A Magical Christmas (10 page)

Is that what would happen if Julie left him?

He pushed the thought from his mind, because Bentley was there already, along with Trent and a number of the other fellows from the office. Felina Hines, Bentley’s longtime secretary and sometimes companion, was at the bar. He joined her, ordering a beer on tap. “To the holidays!” he told her, clinking his glass to hers.

“To the holidays!” she replied, then lowered her handsome, coiffured salt-and-pepper head to his. “And to fame, fortune, and tabloid bitches,” she added acidly. He turned around. Bentley was seated with Trish Deva. Trent was now on Bentley’s other side, leaning forward, talking away with their potential new client.

Trish, however, was turned toward Bentley. Her knee was against his. She was pencil-thin, except for enormous breasts that seemed to spill from her tight, sequined bodice. Her hair was platinum—bleached blond, but bleached damned well, right to
the roots. She possessed a stunning face. She had Bentley enraptured already.

Jon knew why he was sitting at the bar with Felina. For all his reputation and dignity, Bentley might be just about to make a fool of himself over Trish Deva.

“He’s a good forty years older than she is,” Jon said.

Felina arched a weary brow at him. “Remember Anna Nicole Smith? Wasn’t she a good
sixty
years younger than that rich, decaying bastard she married?”

Jon had to smile. But then he heard Bentley calling his name.

“Better go,” Felina warned him.

“He doesn’t scare me.”

“Honey, you’ve got a future with a fortune in it if you just keep your nose to the grindstone.”

“To the grindstone, or up somebody’s tail section?” Jon muttered. Felina smiled. “You know, you’re all right, Radcliff.”

“I wish my wife agreed with that,” he muttered out of earshot, walking toward the table where Bentley, Trent, and Trish Deva sat.

Bentley introduced him to Trish Deva as one of the brightest and most imaginative attorneys in the firm. Trish Deva assessed him, and seemed to like what she saw.

“Sit down, hon. Let’s get acquainted.” Her long fingers curled around his hand, dragging him down.

He sat. She wanted to know about him. Her huge blue eyes were wide on him. He started sweating a little bit under the collar. He talked about Christmas, telling her how he was anxious to get away with his wife and kids. She seemed amused that he had to bring up his wife, as if in defense against her. “I definitely prefer married men,” she told him.

And he didn’t know if she meant that they didn’t hassle her, or that it wasn’t a hassle to get involved with them.

Her hand fell lightly on his knee.

She was talking, he wasn’t listening, when he happened to look up and see that Julie had just entered the establishment with the Pearsons and Jack Taylor. She looked great in a white business suit that adhered to the body, padded shoulders, tapered waist. Her hair was half up, half falling down. She was speaking earnestly to Rita Pearson, and she hadn’t seen him.

Yet.

Then she saw him. And Trish Deva.

Her eyes widened. She just stood there. He stared back. He stood then, awkwardly. He needed to introduce her to Trish Deva.

Damn, why was he feeling like an embarrassed
schoolboy? He was working; this was work. Just as it was for her.

He squared his shoulders, ready to excuse himself, walk toward his wife, bring her over.

But he hadn’t realized that Trent had already risen and walked to Julie. He happened to reach her beneath one of the strategically placed sprigs of mistletoe.

“Julie—the chance of a lifetime with a married woman!” Trent boomed with loud Christmas humor.

He kissed her. Kissed her long enough to draw a few stares. Long enough for Trish Deva to say, “Julie? I’m confused. Didn’t you say that your wife’s name was Julie?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, then… is that your wife? Or Trent’s?”

“Mine,” he said flatly. “Excuse me.”

He walked over to Trent and Julie. He knew his expression was probably childishly furious. Not that Trent had kissed her under the mistletoe. But that she had been so willing to respond. At his expense.

Well, she did think that he deserved to pay. He knew that much.

Damn it. He’d never humiliated her in public.

“Julie, meet Trish Deva,” he said coldly. He made
no attempt to kiss his own wife beneath the mistletoe.

Julie was perfectly polite to Trish Deva. She smiled; she was gracious.

Charming.

She refused to join them, explaining that she was with clients.

Jon waved to the Pearsons. They waved back.

“The kids okay?” Jon asked Julie.

“I assume.”

