sound of children laughing outside his door. At first he thought it was a dream.

How many times had he yearned to experience just such a morning?

Many more times than he could count.

“Catherine, do I need to set extra plates for whoever was at the door last night? I didn’t know if he, she, or them stayed, or what.”

He heard Catherine’s mumbled reply through the walls, but couldn’t make out any of her words.

All of a sudden the memory of the night before came crashing back through him.

It had been real. All of it. This was no dream. He was, in fact, sleeping in Catherine’s bed on Christmas morning.

O’Connell leaned his head back into the pillow as an overwhelming joy ripped through him. He felt like shouting or singing or doing something. Anything to celebrate such a glorious event.

Impulsively, he pulled Catherine’s pillow to him and inhaled the fresh sunshine smell of her. Intoxicated, he listened to the children sing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” as someone jingled china and silverware.

“It’s not a dream,” he whispered.

He laughed softly as raw euphoria invaded every piece of him. He had his Christmas miracle.

Smiling, he rose from the bed and dressed, then made the bed up. Catherine had always complained he twisted the sheets into knots and she hated a messy bed.

This would be his gift to her.

He left the room warily and made sure no one spied him lest Catherine have some serious explaining to do. The last thing she needed was a tarnished reputation, and the last thing he needed was nosy questions he couldn’t answer.

He saw the stairs behind him and made like he was coming from one of the rooms upstairs.

As he drew flush with the kitchen door, he saw Catherine standing in front of the stove, frying eggs.

He delighted at her trim form. She’d left her hair long in the back with a braid wound about the top of her head to keep it out of her eyes. Her dark green dress hugged every one of the curves he had feasted on the night before. And a white shawl draped becomingly over her shoulders.

Never had he seen a more glorious image, and he wished he could stay here forever.

“Rebecca?” Catherine called, stepping back from the stove and looking out the doorway on the opposite side of the room. “Are the children still outside?”

“Making snow angels, last I saw,” a woman called as she came into the room. The petite brunette stopped dead in her tracks as her gaze fell to him.

Catherine caught the woman’s gaze and turned to face him.

“Morning,” he greeted them.

Catherine blushed, and he didn’t miss the light that came into the short brunette’s eyes.

“Morning,” the brunette said warmly, suggestively.

Catherine cleared her throat. “Rebecca, this is our visitor from last night.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Rebecca said. “Mister…?”

“Burdette,” he said, falling into his most recent alias. “Tyler Burdette.”

He glanced to Catherine, who took his name in with a frown.

“I’ll just go set another place at the table for you, Mr. Burdette,” Rebecca said.

As soon as they were alone again, Catherine approached him, waving a spatula dripping with hot grease dangerously near his nose. “Tyler Burdette?” she asked in a miffed tone. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

That was a loaded question and he wasn’t sure how to answer it. Luckily another visitor, a man, spared him a few moments to think.

But to be honest, all he thought about was the fact that the distinguished-looking, gray-haired man spent a little too long staring at his Catherine.

“Miss Catherine?”

“Marshal McCall,” she said, stressing the title, no doubt for his benefit.

And it worked. O’Connell was immediately on guard.

By the look on the man’s face, it was obvious he wanted to ask Catherine something of a personal nature. Worse, the man stuttered and shifted nervously before he came out with, “I just came for my morning cup of coffee.”

O’Connell’s gaze narrowed. The damn man was infatuated with his wife.

He flinched as an image of her in the marshal’s arms tore through his mind.

Would the insults never cease?

As Catherine moved to fetch a cup of coffee, the marshal glanced to O’Connell. “How do?” he asked amiably enough.

“Just fine, Marshal,” O’Connell returned, trying to remain pleasant in spite of the urge he had to choke the man. “And you?”

The marshal frowned as he looked him up and down. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”

Probably from about a dozen or so wanted posters, but he didn’t dare say that. Instead, O’Connell shook his head. “I don’t know any marshals.” He made it his habit to avoid them at all costs.

“No?” the marshal asked. “You sure look familiar to me. You got any family in Reno?”

O’Connell shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

He seemed to accept that. But still he took a step forward and extended his hand. “Dooley McCall.”

“Tyler Burdette,” he said, shaking his proffered hand.

“Burdette,” the marshal repeated. “Nah, I don’t reckon I do know you after all.”

Catherine handed the marshal his coffee.

“Thank you, Miss Catherine. I keep telling my deputies no one on earth makes a better pot of coffee than you do.”

“Thank you, marshal.”

