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Lord of Misrule | The Snass Chuck | Keeper of Secrets | A Midnight Clear | A Delightful Christmas | A Ring for Christmas

Lord of Misrule

By Judith B. Glad

Chapter One

"I'm ready to be home." Katie slid off Salome's back and leaned against her warm shoulder. The donkey lipped her collar, snuffled. "Now don't you bite me, darn you," Katie told her, "or I'll ride your sister."

Salome caught the collar with strong yellow teeth and pulled.

Laughing, Katie swatted at her cheek. "You ornery little dickens! Turn loose!"

Luke reached past her and gave the donkey a harder swat. "You're too easy on her. She thinks it's a game."

When Salome let go of her collar, Katie stepped closer to her husband. Husband! What a nice ring that has to it! "Luke, she saved my life because she likes to bite. I'll be doggoned if I'll try to break her of it." She wrapped her arms around him, enjoying the feel of his hard body, even through the layers of heavy clothing they both wore.

He hugged her back. "How much farther?"

Katie pointed. "Down the trail there, and along the river for about six miles. Our first house was a little east of the fort. The new place is farther out, but in her last letter Ma said it's a lot closer in than it used to be. The town's growing by leaps and bounds."

"Well, let's get moving, then. I'd like to be there before sundown." He mounted Idjit, the big, rawboned hinny that had been the only riding animal they could find in Evanston, and tugged on the leadline to the pack mule. "Move it, Lafayette. We're almost home, the lady says."

The tone of his voice told Katie he was still fretting about his reception at her parents' home. She hadn't been able to convince him that Pa wouldn't have gone home and told everyone how he'd seduced Katie. If she knew her Pa, the only person he'd ever tell about the entire circumstances of their wedding was Ma. And she wouldn't tell a soul.

Ma had a fine sense of what was proper. She would lambaste Katie proper for giving herself to a man before they were wed, but she'd never, never say a word to Luke. Ma would figure that was Pa's place, and she'd simply make him welcome as she would any family member.

"I hope everyone will be here for Christmas," Katie said, once they were at the bottom of the rocky trail. It was deeply rutted from the hundreds of wagons that traveled it each summer, and slippery from melting snow. Angular rocks, fallen from the rimrock above, littered the ruts and made footing chancy for man and beast. "I want you to meet the whole family."

"I thought your brother was in Europe." Luke didn't sound too excited about meeting the Lachlan clan all at once.

"Well, he is, but everybody else could be here. Silas always comes home for Christmas, and Ma said she'd try to persuade William and Flower to come down."

"You're sure about us staying at your folks' place? They've got room?"

"Oh, Luke, stop fretting! Ma says there are eight bedrooms in the house, and her sewing room has a daybed in it. And the littles can always double up if need be."

"I ain't fretting. I just want to make sure of our welcome."

"This is my home, you suspicious man! I grew up here. Of course we'll be welcome."

"I thought you said you grew up in a cabin in the mountains."

Katie knew him well enough now to know that he was trying to start an argument. Well, this was one topic she wasn't about to argue on. "You know good and well we moved to town when I was fifteen. I was speaking figuratively."

"Well, say what you mean, then. How am I to know what you mean?"

"He's just tired," Katie told Salome. "Pay him no mind. When we get home, he can have a hot bath and relax. Then he'll see just how welcome we'll be."

The trees along the river had mostly been cut, Katie saw, as they got close to town. Only shrubby willows and cottonwood saplings lined the banks now. The light skiff of snow made the torn new earth stand out in dark contrast. "Ma says the new house is the first one you see from the river, but I don't really know where-- "

"There," Luke said, pointing. "Is it that one?"

Katie could only stare. Ma hadn't told her they were building a castle.

Luke hadn't expected a log cabin. The Lachlan's new house was in a town, after all, even if that town was a long ways from anywhere. He'd seen grand stone houses in frontier towns in Kansas, so he knew that Boise City would have its share of impressive homes. But somehow he had expected the Lachlans to have something...well, homey.

Almost everything Katie had told him was about her childhood in a mountain valley with only one other family within a day's ride. Folks who'd chosen to live like that wouldn't worry about putting on the dog. He'd sort of expected their new house to be a big, rambling place, with a wide, welcoming front porch. Like the house his pa had wanted to build in Kansas.

