Calico (3 page)

“No,” he managed to choke out, shifting his stance, only to change his mind and come out from behind the bar. He wanted to get closer to Maggie.

“You’re lookin’ mighty hot and sweaty all of a sudden,” she observed, narrowing her eyes. She didn’t know what to make of his strange look and strange behavior. Never once had his silver tongue deserted him. Not even when Mica Bob hit his strike and brought his mule into the Rawhider for drinks. Unable to put a name to what it was that exactly bothered her, Maggie shrugged it off. McCready with his fancy words and dark moods made her uncomfortable. But he sure did look hot and sweaty.

Hot and sweaty didn’t come close to what McCready was feeling. He was fighting his own reaction to seeing Maggie dressed for the first time as a woman. He knew she was tall, barely four inches shorter than his own near six-foot height. He knew and filed that fact away because he liked his women petite and cuddlesome. He just never realized that Maggie had a small waist, or gently flaring hips that could cushion a man’s ride with ease, or breasts so lushly full they would fill his hands, along with skin that rivaled the color of sweet cream. The corner of his mouth twisted with sheer exasperation.

How dare Mary Margaret O’Roarke keep herself hidden away beneath baggy pants, shirts, and a jacket that would easily stand on their own, plus mud and a stench that would curl a mule’s ears?

Just how dare she!

All this time he had been regretting his promise to Mohawk Pete. He had waited, hoping and praying—for he did believe the Lord indulged his sinner’s prayers—that the good Lord was going to take pity on him as a reward for his costly sacrifice. And what did he get, aside from the laughter that was likely shaking the heavens? Maggie slicked up with bows and lace for Quincy Kessnick. Maggie—a woman.

He moved with an unfocused gaze and slow deliberation to stand tall and started toward her.

Satin’s hair rose. Growling at the danger McCready presented, she moved to stand in front of Maggie.

“Satan hates me.”

“Her name is Satin, McCready. You know, just like the fancy goods
your
ladies wear.”

Leaning down to caress the dog’s head, Maggie whispered her praise. “Good, good girl.” And to him, “How many times do you need to be reminded of her name? Much as it irks me to be admittin’ it, you’re right. She does hate you. Almost as much as me an’ with less reason. Since you won’t tell me where Quincy is hid, I’ll go lookin’ for him meself.”

Standing straight again, Maggie glared at him. “I’ll give you a last warnin’. Nothin’ you do will stop me from marryin’ him. I’m gonna have the money I need to open those mines.”

“Maggie, you can’t. The claims belong to me.”

“Don’t be startin’ with your lies again. Me uncle wouldn’t gamble one claim away, much less all of them. And if he did, the only way you won was to cheat him.”

Shaking his head, needing the abrupt motion to clear his thoughts, McCready drawled, “Maggie mine, not again. You’ve left me no choice. I’ve tried to tell you since Pete died that the claims belong to me. Not only the claims—but you do, too.”

“What devil’s tale are you stirrin’ up now?”

Her reaction was less than he hoped for. Struck with lightning inspiration, McCready reached inside his vest pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Holding it to the side by two fingers, in case Maggie took it in mind to shoot at it, he nevertheless waved the paper. “This is no tale.”

Firmly then, he stated his case. “You forced my hand by pushing for this marriage when you learned that the circuit preacher would pass through. You can’t marry Quincy Kessnick. You, Maggie mine, can’t marry anyone.”

The wicked laughter was long gone from his eyes, and his gaze was most certainly focused. On her. Only her. Maggie squinted at him through the smoky haze drifting down from the overhead fixtures. She couldn’t utter a sound. There was a rising lump in her throat that wouldn’t allow her to swallow, and her breath seemed twisted inside, unable to get out. Now it was McCready who stood with his legs spread, sure and arrogant that he held a winning hand.

“Did you understand me, Maggie? You can’t get married today or any other day.”

“The hell I can’t!”

Shooting a look at the blackened ceiling, McCready asked for guidance. Looking back at Maggie, he whispered, “I’m trying my best to prevent you from committing a sin.”

“Sin?” she repeated softly, sensing that he was taunting her but unable to walk away until he showed his full hand.

“Bigamy, Maggie. That’s what sin I’m talking about. I had to save you. Someone did, and the good Lord and Pete chose me. I had to get rid of Quincy before you did something that would make you burn in hell. Seeing you now makes the mere thought a sin of its own. And,” he added, grinning, “we have to come to an understanding.”

“Understandin’?” she parroted, swallowing past the thick lump that was choking her.