“I won’t be here late,” he said.

She smiled. “I might be,” she said, and started to leave.

He stood quickly, catching her hand. “I’ll wait and follow you home.”

“It’s not necessary—” Julie began.

“Christmastime,” Trish Deva said cheerfully. “Let him follow you home!” She shivered. “Every idiot robber, rapist, and burglar comes out for the season, you know.”

“I’ll follow you,” Jon repeated.

“Fine,” Julie said.

She walked away.

Great. What a victory, Jon told himself. They could leave this place together.

Drive home.

And have the rest of the evening to rip one another to shreds.

Mel Tormé began to sing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

It was too bad Mel Tormé wasn’t really singing right there, in the room with them.

Jon wanted to tell him what he could do with his chestnuts.

Christmas Eve
1862

B
rigadier General Peter Tracey dismounted from his horse and made his way through the crowd of local citizens and soldiers to the steps leading to the makeshift scaffold. “Lieutenant!” he barked, addressing Jenkins, who stood—green as grass—at the chaplain’s side. “What in God’s name is going on here?” he demanded.

“Orders, sir!” Jenkins reached into his jacket pocket, producing his command from Custer. “General Custer, sir. He—well, sir, his orders that Mosby’s Men are to be hanged are fairly well known, sir.”

Tracey studied the paper in his hand, then looked from Jenkins to the captain.

“Not this man,” he said after a moment.

“Pardon me, sir?”

Tracey turned, angry. “Not this man, Lieutenant. Not this man!”

“But five must be hanged,” Jenkins explained.

“Then hang five, but not this man.”

The captain—who had touched the sweetness of life once again so fleetingly—felt his heart sink.

“Thanks, Pete,” he said softly. “Thanks, but no thanks. I can’t let another man die in my place.”

Pete, a fierce soldier, a fine man with a flourishing head of red hair and a fine mustache to match, came to face him directly, his voice low. “Damn you, my friend, I’m trying to save your fool hide!”

“I know, and I thank you, I thank you sincerely. But I cannot be spared at the expense of another. Sweet Jesus, Pete, you know that in my position you couldn’t exchange the noose for the blood of another!”

Pete squared his broad shoulders and straightened his back, keeping his face from the stare of the audience that had gathered to see the hanging.

A chant had gone up. “Free the captain! Free the captain! Free the captain!”

The locals were shouting. The crowd was growing more unruly by the moment. Even a few of the townsfolk the captain had always known to be Northern sympathizers were crying out that his life should be spared.

He closed his eyes. The sounds of their cries were sweet. Life could be a struggle. Little heartaches,
pain, big disappointments. But life could be sweet as well.

And he could taste that sweetness now.

Brigadier General Peter Tracey remained before him. “Damn you, friend! Custer will have my balls on bread for this one!” he growled.

Then he turned to face young Lieutenant Jenkins. “Jenkins!”

“Sir!”

“This man will not hang. ’Tis Christmas Eve! He is both young and uninjured. And he will not hang.”

“Sir, you don’t understand. We’ll have to take another soldier then, and the captain won’t have no part of that—”

“Four will hang, and the captain will take the pain of that to his grave, for eternity, I promise you,” Peter Tracey said firmly. His voice grew loud as he spoke to the crowd. “A gift—from Mr. Lincoln. The captain receives his very life for Christmastide!”

A roar of approval went up. Yet voices broke out above that roar. They suddenly heard the sound of hoofbeats, pounding hard against the earth through the snow.

“It’s an attack!” someone shouted.

“Rebs!” someone else shrieked.

“Yanks!” came another cry.

“To your weapons, gentlemen!” Lieutenant Jenkins commanded his men.

His young voice carried a disturbing note of panic.

Hoofbeats, someone coming…

Someone coming to rescue the condemned men.

The captain suddenly felt something like a chilly trickle of winter’s ice running down his nape, encompassing his back.

“Take heed—” he warned.

“Rebs!” someone yelled again.

“Yanks!”

“There will be a battle!”

“Down!”

“Draw your weapons!”

Shouts were coming fast and furious. Confusion rose like an evil wind.

A cry rose against the falling dusk. A woman’s cry, high, firm, ripping through the cool blue air of the winter’s afternoon.

“Wait! Wait!”