This house came as close to a mansion as anything he'd seen since Chicago. Or it looked that way from here. They couldn't see a lot of it, because the barn was in the way, but what they could see was impressive.

As they rode up the narrow, rutted road from the river, he got a better look at it. Three stories, with a square turret on one corner, built of red brick and dark wood. The mullioned windows sparkled in the pale winter sun. Lines of young trees, bare of leaf and spindly, bordered the property on all sides. He reckoned there was about five acres thus enclosed, half of it a fenced pasture. Off in one corner of the lot was a small cottage, its siding looking fresh from the sawmill.

Prime land. Just like he wanted for himself.

"Oh, my," Katie said.

"What?" He was shorter with her than he'd intended, simply because he was still speechless.

"Ma told me they were building a place big enough for us all to have bedrooms of our own, but I never expected..." Her gesture took in the big yard, the rows of young trees, the three small evergreens on what might be a lawn in the summer.

Feeling like he'd rather turn tail and run than face her family, Luke waved her ahead of him toward the barn. "Let's take care of the stock first."

The Snass Chuck

From the Memoirs of Tillie Emerson DeWade

By RubyLee Schneider

It really happened like this.

I'd been looking forward to going to the Christmas Dance at the Grange Hall ever since I started teaching first, second and third grades at Smithy's Corners School way back in September. That's the Smithy's Corners over in the Coast Range of Oregon and it was the fall of 1931. With my new party dress, strappy sandals and real silk stockings, I figured I would knock the socks off old Finn McCool.

Finn was one of the crew supervisors at the lumber camp. He was interested in me, I could tell. Three afternoons, already, he'd given me a ride home from the schoolhouse in his swell new Ford roadster with the grumble, er... rumble seat. He was older than most of the fellows, but behaved like such a gentleman and I was pretty sure Mama would approve of him.

Finn had asked me to go to the dance with him and I was walking on air. Before that dance I thought I was forever after interested in him. He was supposed to pick me up at seven-thirty. Actually, he was giving Mildred a ride, too, but I was his date.

Mildred was the other teacher in our little two-room school. We both roomed and boarded with the Jarlsburgs. Mildred's beau--his name was Red, for obvious reasons--was supposed to meet her at the dance.

Red had the guard duty at the lumber camp that Saturday afternoon and evening. He'd been able to arrange a trade for the late evening hours with someone else, so he would get to the dance a little bit late.

I didn't understand then why Finn insisted the fellows had to stand guard. You wouldn't think anyone would want to steal the logs they'd stacked or drive off the stationary engines. Besides, I'd heard there was always a poker game going in the bunkhouse or the cookshack, sometimes both places. Who'd bother snooping in either of those buildings? But guard duty they did every blessed night, patrolling all around the camp for hours on top of more wet hours.

Anyway, Mildred and I got all dolled up. Mildred used her curling iron, the kind you had to let hang down into a coal-oil lamp to heat. She made little curls that bounced all over her head. Then she put on a silver headband, one that rested on her forehead. She looked as pretty as I had ever seen her. That's saying something because she's a lot prettier than I could ever hope to be. My own hair was thick and wavy back then so I never tried for curls.

But my dress now, it was grand--bluish-gray silk with glass and bugle beads all around the neckline.

I'll tell you a secret. My mother's seamstress made the dress for the mayor's daughter for her trousseau--and then the wedding was called off. Momma got the dress for a song. There weren't too many other people it would fit. Not like it fit me.

I'd borrowed Momma's fox fur neckpiece the last time I was home. It would be so snazzy with my black coat over that super dress. Real fur feels so wonderful against your face and neck. But you didn't ever dare wear those fur pieces out in the rain or you would arrive smelling like a cross between a wet dog and mothballs.

Once we were all dressed up, we waited.

Seven-thirty came and went.

We fidgeted. Eight o'clock slipped by.

We paced. And waited. Eight-twenty-five. Finn never showed.

He had stood us up!

How were we going to get to that dance?

People would start arriving at the dance about eight. Finn was supposed to pick us up in plenty of time so we would be there for the grand march they always held at nine. By eight-thirty we both knew he wasn't coming. Mildred said she never had cared much for the man, but she hoped he hadn't had an accident. I was just plain furious. The Grange Hall might be just over the mountain in the next valley, but it was close to ten miles around by the road. Who did he think he was to stand me up?

Then Mildred had an idea.