“Yeah, Maggie. Between you and me. This most valuable and treasured piece of paper, duly signed and recorded in the county records, is for a proxy marriage between one Mary Margaret O’Roarke and C. V. McCready.”

“Liar!”

“Not about this, Maggie mine.”

“Give it to me.”

McCready glanced at the paper he held as if giving consideration to her demand, then glanced back to Maggie’s blanching face. “Don’t take offense, lass, but I’d be a fool to trust you near this. Besides, Maggie, you can’t read it, can you?”

Brazenly she tossed her head. “No. I can’t read. But Pete wouldn’t—” Maggie stopped. Her uncle’s last words to her when he had left for his diggings burst vividly from her memory. “
Don’t worry, girl. I fixed everything for you
.”

“Maggie?” Concerned for her continuing pallor, McCready started for her.

“Don’t take another step. I don’t want the likes of you near me.”

“Admit it, then. Your uncle lost his claims fairly to me. No matter what you think is true, or what you believe about me, Maggie, I didn’t cheat him to win. And this,” he stated, once more waving the paper, “proves that he was worried about what would happen to you.”

“You’re a liar, McCready.”

“At times.” He answered with candor, without hesitation. “But this isn’t one of those times. Pete said that if I would marry you by proxy, he would make sure that I knew which of his seven claims were to the gold. You wouldn’t believe anything I’ve tried to say these last few months since he died. You just pushed and pushed until you backed me into a corner.”

She raised her hand as if to do that very thing, shuddered, and dropped it back to her side.

“Maggie, listen to me. When Quincy came along and you decided to marry him, I had to protect what’s mine. I had to protect you just as I promised Pete.”

Shaking her head in denial, Maggie whispered, “Married? To you?” Her husky voice had a deep, choked quality to it. Still shaking her head, disbelieving every word McCready spoke, she felt a pounding begin over her left temple. Hog-tied to McCready? Shackled by marriage?

“Aye, Maggie, married to me. I came up to your cabin almost every day since Pete died. You either refused to open the door or weren’t there.”

“I was doin’ me grievin’.” Rubbing her forehead Maggie gazed around the room, feeling the pull to look back at McCready’s face. “Married?” she repeated yet again.

“Legal as can be. Of course, it would be nice since the preacher’s here, ready to perform a ceremony, if we were to make sure that no one doubts it’s true. Miss Mae went to a great deal of trouble—”

“Never.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me—never, McCready.”

He shrugged. “You’ll need time to get accustomed to the idea. Mohawk Pete was your only relative. That made him your legal guardian. You’re underage, Maggie. Well, you were until two days ago. This proxy marriage took place three months before he died.”

Seven months! McCready knew about this for seven months and never said a word. “Why would Pete trust you?” It just couldn’t be true!

“Why not me?” he countered, daring her now with his look to add further insult.

Maggie violently shook her head. She wanted to wrap her arms around herself, as if that would protect her from this verbal battering. She was frightened and didn’t dare give McCready that knowledge, or he would use it as a weapon.

“You … are me … h-hus-band?”

McCready’s engaging grin died aborning. Maggie’s pride and spirit had disappeared. He never knew that she could fear anyone or anything. Nothing had daunted her. But her eyes, those damnable, haunting eyes accused him, revealing for a brief moment her vulnerability. He could not falter now.

“In the legal sight of man, if not God, I am.”

“You only want the gold claims.”

“I’ve made no secret of that, Mary Margaret. You’re the only one who knows which of those seven claims is for gold. The assay report on one shows a rich vein that men would kill to possess. And I admit, after seeing you dressed like a woman, Maggie, my … er, greed, shall we say, is no longer for the gold alone.”

Her eyes, the green of ancient jade, snapped to life. “Think I’ll make it easy for you? You figure some piece of paper’s tyin’ me to you? Let me set you on the right path, McCready. I’ll make meself a widow before I’m your bride.”

“Would you now?” His voice was soft, almost friendly, but utterly pitiless.

The look of his eyes sent shivers up her spine and a loop of heat curling around her belly. Never once had McCready ever gazed at her like he was coming off a steady diet of roots and berries and she the perfectly sizzled steak set before him. Maggie felt an attack to her senses that sent panic streaming through her.

“Mary Margaret,” he chided, shielding his eyes with lashes that were thick and curling, “why would you desire to take this to that extreme? Widowhood isn’t at all what you want, much less need. Black won’t suit you.” The lie slid off his smooth tongue as his imagination peeled the finest of soft cashmere from the lush body in front of him. Or silk, he amended, thinking of its sensuous quality against skin.