O’Connell didn’t miss the blush staining her cheeks. For a moment, he had to struggle to breathe. How dare she blush at another man. So what if he had been gone five years, it still didn’t give her the right to do that for someone else.

She was his wife, not the marshal’s.

The marshal nodded, then took his coffee and left.

O’Connell wasted no time sneaking to the doorway to see the marshal sitting in the parlor with a paper, sipping his coffee as if everything were right in the world.

“What the hell is a marshal doing here?” he asked Catherine in a low voice.

She gave him a haughty glare. “He lives here.”

“Lives here?” he repeated.

“I run a boardinghouse, remember? He’s one of my regular tenants.”

“Why would you let him live here?”

“I don’t know,” she said sarcastically. “Maybe I like having him here because it keeps out the riff-raff,” she said with a pointed stare, “and he pays two months’ rent in advance.”

Catherine didn’t miss the heated glare Michael gave her. Licking her lips, she felt a wave of misgiving run up her spine. Michael was entirely too interested in the marshal.

Something was wrong.

“Are you wanted?” she asked all of a sudden.

He stared at her with those clear silver-gray eyes. “It depends,” he said in a serious voice. “I was hoping you’d want me.”

Her breath caught. Did she dare hope that he might actually be able to settle down with her and Diana?

“And if I did?” she asked.

He looked back at the marshal. “This is a bad time. I really need to leave.”

“Leave?” she gasped. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you just got here. You can’t just show up on my doorstep, roll around in my bed, and then take flight as soon as the sun comes up. I thought we had shared something special last night. Or were they all lies again?”

He winced as if she’d struck him. “I’ve never lied to you, Catherine.”

“No. But you lied to my boarder and housekeeper. Is that not true, Mr. Tyler Burdette?”

“I—”

“Miss Catherine, Miss Catherine?” An excited boy came bursting through the kitchen with Pete’s saddlebags in his hands. The blond head bobbed as the kid jumped up and down. “I just found these outside by the front door, and look,” he said, flipping one open. “They’re filled with money! Can I keep it?”

O’Connell went cold as everything came together in his mind.

“I found this little orphanage in a town called Redwood,” Pete had said. “You’d probably like it a lot, Kid. It had a real homey feel to it.”

O’Connell cursed as his stomach drew tight. Pete knew. He had sent him purposefully to find Catherine.

Panic swept through him. That meant Pete wouldn’t be far behind. He had to get her to safety before his brother showed up and used her to drag him back into robbery.

But how? She’d never leave her business or her orphans.

“This is bad,” he whispered. “Real bad.”

Catherine looked into the saddlebags. “Where did this come from?” she asked the boy.

“I was told it was stolen from you,” O’Connell said as he double-checked where the marshal sat.

Looking up at him, Catherine frowned. “By whom?”

“Is it yours?” O’Connell asked, seeking to delay the inevitable explanation of how he’d come by her money. “Were you robbed?”

“Yes, we were. But how did you get it?”

So much for delaying the inevitable.

She looked at him sternly. “Did you take it?”

“No!” he barked. “How could you even ask that?”

“Well, what am I to think?” she asked as she set the saddlebags on the table and excused the boy.

She moved to stand just before him, hands on hips. “I thought I knew you, and yet every time I blink I learn something about you that scares me. Now tell me how it is you have my money.”

O’Connell didn’t have a chance. Before he could say a word, the back door opened to show Pete holding one of Catherine’s little girls in his arms.

“Knock, knock,” Pete drawled. He flashed an evil grin to O’Connell, then lifted the little girl’s face to where O’Connell could see her tear-streaked eyes. “Look what old Uncle Pete found out in the yard.”

5

O’Connell felt the air leave his lungs as he gazed into a pair of eyes indistinguishable from his own. They were set in a face that looked identical to Catherine’s, right down to the dark brown curls spilling over Pete’s arm.

In an instant, he recognized his daughter.

Sobbing uncontrollably, the girl looked to Catherine. “Help me, Mama! Make the mean man let me go.”

Catherine took a step toward the girl, but O’Connell grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop.

No one approached his brother. If Catherine tried to take the girl, there was no telling what Pete might do to her.

“Let her go, Pete,” O’Connell said, his calm voice belying the volatile state of his mind and body.

Pete gave an evil smile. “I told you in Oak River, you can’t escape me, Kid. Now I ask you again, are you coming with me or what?”

“Oak River?” he heard Catherine repeat under her breath.

That was the town where he’d left her. Only then, Pete had used Catherine as his leverage. It was either go with Pete to rob another bank or see his wife hurt.

After the robbery, O’Connell had lacked the heart to go back to her. He couldn’t face her after what he’d done for Pete. Worse, he knew that sooner or later Pete would show up again with the same threat.

