Buckhorn Beginnings (21 page)

But he couldn't, and that was the only reason for his obsession. He was sure of it.

Morgan saw that the moon hadn't completely set, even while dawn was struggling to break. He glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was barely five-thirty. What was she doing up so early, hanging around outside? Looking for more ways to torment him?

It took him a mere two seconds to decide to go
see her. He knew all the reasons he shouldn't, but something overrode them all, some basic need to spar with her one more time before the rest of the family would be there to pull him back.

He was still buttoning his favorite pair of worn, comfortable jeans, and wearing nothing else, when he stepped out of his room. At the last minute, he stopped, went back into his bedroom and then into his bathroom. He brushed his teeth, giving a disgusted glance at his morning beard and disheveled hair, then decided to hell with it and headed out. But when he passed the kitchen, he halted again and concluded a cup of coffee was definitely in order, if for no other reason than to help him get his bearings before facing her again. She threw him off balance with just a glance, and set his teeth on edge with blinding lust.

As he hurriedly measured the coffee, being careful to be quiet so he wouldn't wake anyone else, he thought about Misty and how she would look so early in the day, her dark hair still tousled, her eyes soft and warm. He imagined her still in her nightgown, something thin and slinky, and he almost dropped the carafe of water. The anticipation he felt was ridiculous, but real.

For at least a few hours this morning, he'd have her all to himself.

Jordan had an apartment above the garage and would be oblivious to anything and everything until at least ten o'clock. He liked to sleep late on the weekends, his only chance to catch up from his busy week.

Gabe might not even be back yet. He'd been surrounded by the single women of Buckhorn when last Morgan had seen him. But if he was home, his rooms in the basement would insulate him from the normal busy-house noises.

As for Sawyer, he was no doubt occupied with his bride. Morgan wouldn't be at all surprised if he didn't leave the bedroom all day. He grinned at that thought, remembering how Casey had told his father to feel free to linger, that he'd take care of all the chores for him.

Morgan was still grinning and feeling a little too anxious when he silently stepped outside with two steaming mugs of coffee. His bare feet didn't make a sound on the wet morning grass as he walked to the swing. It was a bit chilly, a heavy fog hanging over everything, which turned his first sight of Misty, her back to him, curled up on the swing, into a whimsical, almost ethereal picture. He was only two steps away from her when he heard her give a delicate sniff.

Everything masculine in him froze, and he experienced that incomparable dread men suffered when women turned to tears. He didn't know what to do. He strained to hear, hoping he'd misunderstood the sound, hoping she had a cold.

She sniffed again, then dabbed at her eyes with a wadded tissue.
Oh, hell.
Morgan felt a hard, curling ache around his heart and closed his eyes for a moment. The fact that her tears bothered him so much was a sure sign that things were out of control. Just physical attraction, he insisted to himself, despite his
burgeoning sympathy and concern. Shoring up his nerve, he announced himself by clearing his throat.

Turning around so quickly she nearly upset the swing, Misty stared at him. She had glasses on, which he'd never seen before, and her hair was tied back with a plain elastic rubber band, long tendrils carelessly escaping. Even in the gray predawn light, he could see that she blushed.

Truth was, she looked like hell, and he hadn't thought such a thing was possible. Her nose was red and her eyes were hidden behind the reflection of the glasses. His simmering lust died a rapid death, not because of how she looked, but because he knew she was upset, and he was horribly afraid that
he
was the reason.

Not knowing what else to do, he held out one cup of coffee, for the moment ignoring her distress. “I heard the swing and figured you could use this.”

She glanced at the cup as if it might hold arsenic. Morgan sighed. “It's coffee. Lots of sugar and cream. I figured since Honey drank hers that way, you likely did, too.”

She took the cup, sipped, then quietly thanked him. Without another word, she turned her head to stare toward the lake, which could barely be seen through the fog. She had simply and plainly dismissed him. Her wishes couldn't have been any more clear than if she'd come right out and said,
Go away.

Nettled, Morgan pretended not to notice.