The captain saw her then. She was on a cavalry horse that had been one of their own—once upon a time.

She was racing pell-mell along the dirt road that led to the fences surrounding their home.

No!
he thought. No, no, no. They would think her the enemy, they would think…

She raced down the path to the property, wild as Satan’s fury.

The captain looked to his left. More Union troops were indeed arriving. A party of perhaps five or six men in Federal cavalry uniforms were bearing down on the crowd.

God, no, he thought.

God, no.

She was coming closer and closer.

Long black hair flowed behind her as she leaned into the animal she rode with such grace, speed, and expertise.

He saw her face.

Blue-green eyes dazzling with tears. High, handsome cheekbones, lean, yet the classical perfection of her features not marred by her thinness, but rather accentuated by it.

“Stop. Wait!” she shrieked again, scattering the crowd as she rode through it in her fear and fury.

“Stop!” she cried once more.

With a sudden, rising unease, the captain saw that she carried a weapon. A Colt six-shooter, one of his own guns. He had given it to her because of its rapid-fire ability to deliver six sound shots, and because of its accuracy. It was a good gun, one he had wished he’d had on him upon occasion.

But he’d eventually have the opportunity to take
one off a fallen enemy. Hopefully she’d never have such an opportunity.

And yet…

Pray God, why did she wield it now? Now, when these men were so on edge.

So unnerved.

So ready to fire…

Her face, oh, God, her face. He had prayed to see her face just one more time again.

“Stop! Good God, no, stop!”

He was the one crying out now.

For she raced toward disaster.

H
eavy metal was spewing from his stereo, but Jordan Radcliff was still aware and alert to the sounds of doors slamming in front of his house.

He’d been lying on his bed, inhaling, right when he heard the slams.

He reached over and flicked off the stereo in a second flat.

Then he leapt up, flying out of his bed, running into his bathroom to flush down the toilet the joint he’d been smoking. The room was still filled with the smoky-sweet aroma of good Colombian reefer, but Jordan dashed about, opening windows, waving the air madly, and spraying pine-scented room deodorizer all about. He had an incense burner on his desk which definitely helped explain the smoke that remained in his room no matter how wildly he waved his arms around. His mother, bless her, did tend to be naive. His father—always
the attorney—was more suspicious. If his dad came into the room now, he still might find himself up a creek.

His door burst open. Christie stood there, adjusting the buttons on her blouse.

“You son of a bitch! You pothead. You dope fiend!” she cried to him. “You’re going to get us both fried!”

“Me!” he yelled back. “What the hell are you doing in here, dictating to me—tramp!”

“They aren’t stupid—they can smell pot!” Christie told him.

“Yeah? Well, there are other things they can probably smell as well,” he informed his sister.

She hit him. Slapped him right across the face. He went falling back on his bed. Man, he was dizzy. Couldn’t function. Maybe he’d gotten a little bit carried away. Maybe he’d popped just a few too many pills along with the pot.

They both heard the front door open.

Christie stared at Jordan in a panic. He stared back with his eyes wide as well.

“Ashley?” Jordan whispered.

“Sleeping,” Christie responded. She spun out of his room, closing his door as she left. He heard her flying into her own room next door.

He inched back on his bed, bracing himself. They were going to come in on him any minute. His
father would probably have him arrested, sent straight to jail. If his old man freaked out over gerbils, he was going to have a hell of a time over this.

Jordan waited, tense, nervous.

He was certain that Jamie Rodriguez had been sent flying out the back door, and that he’d be running around the block now to his own car.

If he got out okay, of course.

Despite his dizziness and the fog that seemed to pervade even his panic, he was somewhat sorry about what he’d said to his sister. Jamie really was an all-right guy, and he cared a lot about Christie. Christie did her homework a lot of the time because Jamie was doing his. Christie got home on time frequently because Jamie made sure that she did so. Jamie was the first guy Christie had fallen for like this, and what their folks didn’t seem to grasp was that they were damned lucky. Lots of guys—guys from good neighborhoods, guys with rich fathers—wouldn’t care about Christie the way that Jamie did, and wouldn’t be responsible with her the way that Jamie was. Lots of guys who had everything had access to booze and drugs, and just liked to have a good time, ’cause hey—what could really happen to them?