Now, you have to understand that Mildred never was very adventurous. I'm the one who was always spending time in the barn with the cats and nosing around the horses. I regularly swiped carrots and apples for them. I missed all the animals we had at home.

So I was real surprised when she said, "We could put our dresses in the saddle bags and ride Mr. J's mares over the hill to the Hall."

I could feel myself getting madder and madder at Finn McCool. I thought for a moment before I answered Mildred through clenched teeth, "I guess that's as good an idea as any." I was determined one way or another to get to that dance. My mother would never have agreed. She would have called it a madcap idea to ride horses to a dance. No daughter of hers would ever be allowed to behave like that. We'd just have to hope our landlady wasn't of the same persuasion. "Let's go tell Mrs. J what we're going to do."

Mrs. Jarlsburg was aghast. "You shouldn't do that." But she didn't really say we couldn't do it. "No proper young ladies, and a lot of them have stayed with me over the years, ever rode horseback to the Christmas dance."

"Maybe Mr. Jarlsburg could take us," I said. His old Model T was always dirty and I hated the thought of riding in it, but I was willing to do it that night. We were both so anxious to get there.

"I sent him over to my daughter's." Mrs. J went right on rocking. We could hear the tick, tick, tick each time the rocker on her chair hit a crooked board in the floor. "Her Jimmy has the lung troubles and my poultices help him."

I shuddered in sympathy with Jimmy. Mrs. J was great on using poultices. She treated everything with them. The month before, when I had a chest cold, she slapped something awful on my poor defenseless chest. I was so afraid she'd do it again that it scared the coughs right out of me.

Anyway, Mr. J wasn't around and those horses were sounding better and better.

"Mrs. Jarlsburg, we've got to get to that dance." Mildred was awfully close to tears. "I haven't seen Red since last Sunday. He can't come after us because he has guard duty this shift."

Then Mrs. Jarlsburg pulled out her hole card. "It isn't safe to ride out there at night. There's Snass Chucks up in those hills."

Keeper of Secrets

By J. A. Clarke

Chapter One

This had been a lousy idea.

Shawna Carlton scowled at the padlock clenched in one frozen hand. Rain lashed at her back. Her jeans were soaked through. Her jacket, too thin for winter- wear in the mountains, was no protection against the hard pellets of rain or the cold. A hot shower had never sounded so good.

The flashlight's weak beam wavered as she focused it on the tiny numbers of the lock. She had tried the combination three times already. Either she had written the numbers down wrong...or Debra hadn't given her the right combination.

Tears fueled by frustration, exhaustion and days of stress threatened to erupt and she sagged against the old wooden door. She couldn't handle the drive back into town. Not this late at night. Not as tired as she was. Not along that ghastly, dark-as-hell, pothole-filled U.S. Forest Service road. Even if her car made it, she was in no shape for the one and a half hour drive back to Portland.

She swiped her sleeve across her eyes, blew on her fingers, and concentrated on the padlock again. The beam of the flashlight flickered and flickered again just as she rolled the last row of numbers. Nothing. In sheer frustration, she yanked up, then down on the lock and saw the bolt separate just as the weak light died.

"Hallelujah." Bolstered by her victory, she pulled the lock from the hooks, released the latch and pushed. The door swung open on a dark, musty cavity as frigid as a mausoleum, colder even than the external temperature. Her courage faltered.

"Old and rustic, but it does have electricity," Debra had assured her. Electricity meant there must be a light switch somewhere. She shook her flashlight. It cooperated with a pale circle of light for only a second. She gritted her teeth, as she stepped inside and ran her hand down the wall next to the door. The surface was rough, splintery. A clingy, sticky substance wrapped itself around her fingers. She snatched her hand away and wiped it on her jeans. No switch. She shifted to her right. This time she felt something cold and metal and, just below it, the familiar shape of a light switch. She flicked it. A single bare light bulb in the center of the room came on.

"Oh...my...God." Old and rustic for sure. Debra had not exaggerated about that. It was a grungy retreat only a man could love. And Debra, Shawna remembered now, had never set foot in her boyfriend's fishing get-away. A miniscule kitchen occupied one corner with a cook top, a sink and a box refrigerator. A wood bunk bed stood in the opposite corner. A sagging couch sporting huge, grimy blue cabbage roses was a candidate for the landfill and a table and four mismatched chairs were pushed against an undraped window. A forest of cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Shawna shuddered, then shivered as a powerful chill gripped her body. She studied the room again. It held nothing that looked like a heat source, except for the fireplace several inches deep in ashes.

"Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, " she muttered. She had no one to blame but herself. Debra had tried to talk her out of this, but she had convinced herself that peace and quiet and isolation were what she desperately needed. No matter what.

Now she wasn't so sure about the "no matter what" part.

She sucked in a deep breath of air, then yanked the hood of her jacket over her head and trudged back out into the pouring rain to start unloading her car.

Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of the fireplace again. There was a box of matches on the stone mantle above the fireplace, and three small pieces of wood in the wood box. She'd never built a fire in her life, but she was sure three pieces wouldn't do it. The rain still fell in torrents. She wrapped her arms around herself and reluctantly turned toward the door. If the small shed beside which her car was parked didn't hold wood, she was in big trouble.

She was soaked through, freezing, hungry and tired. Dry and warm was definitely the first priority. She pulled up her damp hood again and hurried back out into the driving rain.

Around her the forest moaned and creaked in the storm. A gust of wind tore down the road, wrenched the door to the shed from her hands and flung it back against the wall. The light from the cabin's window was just enough to reveal two shadowy rows of neatly stacked logs. An axe and a couple of other tools, unfamiliar to her, leaned against the pile.

A vague image of a brawny man in suspenders and no shirt, hefting an axe over his head flitted through her mind. Much good that did. She hadn't the slightest idea how to split wood and had no desire to try in the middle of a storm in the middle of the night. Whole logs would work just as well, wouldn't they? She picked up a small one.

"Do you think you're going to quit with the noise any time soon?"

Shawna dropped the log and spun around. Then she shrieked, stumbled back. The woodpile poked her in the rear.

A hulking mass stood before her, details obscured by the dark. A powerful flashlight flicked on, blinded her, moved off to the side.

"Don't even think about chopping wood this time of night. There are noise ordinances around here, you know." The voice was a deep rumble. Angry. Impatient.

Shawna tried to ask a question. Anything. Her mouth refused to work. All her energy seemed to be concentrated in her pounding heart.

"What's the matter with you? Bloody hell. Women! Where's your boyfriend? I'll talk with him."

"He's...I--"

"Bloody hell." The hulking mass stamped off toward the cabin.

She was still glued to the same spot when he returned seconds later.

"You're here on your own, aren't you?" He made it sound like a crime. The faintly accented voice was angrier.

"Yes," she whispered, then squeezed her eyes shut. That was stupider than stupid. She opened her eyes.

The hulking mass was still there, bigger than ever. He uttered a rude word. A thick arm came up and pointed. "Go back inside. I'll bring in some wood."

"No, you--"

"GO! I would like to get back to bed sometime tonight. And I sure as hell can't chop wood with you defending the woodpile." Then he actually reached out, caught her arm, pulled her out of the shed. and pushed her in the direction of the cabin.

She stumbled over the uneven ground and up the steps. Why had she admitted to being here on her own? Would that pathetic lock hold? He could break the window in the door. Forget the window, he could probably break the ancient door. He had an axe. Where had he come from, this relative of Sasquatch?

The last thought was so ludicrous, she slumped against the cabin wall and uttered a weak laugh. He was only a man. Had to be a neighbor, although all the cabins around had seemed deserted when she'd driven in earlier. He was doing a neighborly deed and bringing her some wood. A series of dull thumps from outside confirmed it. She shivered uncontrollably, acutely conscious of the cold and her wet clothes, acutely aware of the cabin's isolation.

She was going to take self-defense classes with Debra for sure when and if she made it back to Portland.

This had been a really lousy idea.

She was still propped against the wall when she heard his boots on the steps, but simply didn't have the energy to move. If he was bent on pillage and rape, this was his lucky night. She wouldn't be able to fend off a fly.

He came through the door, a tall man in jeans and a bulky jacket, his arms loaded with split wood. He crossed to the fireplace without a glance in her direction, dropped his burden in the wood box, then turned. He tossed back the hood of his jacket. A fiery bush of red hair emerged. Red hair, red beard, red moustache. Several days growth at least. From under thick red brows, he glowered at her.

"Know how to make a fire?"

"Of course," she lied. The cabin had shrunk, become cramped and crowded. She just wanted him gone.