He moved to sit beside her, never mind that there wasn't really enough room. She quickly scrambled to get her legs out of the way, and it was then he no
ticed she was wearing a soft old cotton housecoat. No belt, just fat buttons all the way down the front. It looked loose and comfortable, like something that his sixty-year-old mother would wear when she wasn't feeling well. All the buttons were done up except the top one, and Misty clutched that small span of material together with a fist.

Morgan pushed a bare foot against the ground, making the swing sway gently, mindful of the coffee they each held. He kept his gaze on her profile. “You wear glasses.”

She didn't answer him.

“I guess that answers the mystery of your big blue eyes, doesn't it? I always figured the color was a little too clear, a little too good to be real. Colored contacts?”

Her shoulders stiffened and she turned to him. Over the rim of the glasses, she glared and gave him a view of those perfect, clear, startling blue eyes, unadorned.

Morgan stared into her eyes, then whispered, “I guess I was wrong.”

She turned away again, but muttered, “It's not the first time.”

Ignoring that, he touched the rubber band sloppily knotted in her hair. “Rough night?”

One hand clutched the coffee mug, the other a damp tissue and the top of her housecoat. She hesitated, then slanted him another look over her wire-framed glasses. “If that's what you want to think, why not? I mean, you left before me, so it's entirely
possible that once you were gone, I staged an orgy in that nice little gazebo you showed me.”

Morgan sipped his coffee while keeping his gaze on her. His free arm rested over the back of the swing, his fingers almost touching her.
Almost.
“I somehow doubt your sister would have tolerated that.”

She started to jerk to her feet, but Morgan caught her elbow. “No, don't let me run you off. I didn't come out here to harass you.”

“No, you came to see if I was ready to leave. Well, don't worry. As soon as it's light, I'll get dressed and go. I packed last night so I could get an early start. I just wanted to watch the sunrise first.”

Her words made him feel almost as bad as that time Jordan needed help treating an ornery mule and it kicked him in the gut, breaking two of his ribs. Morgan rubbed a hand over his chest, which didn't do a thing to help this particular ache, then muttered, “It's for the best and you know it.”

“I'm not arguing with you, Morgan.”

“Good, because I didn't come out here to argue.”

“No? Then why?” Hell, why
had
he come out? Whatever warped reasoning he'd used to justify his actions, he couldn't remember it now. Because he didn't have an answer, he tried changing the subject. “You look like you're…upset.”

She shook her head in denial. “No, not at all.”

But there was that tissue clutched in her hand, and her red nose and watery eyes. His conscience bothered him, and that had to be a first. In the normal course of things, he didn't bother with a guilty
conscience. He was always rock certain of his decisions. “I don't have anything personally against you, Malone.”

She snorted.

Morgan clenched his jaw, but he was determined to have his say. “It'll be best for all concerned if you leave soon.”

She sighed, then turned to stare at him. “Yeah, well, you seem to be the only one who thinks so. Gabe spent half the night trying to talk me into hanging around, and Jordan even offered me a job.”

In angry disbelief, he said, “You told them I asked you to leave?”

His anger didn't faze her. “No. But they knew I'd go sooner or later.” Then she mumbled, “Though sooner seems to be on your personal agenda.”

Morgan struggled to control his temper. “What did you tell Jordan?”

“That I'd think about it.”

His muscles bunched in infuriated reflex. He wanted her gone. He did
not
want her hanging around his brother. “Like hell.”

She shrugged nonchalantly, egging him on. She had a habit of doing that, deliberately pricking his temper—and his lust. Hell, half the time he was around her he didn't know for sure what he felt, just that he felt it too keenly and he didn't like it one damn bit.

Jealousy of his brothers was a unique thing, but he absolutely couldn't bear the thought of Misty being with one of them. Besides, he knew if she hung around, they'd eventually be involved, he had
no doubt about that at all. Acting on gut instinct, he said, “Forget the job with Jordan. I'll pay you to go.”

Her mouth fell open and she stared at him.