And the last thing he wanted was to kill his brother for hurting his wife.

So long as there was life in his body, he would protect his Catherine.

You’re my second chance. That’s what O’Connell had told her on their wedding night. Catherine hadn’t known what he’d meant by it. But he had.

For a time, he had been stupid enough to believe it. But second chances were for fools.

And Catherine could never again be his.

“I’ll come with you, Pete. Just put her down.”

Pete nodded. “Good boy. I knew you’d see things my way once you saw them again.” Pete squeezed the girl’s cheeks and tilted her head up to where he could look into her face. “She is kind of cute, isn’t she?”

Rage infused every cell of O’Connell’s body. “Take your hands off her, Pete, or I’ll kill you for it.”

His brother met his gaze and for several seconds they stared at each other in mutual understanding. “You know. Kid, I believe you would.”

“You can count on it.”

O’Connell didn’t breathe again until Pete set the girl on her feet, and she ran to Catherine’s outstretched arms.

Pete glanced to Catherine and the little girl. “Since it’s Christmas and all, I’ll give you five minutes with them. I’ll be waiting outside by the horses.”

O’Connell waited for him to leave before he turned to face Catherine, who cradled the little girl to her chest.

His daughter.

He felt so much pride and delight, he thought his heart might burst. But the joy died as he remembered his brother waiting for him outside.

O’Connell reached a hand out to touch the dark brown curls. The softness of his daughter’s hair reached deep inside him, carving a place in his heart.

“She’s beautiful,” he breathed.

Catherine saw the pain deep inside him and she noted the tenseness of his hand on Diana’s hair. “Her name is Diana.”

He gave a bittersweet smile. “Named for your mother?”

She nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me about her in Nevada?” he asked, his eyes misting.

“I didn’t know I was pregnant until after you left.” She narrowed her gaze on him as she finally understood everything that had happened. “You left because of him, didn’t you?”

“He’s my brother,” he said simply. “I had no choice.”

“We always have choices.”

He shook his head. “No, we don’t. You don’t know what kind of man my brother is, but I do. I know he’s cruel, but I owe him. If not for Pete, I’d have never survived after the death of our parents. He’s harsh because that’s the way the world made him.”

“He’s harsh because he’s—”

O’Connell stopped her words by placing his fingers on her lips. His heart tearing apart, he leaned over, kissed her gently on the mouth, and whispered, “Until the day I die, I’ll always remember you.”

He touched Diana’s hair one last time, then he turned and walked away.

*   *   *

O’Connell met Pete by his pinto, which Pete must have saddled. His brother was as fair-haired and fair-skinned as O’Connell was dark. The two of them had always been opposites in most everything. Even Pete’s eyes were a brownish green.

And never before had O’Connell felt so much resentment and hatred for the brother who had once protected him.

“Why can’t you just let me go?” he asked Pete. “I’ve paid my debt to you a thousand times over.”

Pete gave him a hard glare. “You’re my family, Kid. Like it or hate it, it’s just you and me.” Pete smiled wickedly. “Besides, you’re the only man I know who can blow a safe and not destroy half the money with it.”

“You’re not funny.”

Pete shucked him on the shoulder. “Now, don’t get sore on me, Kid. You can do better than her. I told you that years ago. She ain’t nearly pretty enough for you.”

He grabbed Pete by his shirtfront. “I’m not a kid anymore, Pete, and I’m no longer scared of you. Catherine is my wife and she deserves your respect. If you ever say anything else against her, as God is my witness, I’ll tear your hide apart for it.”

For the first time in his life, he saw a glimmer of fear pass through Pete’s eyes. “All right, Kid. Whatever you say.”

O’Connell let him go. He had barely taken a step when he heard the front door of the boardinghouse open.

The marshal strode out across the porch with two men in tow. And all three of them carried shotguns in their arms. By the grim, determined looks on their faces, he knew what they wanted.

Him and Pete.

His blood went cold.

The marshal stared at Pete as he leveled the shotgun on them. “Pete O’Connell,” he said slowly. “Never did I expect to receive such a great Christmas present. Imagine the bounty of both O’Connell brothers.”

Pete swore, then went for his gun.

O’Connell didn’t think. He merely reacted. He was tired of his brother’s schemes, and tired of the lives Pete had taken for no reason.

It was time for it to end.

He grabbed his brother’s gun, and the two of them struggled for it.

*   *   *

Catherine watched the men tussle from the parlor window. She had sent Diana upstairs with Rebecca, then immediately sought out the marshal to let him know there was a possible outlaw outside.

