Читать книгу The Gift Of Family: Merry Christmas, Cowboy - Linda Ford, Karen Kirst - Страница 15

Chapter Six

When had he felt so immune to anger? Colt watched Becca studying her pa. Pain and regret filled her expression. She loved her pa and didn’t want to leave him, but because of her guilt and a promise, she would.

Too bad the stagecoach wouldn’t stay parked for the winter. It would mean he could stay, too.

What was he thinking? He knew better. He’d already extended his stay longer than was wise. Not that he had much choice. He’d given his promise to help the kids have a good Christmas. He wasn’t sure it was a promise wisely made. Would having such a memory make the reality of the future better or worse?

Becca sighed and turned toward the children, a smile erasing her worries as she watched them play.

An unfamiliar warmth flooded Colt’s chest. She truly seemed fond of these little half-breeds. How was it possible? She was a white woman—a fine white woman with proper upbringing.

Yet she shared her quarters, her table and even her toys with him and the kids. And she went out of her way to amuse them. She made plans to brighten their days, going so far as to make candy.

When had he ever partaken of such pleasure? Only his thoughts weren’t of the candy, but of Becca’s sweet smile. Guilt cooled his insides. A man could be shot for looking too long at a woman like Becca. Good thing a man couldn’t be shot for his thoughts. He pulled his lips in to hide a grin. But there were men who would shoot him simply for being so bold as to sit at the same table. If he had a lick of sense, he would immediately head toward that mountain cabin.

Instead, he watched Little Joe playing with the toy horse. After all, if he tried to leave Becca would fuss, and it didn’t seem fair to cause her concern after she’d been so kind.

Little Joe turned and held the horse out to him. “Make horsee run.”

Grateful for the diversion, Colt sat cross-legged on the floor beside Little Joe and played with him. Marie moved to the table and talked to Becca about the doll.

An unfamiliar peace settled about Colt’s shoulders. It was temporary, but maybe for a few minutes he’d let himself experience what it felt like to be part of a family, and maybe even, foolish as it was, he’d pretend he belonged.

Little Joe trotted the horse up Colt’s leg and arm, across his neck and down again, making funny little horse sounds. The feel of the little boy’s hands and legs as he climbed over him did strange things to Colt’s guarded thoughts. Peeled away layers. He discovered he liked being touched. Didn’t realize it was something he’d missed until this very moment.

Little Joe trotted the horse up again. This time he went over Colt’s head. The horse tangled in Colt’s hair. Little Joe tugged.

Colt squinted against the pain of having his hair pulled.

“I’ll get it.” He tugged and twisted, but the toy would not come free.

“My horsee.” Little Joe whined and screwed up his face in preparation for a yowl.

“Don’t cry,” Colt begged. He’d never be able to get the toy out of his hair if he had to cover his ears.

“Do you need help?” Becca asked.

He couldn’t look at her. “I can get it.” He yanked, bit back a groan, yanked again. The toy did not come free.

“You’re only making it worse.” She stood behind him. “Let me.”

He felt her with every nerve in his back. He itched to put more distance between them. She touched his head. His scalp tingled, and he knew an unusual sense of comfort. He held his breath, expecting her to jerk the toy free without consideration for his tender scalp, but her fingers gently separated strands of hair from the toy. Each touch was like a kiss. A blessing. A calming massage. He closed his eyes against the pleasure. He should never have allowed her to do this.

A smile caught at the corner of his mouth. She hadn’t exactly waited for permission.

“Got it.” She handed the toy to a tearful Little Joe and stepped back.

Marie stood before him. “He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know. He was only playing.”

“You aren’t angry?”

“No.” He couldn’t even manage to be angry at himself. Whatever line he had crossed was worth it for the pleasure of her touch. He’d gladly face whatever repercussions came.