A Midnight Clear

By Maureen Mackey

Sophie eyed the splintered planks of the weathered house's wooden porch distrustfully. This was her inheritance? The structure didn't look like it could bear her weight, much less the burden of her entire future.

Peeling paint and cracked window panes -- she didn't remember the place looking this bad twenty years ago, when she was last here. She'd only been six years old then. How could it have gotten so run down?

She shivered in the morning cold, wishing she'd worn something besides shorts and a sleeveless cotton top. Surely the dull gray fog should have burned off by now. It was the end of August, after all. Summertime in a seaside town. She hadn't seen the sun since she arrived two days ago.

Carefully placing her feet on the most solid parts of the porch, she approached the front door. Opening her purse, she fumbled for the key the lawyer had given her. She slipped the key into the rusty lock, where it stuck fast, refusing to turn.

"That's just terrific." She shook the door. "Am I going to have to break into my own house?"

As if in answer to her question, something soft and furry rubbed against her bare legs. She froze. It wasn't--it couldn't be--it was a cat! A very large cat, with long, dirty orange hair.

Her breath came in short shallow gasps. Cats terrified her. She couldn't move, or even call out. She clutched the iron handle of the screen door and closed her eyes.

"Howdy," said a deep voice.

A talking cat? She opened her eyes in surprise.

Just inside the front gate stood a breath-taking vision of male perfection. The man couldn't be more than thirty, lean and powerfully built, with the muscles of a working man. His skin was darkened by being outside in the sun. Good news--at least the sun had to shine here sometime.

"Can I help you?" He smiled in an open, friendly way that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He took a few steps down the walk towards her.

The furry bundle at her feet meowed. Whiskers brushed her leg, making her flinch. Her trembling hands rattled the keys stuck in the lock.

"There's an animal... up here with me." Her voice was strained, and she didn't dare move. "Could you scare it away, please?"

"An animal?" He scratched his head, ruffling his thick, dark hair. "I don't see any animal. Just an old pussy cat."

His deep brown eyes were blank. Oh, no, he didn't understand her. She tried to focus, and study him more closely. His denim jeans were frayed at the knee, and there was a smear of something on his plaid flannel shirt.

A faint smell of fish reached her, making her wrinkle her nose. She lowered her eyes and saw there was only one tattered sock on those well-molded legs.

Poor guy! She was putting him on the spot, asking too much of him. He had to be one of the local fishermen, and he obviously wasn't the sharpest hook in the tackle box.

She was proud of the way she'd figured the situation out so quickly, and vowed to be more compassionate. A soft meow reached her ears, bringing her quickly back to her dilemma. Bright or not, this guy was her only hope at averting disaster.

"Yes. I've got a cat up here. It's a big one." She spoke slowly, carefully enunciating every word. "Could you come and get him before he hurts me?"

The tip of the cat's tail tickled the back of her knee. She could imagine the cat rearing up and driving one of its fangs into her veins. Compulsively Sophie rubbed her cheek.

The man stared incredulously at her. The cat butted his head against her ankle. She could swear she saw a malicious gleam in the animal's eye, right before it opened its mouth in another creaky meow and flashed its wicked-looking teeth.

Any second now it would sink those sharp teeth right into her leg.

"I'll pay you," she said desperately. "Real money. Please. What's your name? "

"Bu--"

"Bob? Barney?"

He nodded mutely.

"Okay then, Barney, I'll pay you." She fumbled for her purse. "I've got some cash on me now."

"Golly, miss."

Was it her imagination, or had his accent gotten thicker suddenly?

"We hardly ever see real money here in Sea Spray. But I couldn't take any pay from a purty gal like you. T'wouldn't be right."

He pointed at the cat. "That there's just ole Eisenhower. He wouldn't hurt a flea even if it bit him. He belonged to the old lady who lived here. When she died, he just couldn't bring himself to leave. He sort of comes with the place."

"I see." A sinking sensation hit her. "That's unfortunate. The woman you mentioned was my grandmother, Adele Casselli. I'm Sophie Weyland, and I've inherited her house, and the property it's on."

"Is that a fact?" He whistled. A spark of interest lit his rich brown eyes. For a moment he looked almost intelligent, making Sophie sad thinking about what could have been for this poor unfortunate man.