She pressed her hand to her lips as terror sliced through her as she watched the two men fighting for possession of the gun. What had she done?

A gunshot rang out.

Catherine stopped breathing. Michael and Pete froze and locked gazes. Time seemed suspended as she waited.

Who had been shot?

Then Michael staggered back, and she saw the red stain on his shirtfront right before he collapsed on the ground.

“No!” she shouted as tears stung the backs of her eyes. It couldn’t be Michael! It couldn’t be.

Pete just looked down at him, his face indecipherable.

Dropping her shawl, Catherine ran for the door, down the steps, and across the yard to Michael’s side.

His brother stood coldly to the side as the marshal and his men put irons on his wrists.

Sobbing, she knelt by Michael’s side. Terrified and shaking, she touched his cold brow.

“Michael?” she breathed.

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. In that look she saw the love he had for her. He opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed her fingertips to his lips.

“Save your strength,” she whispered. She looked up to Marshal McCall, who stared angrily at Pete.

“I always heard you were mean, but damn, to shoot your own brother on Christmas? You’re a sick man, O’Connell,” the marshal said to Pete.

His face blank, Pete glanced down to her and Michael, then back at the marshal.

“What are you, stupid? Do we look like brothers?” Pete drawled slowly. “My brother got killed in Shiloh last month during our last holdup. That there’s just some stupid cow-poke thinks he’s a bounty hunter. Bastard’s been trailing me for weeks. I don’t even know his name.” Pete locked gazes with her, then shocked her with his words, “But I think the lady over there knows him. Ask her who he is.”

The marshal gave her a probing stare. “That true, Miss Catherine? You know this man?”

A tremor of panic shook her as she realized Michael’s entire fate was in her hands.

What should she answer?

She looked down at Michael’s calm, deliberate stare. He expected her to betray him. She could read it plainly in his eyes as he waited for her to denounce him.

But she couldn’t. She didn’t know everything yet, but before she handed him over to the marshal, she wanted some long-overdue answers. Answers he couldn’t very well give her locked up in jail.

“He’s my husband,” she answered honestly. “Michael O’Callahan.”

The marshal gave her a hard stare. “I thought you said your husband ran off.”

“He did,” she said, looking back at Michael. “But he came home to me last night.”

“Farley,” the marshal shouted to his deputy. “Help me carry Miss Catherine’s husband inside while Ted locks up O’Connell.”

The marshal helped her to her feet.

“Where you want us to take him?” the marshal asked.

“To my room,” she said, leading the way back into the boardinghouse.

*   *   *

Michael O’Connell didn’t say anything for the rest of the day. His head swam with what had happened.

Why had Pete lied?

Why had Catherine protected him, when she could have easily seen him in prison for the next ten to twenty years?

None of it made any sense to him, and worse, Catherine had avoided coming into the room for him to question her. If he’d been able to, he would have gone after her himself, but he was too weak to do much more than just breathe.

The door to his room creaked open. He glanced over to see a tiny dark head peeking in.

He smiled at the sight of his daughter in the doorway.

When Diana saw him look her way, the little girl smiled from ear to ear.

She fanned the door back and forth as she twisted in the door frame. “Are you really my daddy?” she asked.

“What did your mama say?”

“She said St. Nick brought you to me last night.”

O’Connell gave a half laugh at her words, but he couldn’t manage any more than that, since pain cut his breath off. Pete had been called a lot of things over the years, but this was the first time anyone had ever referred to his brother as St. Nick.

“Yeah,” he said with a grimace. “I guess maybe he did.”

Releasing the doorknob, she ran across the room and scrambled to sit next to him on the bed. He winced at the pain she caused by dipping the mattress, but in truth he didn’t mind it at all. To have his daughter near him, he would suffer a lot worse than that.

“You sure are pretty for a man.”

O’Connell smiled at her words. No one had ever said that to him before.

She reached out one little hand to touch his eyelid. “You do have eyes like mine. Mama told me you did.”

He cupped her soft cheek, amazed at what he saw in her face. It was so strange to see parts of him mixed in with parts of Catherine.

Never in his life had he seen a more beautiful little girl. “We get them from my mother.”

“Was she pretty, too?”

“Like you, she was as pretty as an angel.”

“Diana!”

He started at Catherine’s chiding tone.

“I told you not to disturb him.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“She’s not disturbing me,” he said, dropping his hand from her face.

Catherine shooed her out anyway. At first he thought she’d leave as well, but she hesitated in the doorway.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you really were?” she asked.

