Upon a Midnight Clear Read online

  Her protest came out in a rush. "But I don't have anything for you."

  With a smile, he reached up and touched the tip of her nose with his fingertip and said, "You don't know the half of what you've already given me."

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  A gray curtain of fog had covered the landscape early in the morning. But by mid-afternoon, the sun had broken through in enough places to warm Isabel's shoulders as she rode her horse. Clouds in wispy forms streaked through the sky as if a painter had put his brushstrokes here and there. They were on their way to Moontide Ridge, a high precipice that overlooked a stretch of Ventura beach—a simple day's ride, no spending the night

  John rode ahead of her, leading the way. Every now and then she gave his broad back and narrow hips a slow perusal, admiring the taut display of muscles. She should have been boiling mad at him still. After all, he'd said she was nutty. And he'd denied Bellamy Nicklaus was Santa Claus.

  Isabel was more sure now than she ever had been. Saint Nicholas. Bellamy Nicklaus. The same last name with a spelling variation. Why hadn't she caught on right from the start? It was so obvious. Had anyone else guessed besides her?

  When she and John had stopped for a lunch of beans wrapped in tortillas along with dried figs, she'd tried to get him to see things through her eyes. But he'd have none of her reasoning.

  A nonbeliever, that's what John Wolcott was.

  She wished she could still call him a slouch. But after he'd found water on her place and offered to dig the well, she couldn't make a slanderous reference to his character. John did have a human side. That was the problem.

  Even though he didn't believe her, she still found him thoroughly irresistible. Darn it all anyway.

  John led the way to Santa Paula Creek, the very one that had been so full a day ago that their crossing had had to wait until morning. The night had slowly ticked away. She'd lain awake for most of it, listening to John breathing, sleeping. How could he sleep when she was angry at him? Didn't he want to talk about why they were mad at each other? Apparently not. Why was it men could roll over and get a good night's rest when a woman stewed over the argument and thought up all the things she should have said but hadn't been fast enough to think of at the time of the fight?

  She would have given him what for in the morning if he'd made one Bellamy Nicklaus insult. But he hadn't. In fact, he'd acted as if nothing was wrong so she'd decided not to talk to him.

  Simple.

  Until he said he'd find water for her.

  Then she couldn't ignore him anymore.

  And when he'd touched her nose with the tip of his finger… she'd wanted to say she forgave him—even though she didn't, not all the way, at least… somewhat. Oh, she hated staying mad! But he was making her.

  The creek ran in a placid flow here, close to the mountain that separated the inland from the shore. She wouldn't have thought the torrent could have dried up so quickly, but it had. The only evidence of the downpour were the broad sandbars and deeply rooted willows along the banks; they were limp and coated with grit. The banks had wavy ripples in the sand that marked the receding flow.

  John dismounted and single-handed his reins. "Well walk the horses across. After a flood, the river bottom's not too stable."

  She gave him a slow nod, then scanned the water. The shallow trickle didn't look ominous to her. But she heeded his advice and hopped down from her horse to take the reins in her gloved hand.

  He let her go ahead of him..

  The rocky gravel gave way to silt that stuck to her boots, making a suction sound when she lifted her foot. On the opposite side was a shoulder of hills, and over them, the ridge that led to the coast. It was on the coastal side of Moontide Ridge where berry bushes grew in abundance. This far northwest from town, the chances of their still being lush with fruit was strong.

  "You know, I've been thinking about Bellamy," she said in what she hoped came across as an offhand manner. Choosing her steps carefully, she went on when John didn't prompt her to divulge what exactly she'd been thinking about Bellamy. "He said he was in Pago Pago last year for Christmas. I looked up Pago Pago in the mercantile atlas. Do you know where it is?"

  "Cross on the rocks," John directed, not answering her question.

  She frowned and took a short leap onto a rock as the mare behind her sloshed through the water. "Pago Pago is on the southern coast of Tutuila Island, in Samoa." She paid little attention to her next step, trying to get him interested in the relevance of what she had to say. "You know where Samoa is?"

  "On the rocks!" he barked at her. "Don't walk on the sandbars."

  Isabel pitched him a glare over her shoulder. "I asked if you knew where Samoa was."

  "What do I care? I'll never go there."

  With a toss of her chin, she faced forward. "Well, you could go there if you were Santa Claus. Pago Pago is in the Pacific Ocean somewhere, this same ocean we have here. And they have pineapples. That's fruit."

  "Your left foot, Isabel. Watch it."

  Frowning, she stomped her left foot purposefully into the sandbar. "All I was trying to say is Pago Pago is far away. And for Bellamy to have been there he had to travel on a boat—I think… but I doubt it. You know, the books say Santa Claus can fly—"

  The last words whooshed out of her as her right leg sunk straight down into an ooze of sand and she fell forward. Her hold on the horse released, and then both her hands were in front of her trying to push herself back to her feet. But she became caught in the quicksand.

  Isabel was too stunned to do anything but sputter and gasp for air. The sand started to pull her under quicker than she could think.

  Vaguely aware of John's voice and the light splash of creek water as he leapt from one rock to the other to reach the other side, she called out to him.

  "Isabel, don't fight it! Stay still!"

  She tried to find him on the shore, but she'd lost her hat and the sunlight was in her eyes. "John?!" She had to get out. Wiggling her feet and legs did no good.

  "Don't move! You'll dig yourself in faster!"

  "Help me!" But her cry sounded lost to her as she lowered nearly to her chin. Everything was happening so fast Somewhere in her mind, she found the strength to do as John asked. She went still.

  Then hands caught her beneath her arms. John's face loomed over hers and he never looked more handsome or heroic. Even if he couldn't save her… he'd tried, and she… loved him for his effort.

  "Hold on to me!"

  She wasn't a weak woman, but her strength was all but sapped. She did the best she could, her limp arms draping over his shoulders.

  "You have to hold tight, Isabel! I can't pull myself out if I've got to hold you, too."

  She barely nodded, seeing for the first time that he'd fastened a rope around his middle that reached the other side of the creek and was anchored to the limb of an oak.

  In what seemed like forever, John made the slow journey with her out of the sand and onto the banks, where he went to his knees to help her get her bearings. She could hardly move other than to tighten her grasp around his neck and cling to him as if she'd never let him go.

  "You saved me," she murmured against his ear. "You could have left me and had everything for yourself… but you saved me."

  "Isabel." Her name grated from his throat in a pained whisper. "I would never have left you. Isabel… I couldn't. I… care too much. Everything wouldn't be anything to me… without you."

  To her embarrassment, she began crying—softly, gently, against his strong shoulder.

  They were wet and muddy and had nearly been pulled into the sand. But she couldn't think about that. The words swirling in her head weren't only the ones of gratitude and affection. There was a silent declaration she was too afraid to speak.

  I love you, John.

  John Wolcott had fallen in love for the first time in his life.

  He loved Isabel.

  Standing at the railing of the Pierpont Inn and g