The Rancher's Christmas Princess. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter Three

      But Belle’s leaden tongue refused to form the words. She pressed her lips together over the silence.

      Preston was watching her, looking concerned as he waited for her to explain what the matter was.

      She got up and went over to the big window that looked out on the wide front porch. Outside, the sky was clear now. A light dusting of snow sparkled under the quarter moon. “The clouds are all gone. The sky is so beautiful, so thick with stars....”

      “That’s how it is in Montana. We’re closer to heaven here.” He said it so softly. And he was on his feet again. She heard him come toward her, his tread quiet but nonetheless charged with great energy, with purpose. He stopped close at her back. She felt his presence there acutely. A sense of that steadiness he possessed, of the density and power in his strong male body.

      She turned to him, her breath snagging in her throat at the look in his eyes. So tender. So...intent.

      How to tell him? How to say it? How to lead up gracefully to the moment when she handed over that final letter to him? It had been tucked within the letter Anne had written to Belle, in an envelope with his name on it. She hadn’t opened the envelope. That wouldn’t have been right. But she hoped whatever Anne had written to him, it might help him understand. She had it with her now, in the pocket of her skirt. All she had to do was bring it out, hand it over....

      But then, really, maybe it was too soon. Maybe she should wait a little, give herself more time to...

      To what? Any excuses she might have had not to tell him had dried up and blown away like dead leaves in the wind. She liked him. He seemed a fine man. His ranch looked to her like a good-size operation. The house was perfectly livable. And anyway, there would be plenty of money from Anne’s estate. Even if Preston’s personal finances were shaky—which they did not appear to be—Ben would never want for anything. His mother had left him everything she owned.

      She opened her mouth to tell all.

      And he said, “Tell you what. Let’s go outside. I’ll show you the stables and we can look at the stars without a window in the way.”

      Belle realized she’d been holding her breath and let it out slowly. “I would love to see the stables.”

      They put their coats and gloves back on and he took her outside. The icy snow crunched under the heels of their boots as they crossed the yard, past the barn to the stables, which were large and clean and well-maintained. He explained his breeding program and the supplemental lights that made the stable bright enough to read the small print of a newspaper even at that time of night. The point was to trick the mares’ reproductive cycles into thinking it was spring come January. That way, the foals were born early the following year. And because all foals’ official birthday of any given year was January 1, a foal born early had significant advantage over foals born later in the year when it came to competitive activities like racing.

      His horses were healthy and beautiful. She admired his way with them, could see that he treated them well, noted the way they chuffed and nuzzled him, responding eagerly to the sound of his voice. She saw how they sought the touch of his hand.

      “You’re like my sister Alice,” she said as they were leaving. They stood under the bright lights suspended from the ceiling beams, the smell of hay and horses all around them. “Her horses love her.”

      “I read about your sister.”

      “On the internet, you mean?”

      He nodded. His eyebrows were burnished gold in the light from above. “I read that she raises Akhal-Tekes.”

      “Yes, she does.”

      “The most ancient breed on earth, a breed prized by Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan.”

      She was impressed. “You know the legend of the Tekes?”

      “I know horses. The Nez Perce Indians are currently breeding them with Appaloosas, did you know that?” She did know, but she kept quiet, hoping he might continue. And he did. “It’s an effort to replicate the legendary Nez Perce horse, which is believed to have originated from Akhal-Teke stock brought to the New World by Russian traders.” He touched her hair, the lightest breath of a touch. “A Teke is a loyal horse,” he said. “A sensitive, one-owner horse.”

      Belle watched his shadowed face so closely as he spoke. Why, oh why did she find it so difficult to tell him? Beneath the tough exterior he needed to make a life in such a rugged land, he truly was a fine man, a sensitive man. He would be a good father.

      Her throat was tight again, her eyes brimming. Because she knew what held her back.

      As soon as she told him, she would be out of time. Out of hope. Any faint dream she might have nourished in her secret heart that Ben could somehow stay with her...that dream was dying.

      She didn’t need to wait for any private investigator’s detailed report. Just being around him had told her all that she needed to know. He was a good man and he had a father’s rights. And once he knew, once he got over the shock and the disbelief that Anne had never said a word to him, never made any attempt to contact him after that one night they spent together, once he knew the truth at last, he would set about claiming what was his.

      She was going to lose Ben as she had lost Anne. There was absolutely no doubt about it now. She had known from the moment Preston walked into the diner that morning. It was just taking her poor, battered heart a little while to catch up with her mind.

      “Belle?” He looked stricken. “What did I say? I swear, I don’t get it. Whatever it is, whatever you want from me, you only need to say it.” He reached for her. She knew he would touch her tear-wet cheek.

      “Don’t.” She shoved his hand away, swiped the traitorous tears from her face. “Please. I...let’s go. Back to the house. We’ll talk. I’ll...explain.”

      He was silent. His expression changed, grew harder. Closed to her. He didn’t understand.

      But how could he? She’d told him nothing. Yet.

      Unspeaking, they turned for the stable door. He pushed it open for her. She went through, her head lowered, steps dragging. He followed, pausing, turning to secure the latch.

      She was aware, for a moment, of the ever-present Marcus, silent and watchful in the shadows not far away. But only for a moment.

      Because magic happened.

      Magic happened and the crushing weight of her unhappiness, of her terrible obligation, of her loss—all of that was lifted. She raised her head and saw the miracle that waited overhead.

      The sky was alive with melting, pulsing, vivid color. A concert of color.

      “Preston...” She didn’t even stop to think about the confusing mishmash of signals she was giving him. Automatically, she reached for his hand.

      “The northern lights.” He said it softly, with reverence, his gaze turned upward to the sky. And his warm, strong fingers closed around hers. The distance she’d put between them moments ago vanished. It was gone as though it had never been.

      There was only pure beauty lighting the heavens. And the two of them, together, hand in hand, watching the wonder unfold.

      Red, yellow, green, blue, a purple as deep as the heart of the night, a pink like the blush on the cheek of an angel, the colors moved and slid and dipped and danced across the giant canvas of the sky. Alive, rhythmic, majestic, otherworldly—perfect notes in a silent symphony.

      Preston pulled her closer as they watched, until she stood tucked up against him, his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t think to resist. Why should