He stared at her. “I liked the man you saw me as. To you, I was a decent man, not some no-account outlaw drifter. The last thing I wanted was for you to change your mind about me and hate me.”

“So you lied to me?”

“Not really. I just didn’t tell you everything.”

She shook her head. “I always knew you were hiding something from me. I was just never sure what. Funny, I used to think it was another woman you loved, not a lunatic brother.”

He gave her a hard, meaningful look. “I could never love anyone but you.”

“Do you mean that?”

“On my life.”

And then she gifted him with one of those loving smiles that had kept him warm on the coldest days. “So tell me, Michael, where do we go from here?”

Epilogue

Christmas Eve. Two years later

“Hey, Pa, where do we go from here?”

Michael looked up at nine-year-old Frank’s question. After Catherine had given him his second chance, the two of them had decided to adopt the orphans she’d been keeping. And every day of the last two years, he had spent every minute making up to her for the time they had been apart.

She would never again have cause to doubt him, and he reveled in the blessing of his family and home.

“I think you’d best be asking your mother that question,” he said to Frank. “Catherine?”

“It’s the big white house at the end of the street,” she said as she waddled up to them beside the train station.

Michael grinned at the sight of her pregnant body. He’d missed seeing her carry Diana, but he was definitely enjoying her now.

The way Catherine figured, they had two more months before the baby would join them. Just enough time to visit her parents with their passel of children in tow, and then make it back home in time for the little one’s birth.

Four of the orphans still lived with them. Five children total with Diana. Michael smiled as he watched all of them climb aboard the wagon he had rented.

He’d always wanted a big family.

“You nervous?” he asked Catherine as he draped a comforting arm over her shoulders. She hadn’t seen her parents since the day they had eloped almost seven years before.

“A little. And you?”

“A little.”

Even so, he was too grateful for his life to mind even a lengthy visit at his in-laws’. He still found it hard to believe Pete had lied to save him.

“I’ve ruined your life enough, Kid. This is one place I think I’d best go to alone,” Pete had told him.

Pete would be in prison for a long time to come. Maybe it would make his brother a better man.

All he could do was hope that one day his brother would find the peace that had always eluded him.

Michael placed a tender kiss on Catherine’s brow as he took Diana’s hand in his and helped her up into the wagon.

Every day for the last two years, he had been grateful that his wife had stood by him, even though it was the last thing he’d deserved.

“Thank you, Cathy,” he breathed as he helped her climb into the wagon seat.

“For what?” she asked.

“For making my life worth living.”

Her smile warmed him to his toes. “It’s been my pleasure, Mr. O’Callahan. Merry Christmas.”

And a Merry Christmas it would be, too. For in this life, there were second chances, and this time, Michael wouldn’t waste the one he’d been given.

Don’t miss the next League: Nemesis Rising novel

BORN OF LEGEND

Coming May 15, 2016

It is in the darkest hours of a universe’s past that their legends are born and their heroes rise.…

Sherrilyn Kenyon’s next e-short story:

HOUSE OF THE RISING SON

Coming January 5, 2016

About the Author

New York Times bestselling author SHERRILYN KENYON is a regular in the #1 spot. This extraordinary bestseller continues to top every genre in which she writes. More than 60 million copies of her books are in print in more than one hundred countries. Her current series include The Dark-Hunters, The League, and Chronicles of Nick. Her Chronicles of Nick and Dark-Hunter series are soon to be major motion pictures. You can sign up for email updates here.

Also by
Sherrilyn Kenyon

THE DARK-HUNTERS

Fantasy Lover

Night Pleasures

Night Embrace

Dance with the Devil

Kiss of the Night

Night Play

Seize the Night

Sins of the Night

Unleash the Night

Dark Side of the Moon

The Dream-Hunter

Devil May Cry

Upon the Midnight Clear

Dream Chaser

Acheron

One Silent Night

Dream Warrior

Bad Moon Rising

No Mercy

Retribution

The Guardian

Dark-Hunter Companion

Time Untime

Styxx

Dark Bites

Son of No One

Dragonbane

THE LEAGUE

Born of Night

Born of Fire

Born of Ice

Born of Fury

Born of Defiance

Born of Betrayal

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

A Dark-Hunter Christmas

Prologue

Chapter 1

Santa Wears Spurs

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Sherrilyn Kenyon

Copyright

These are works of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these short stories are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WINTER’S NIGHT. Copyright © 2013 by Sherrilyn Kenyon. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover Image © Guschenkova/Shutterstock

The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-1-250-08536-8 (e-book)

e-ISBN 9781250085368

Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

First Edition: September 2015