Then the spark extinguished, and a sort of dumb amiability settled once more across his handsome features. "Then you've inherited ole Eisenhower, too, I reckon."

The cat stopped threading its body between her legs, and plunked itself down on the porch. He lifted one paw, licked it, and rubbed it against his head. Sophie ventured to move a step away from the dangerous feline.

"That's a problem. You see, I'm afraid--I mean, allergic--to cats. This cat, uh-- "

"Eisenhower."

"Eisenhower, will have to find a new home. At least for as long as I'm here."

"With all due respect, Ma'am, this is Eisenhower's home. But if it'll ease your mind any, I'll see if I can lure him to my place for some grub. I got a fresh catch this morning, and he sure does love those fish guts. The bloodier the better."

A Delightful Christmas

by Jewel Stone

Shawnie smoothed batter with a rubber spatula as her favorite song came on the radio. She reached over with chocolate-coated fingers and turned up the volume. After the musical intro, she began to sing along, "We started out real cool..."

Hip-hop always put Shawnie in a funky mood. Needing a boost in spirit, she upped the volume another notch, hoping she wouldn't disturb her employer, Diego Sanchez, who rested upstairs in his room.

Her voice was a poor addition to the sultry harmony trio. She couldn't care less and pierced the kitchen with her off-key notes. "You're makin' me pay for things you should be payin' for..."

The last few days she'd been stressing over the arrival of Diego's son, who was coming for the Christmas holiday. Knowing how much the rare visit meant to Diego, she spent hours thumbing through Martha Stewart magazines to find elegant dinner recipes. An entire day trekking aisles of specialty stores to find spices and ingredients she'd never heard of. Worked her fingers to the bone slicing, dicing, marinating... All for a man she'd never met and wanted to please-- for the sake of Diego.

"You good-for-nothing type of man. Crazy me..." If the coyotes who roamed the hills behind Rancho de la Huerta Generosa--Ranch of Bountiful Orchard--weren't nocturnal, they'd be howling along.

Sliding the glass pan of double fudge brownies into the oven, she grooved down on her knees, hips bumping side to side, up again as she rotated the timer for twenty-five minutes. She pivoted, sashayed to the middle of the colorful Spanish tiled kitchen floor in a fashion that made John Travolta's strut seem infantile.

Doing the Electric Slide back to the counter, she glanced at the wall clock. Three hours before the prodigal son's arrival, right on schedule. A toss of her head sent curls bouncing. She snatched the wire whisk and used it for a microphone. "I--don't--think--you--care..."

She whipped the raspberry mocha frosting to the beat, her hips matching pace. Later, while the brownies were cooling, she'd prepare the duck to roast. "Du- u-u-ck," she sang through the scales. "Yu-u-u-ck."

The fancy meal for Diego's son was her idea, one she hoped she could pull off without regret or setting off smoke alarms. The duck looked impressive on the dinner table in Martha's magazine, she hoped for the same effect.

She licked frosting splattered on her wrist, gave the CD sized Portabella mushrooms marinating in a bowl on the counter a disapproving snarl, then caught up to the words blaring from the radio, "Why won't you pay my bills?"

She pointed at the Chia Pet growing alfalfa sprouts in the kitchen window. "Why won't you pay my electric bills?"

Turning left a few degrees, she wagged her finger at the glossy ceramic hen on top of the refrigerator. "Why won't you pay my automobile bills?"

Eighty degrees around her index pointed directly at--"Oh. My. God!" She clamped a hand over her thudding heart. "You scared me."

A man dominated the arched kitchen entryway, enough arrogance reeking off him to compete with the marinating sauce. "What is that terrible racket?" he asked with an air of disgust.

Hoping beyond hope he hadn't been standing there long listening to her self- proclaimed awful singing and watching her dance, Shawnie flipped off the radio.

With a forced smile, she decided to mask her embarrassment with cuteness. "I'll overlook your questionable music taste only because you're young enough to be trained."

Eyes, the color of the chocolate smeared across the breast of her white T- shirt, slanted her a look void of amusement.

She cleared her throat, should have gone for intelligent. Hand outstretched, she tried again. "You must be Diego's son--"

"Ramiro Diego Sanchez." He pronounced his name concisely without any accent of his Mexican heritage. He leaned against the light pink stucco wall, shoved a hand deep in the pocket of a black suit which did not come from K- Marche'. A chunk of his long dark bangs, which were swept back in a sexy- male-underwear-model kind of way, touched his brow, just above the white line of a quarter inch scar. "And you must be the riff-raff who has weaseled her way into my father's home."