“How much do you want?” he asked, forcing the words out through his teeth.

“You're not serious.”

“Why not?” He felt goaded and angry and out of control. He absolutely hated it. “You'd use Jordan, taking his infatuation with you to finagle a job. Well, why not use me instead? Hell, at least I know what I'm getting into. So name a price.”

Her lips pinched shut, her eyes narrowed and an angry blush rose from her neck up. Then, as he watched, she gathered herself, and anger was replaced by deliberate belligerence. “Hmm, well now, I know what it was Jordan wanted in exchange for the job. But…exactly what would you expect in return for cash, Morgan? Or do I even need to ask?”

Her innuendo goaded his temper, but more than that, it stirred his desire for her, sending him right over the edge. He broke out in a sweat, his gut clenched, his body hardened. He reached for her, not even sure himself what he would do once he had hold of her. But she surprised him by her reaction. She leaped to her feet with a gasp. The coffee mug fell from her hand to the soft ground with a dull thud, spilling the coffee and rolling a few feet away. Misty covered her mouth with both hands. Her face was pale, and she swayed.

Morgan stood also and caught her to him, ignoring her feeble struggles. “Damn it, are you all right?”

He shook her slightly, his alarm growing. “What the hell is wrong with you? Answer me, Malone.”

Staring at him in horror, she opened her eyes wide and then pushed away, ran several feet to a line of bushes and dropped to her knees.

Morgan was dumbfounded. He started after her, but halted when he heard the unmistakable sound of retching. Never had he felt like such a complete and utter ass. He'd been harassing her again, when that hadn't been his intent at all. He'd argued with her after telling her he wouldn't. And she was sick. He made a false start toward her, then pulled back, as uncertain of what to do as he'd been on his very first date.

He'd hated the feeling then; at thirty-four, he hated it even more.

She probably drank too much last night, he thought, staring at her slim back as she jerked and shuddered. Some people just couldn't hold their liquor—though he didn't remember seeing her imbibe. Mostly she'd just danced and laughed and driven him crazy with an inferno of lust.

When she was done being sick, sitting there on her knees on the damp ground, her arms wrapped around her stomach, he inched closer. He felt totally out of his element, not quite sure what to say or do. But he knew he had to do something. She kept her back to him, no doubt mortified. He knew women could be unaccountably funny about such things. Finally, feeling like a fool, he knelt behind her. “You want me to go get you something to drink?”

She moaned and clutched herself a little tighter. “Just…go…away.”

Morgan hesitated, then lifted one hand to her shoulder, gently rubbing. Touching her made
him
feel immeasurably better, whether it did anything for her or not. “I bet Sawyer has something he could give you for the hangover.”

She laughed, a raw, broken sound that was close to a moan. “A hangover, Morgan? When I didn't drink a single drop?”

Way off base with that one, obviously. He nodded. “Okay, not a hangover.”

She shook her head, and more silky strands of midnight hair escaped her rubber band to curl around her cheeks. A few tangled in the armature of her glasses, and he gently pulled them away.

Without looking at him, she said, “You always think the worst of me, don't you?”

He didn't know what to say to that.

“I should be used to it. God knows, men always… Oh, just go away.” Her voice was thin, washed out; she sounded too tired to argue.

He couldn't stop his deep frown or his concern. “If you're sick, then—”

Her hands fisted on her thighs in a sudden startling display of frustration. Still without looking at him, she hissed, “Damn it, why can't you just leave me alone?”

He wouldn't let her rile him again. “Look, Malone, my mother would skin my hide if I left a sick woman wallowing out in the dew, without—”

“I am not sick!”

Her stubbornness annoyed the hell out of him, even as he continued to gently stroke her back. “Oh, then I'm hallucinating? That wasn't you just puking your guts up in my bushes? Because I have to tell you, Malone, if you're hoping to be a martyr to get my sympathy, it's not at all necessary. Hell, I already—”

She turned to him with a feral growl, momentarily startling him, then practically shouted, “I am not sick, you idiot!
I'm pregnant.”