Well. Shawnie lowered her hand, swiped her palms across the seat of her favorite worn-to-almost-white jeans. Determined to ignore the insult, she introduced herself. "Shawnie Delight Martin," mocking his pomposity with her own exaggerated flair.

"Shawnie Delight Martin?" He jutted his shadowed jaw in her direction, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Your parents actually put that on your birth certificate?"

She crossed her arms under her breasts. "The day they adopted me was the most delightful of their lives. They felt it suited."

"It is a shame people do not put honor in names these days."

For a man who could knock a woman over with his sexy-as-sin appearance, Ramiro had little to be desired by way of personality. "It's a shame some people find it necessary to blurt their thoughts without thinking how they will affect the listener!" A quiver of indignation played her vocal cords.

How could this man be Diego's son? Diego, with his mass of white hair in contrast to sun weathered skin and twinkling chestnut eyes? "Your father wasn't expecting you until later."

"That's why I came by. I have a meeting to attend before I'm able to enjoy the weekend. I won't be back until very late." He pushed off the wall. "My bags are in the foyer. Father is resting, will you leave him the message?"

"Of course, but don't expect me to take your bags to your room. I'm Diego's companion, not a butler."

"We'll discuss just what a companion does for the amount I'm paying upon my return."

Shawnie held back telling Ramiro just what she thought of his rudeness. Instead, she let him leave the way he came and muttered "good riddance" under her breath. Dumping the bowl of mushrooms into the trash bin, she picked up the phone and dialed the number she knew by heart.

A Ring for Christmas

By Mary Taffs

Chapter One

Neal was jazzed. Too jazzed to go straight home. So he stopped off at Adams-Worthington and called Nik's office. "Hey, sis--do you have a few minutes? I've got something to show you."

"Sure. I was taking a break already. Come on down."

He waved at the receptionist and headed down the hall. Adams-Worthington was located in a sprawling one-level office building, and most offices were small windowless cubicles. Nik's was a little bigger than most, and had a window that looked out at the grassy courtyard. Still, Neal would feel trapped working here, day after day.

Bill was standing behind Nik's chair, giving her a neck rub. Neal didn't do much portrait work, but someday he'd try to capture a scene like this. It said so much about both of them, individually and as a couple. "Hey, Neal. Nice to see you. I'll take off if this is something personal."

Neal shook his head. "No way. I just wanted to show off." With a grin he knew was as wide as a mile, he placed the check on Nik's desk.

Nik took one good look at it and whooped. "Neal! This is wonderful! What did you sell?"

Bill added, "Yeah. I didn't know you were painting with 14-carat gold these days. And selling to Harrison Tech..."

Neal shook his head. "Nope, I'm not painting with gold. Anyway, this is just a down payment."

"A down payment?" Nik echoed.

"Yup. I'm doing a whole series of pictures--twenty to begin with--for Harrison's new corporate headquarters building."

Nik goggled at him. His calm, no-dramatics big sister was speechless.

"That's fantastic!" Bill said. "I've heard about that place. It's off in the country, and there's a pond and an orchard on the property."

Neal nodded. "That's right. Mr. Harrison wants to relocate development to the property, too, but he's going to wait and see how things go."

"That's smart," Bill said.

Nik picked up the check and stared at it. Neal had already done his share of that. Touching it to make sure it was real, too.

"I wish Mom was here to see this," she murmured, her eyes shining.

That reminded Neal of what Dad's and Nathan's reactions would be. Disapproval and concern that this would "encourage" him. Damn straight it encouraged him! Mr. Harrison thought Neal's art was worth paying a significant amount of money for.

Nik blinked away her tears and looked up at him. "I'm so proud of you! Tell us everything! Wait...does Marian know yet?"

"Kind of." When Nik and Bill looked at him with identical questioning glances, he grinned. "She knows about the deal, of course. She's the one who introduced me to Mr. Harrison. But she didn't know--I didn't, either--that he'd approve my sketches and give me the check today."

Nik stuck her hand out. "You didn't say you had sketches!"

He laughed. "I don't. I left them with Mr. Harrison. But they're all Oregon landscapes, and the one for the main conference room is huge."

His stomach tightened. Could he really paint something powerful enough to be worthy of that wall? He'd be mortified if he failed.

Bill grinned at him, man-to-man. "Gonna have a big celebration tonight?"

"I thought I'd pick up a bottle of champagne on the way home. Marian likes champagne."

Bill nodded. "Champagne's good. What brand does she like?"

"Brand?" He felt suddenly like a teenager without a clue. What if he bought the wrong one?

Bill chuckled. "How about if I go with you to the store?"

Bill would know the ins and outs of every brand. "That would be great...but I was gonna go right now, and you've got work."

"I can skip out for a few minutes to make sure you buy something worthy of the occasion," Bill said. He bent to kiss Nik's cheek. "See you later, Nikolia."

Nik popped up and hurried around her desk to give Neal a hug. "Good job, little brother. I'm proud of you."

She finally let him go and said, "I feel silly asking, but... Have you gotten a Christmas gift for Marian yet?"

He couldn't suppress a surge of excitement. "You bet. But don't ask what, 'cause I'm not talking."

He'd do plenty of talking, once there was something to talk about.

* * *

Marian hurried to the kitchen when she heard Neal's car crunch down the gravel driveway. She grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred the soup. It didn't need stirring, but she needed something to do with her hands.

She almost wished Ron Harrison hadn't called her after Neal left his office. No, she didn't wish that. Hearing Ron rave about Neal's sketches and ideas was worth the last ninety minutes of anticipation--and having to pretend to be surprised when Neal gave her the news.

She heard one solid male step on the front porch, and then Neal burst into the house. "Mari--oh, there you are."

He raced across the open living room, clunked some packages onto the dining room table, and actually picked her up and spun around the room.

"Neal, put me down! You'll hurt yourself!"

He laughed. "Not a chance!" His arms tightened around her. "He liked my sketches!"

Liked? That wasn't what Ron had told her. "This doesn't feel like 'liked'. He must have loved them, for you to react like this."

His grin turned both sly and shy at the same time. "Well, maybe." He set her carefully back on her feet and reached into his back pocket. "He gave me this." He waved a slightly wrinkled check in her face.

She took it out of his hand and studied it, as she knew he expected. "You reached an agreement, then?"

He nodded. "All twenty paintings, just like I sketched them, to be delivered in stages starting the first of February. And every time I make a delivery, he'll give me another check."

She stopped hiding her smile. "That's wonderful! You must be thrilled."

"You bet. He didn't even argue about the price!"

She reinforced the business lesson she'd been drilling into his head. "That's because it's a fair price, and he knew it. If you underprice your own work, you're the only one who will suffer. You need to remember that."

He rolled his eyes, still enough of a kid to dislike anything that smacked of a lecture. "I know, I know. But I've got you to knock sense in my brain."

For now. But she wouldn't spoil this moment by saying that. She studied the check some more. "I'm surprised you haven't already put this in the bank."

He shook his head. "Are you kidding? I had to show it to you first."

Tears popped into her eyes. "That was sweet." She resolutely swallowed them. "What about Nik? Will you show it to her, too?"

"I already did," he confessed. "I...I just had to stop off and tell her, on the way home. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not! The two of you are very close." And Marian wasn't fooling herself. Neal would need Nik's support--badly--soon enough.

But tonight wasn't the night. Tonight was the night to celebrate the first huge step in what would be a brilliant art career.

Not to mourn the end of a mentorship that had turned into so much more.

Too much more.

* * *

Neal wrapped his arms around Marian and snugged up to her back. She made a soft sound of pleasure and relaxed against his body. They'd been sleeping together a long time before she let him hold her like this. The relaxing part had taken even longer. Why had it been so hard for her to accept that her rather square body was just as precious to him as the rest of her?

"This feels good," she murmured.

"It should," he told her. "You're here in my arms, where you belong."

Her muscles tensed, then loosened, but not like they had been. "You're so sweet."

Sweet? He didn't mind her saying that when he did something especially thoughtful. But in bed, right after they'd made love?

It felt like she was patting him on the head and saying "You're such a baby." Okay, he was twenty years younger than she was. And okay, this was his first and only serious relationship. And okay, she was paying all the bills as well as guiding his career.

But he was a man and he loved her. Now that he'd gotten this first big commission, he could come to her as an equal.

She wouldn't be calling him sweet once she saw her Christmas present!

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