“You can’t be knowin’ what I want or need, McCready.”

He forced his thoughts from their licentious path and reasoned with her. “Think about Pete. Think about his gold. If you kill me, Maggie, you’re sure to end up in jail, then, more’s the pity, hung. I’ll be gone, that’s true, but someone is sure to come along and find that mother lode. Pete had big plans for you and that gold, didn’t he? Would you deny what he wanted?” McCready started to tuck the paper back into his vest pocket.

“Hold it. I might not be able to read it, but I’ll find someone who can. You think you can flimflam me? Think again. Hand it over.”

McCready glanced from her outstretched hand back to her glittering eyes. “No deal, darlin’.” He patted his pocket and gave in to the urge to get closer to her. He managed all of three steps. There was a flicker of fear again in her eyes, something he had never seen or hoped to see from Maggie. But then, today seemed to be winning him prizes for firsts with Maggie. He watched the way her hand curled around the butt of her gun.

“Think before you do something rash, Maggie. Shooting me would be too easy. You might,” he taunted, “enjoy finding yourself married to me.”

A remembered flash of Cora Ann’s smile after she had spent a night in McCready’s bed cost Maggie her breath. If that reminder wasn’t enough to add weight to his taunt, she recalled the Desert Rose teasing her that playing duck and goose was simply the best when played with McCready. Well, she wasn’t taken in by simpering females and their gushing praise of his masculine charms. His women could have him!

“McCready,” she intoned in a deadly voice, “I’d sooner be married to a mule. Matter of fact,” she stated, then had to stop, fighting for the spirit that had never deserted her. She gave him a thorough once-over from the tip of his square-toed boots up the indecent fit of his pants across the snug pull of his vest and shirt, lighting her gaze on one shoulder. “A mule is better lookin’, better mannered, and a sight easier to handle.”

“Try a little sweetened sugar and less of the salt and vinegar you’re so fond of spitting out, Mary Margaret, and then see how easy I am to handle.”

“When mules talk, boyo.” She turned around, disgusted with him and herself. Maggie took a few steps toward the door only to stop when he bit off her name with a choking sound. A quick look over her shoulder showed McCready staggering before he grabbed hold of the bar. She thought he was going down to the floor, but he recovered. Maggie stared. He appeared to have some trouble drawing his breath. One of his hands suddenly clutched his side, the other hovered near his mouth.

“Dutch!” she called. “Dutch! Get in here. McCready needs you,” she bellowed in her best mule-skinner’s voice.

But Dutch didn’t come bursting through the door. She hesitated, wishing McCready to the devil and yet unable to just leave him. Then he doubled over, and her choice was made as it would be for any helpless critter. Much as she hated him, Maggie didn’t want him dying by any means but her own hand.

She rushed to his side, bracing him upright. “What ails you?” Her gaze took in the fever bright glitter of his eyes, and the flush that was once again stealing up to shade his skin. “Damn you, McCready, answer me.”

He barely managed another choked sound. His head fell forward, his cheek coming to rest on the upper slope of her breast. Maggie reacted instantly, shifting her body so she was more to his side.

McCready kept his head low, hiding the unholy light of satisfaction in his eyes, and leaned heavily against Maggie. Her arm held him firmly around the waist, the position pressing one lush breast against his chest. Her shoulder barely fit beneath his arm, but it gave him free access to slide his hand into the gaping back of her gown.

Stiff as a poker, Maggie angled her head to glare up at him. “Don’t be tryin’ none of your dandy’s tricks.”

“Support … that’s all,” he mumbled.

He
was
a trifle unsteady. Maggie knew McCready never got drunk this early in the day, so she let this go by, even if his fingers couldn’t seem to light in one place on her back. She could feel the heavy, erratic beats of his heart. But damn if he didn’t make her stomach feel like a bevy of butterflies had taken up home there.

Maggie, she warned herself, this is McCready. And McCready is a liar, a cheat, totally untrustworthy. She eyed him with those thoughts.

“Ah”—he sighed—“I’ll be cold in hell, Maggie mine,” he whispered, nuzzling his cheek against her shoulder.

“McCready—”

“Maggie.” Laughter rode his voice. “You’ve got freckles.”

“Take your hand—”

“Now, tell me, Mary Margaret,” he asked, his voice now low, silky, and challenging, “are they all over?”

“That’s it!” Maggie yanked his arm off her shoulder, gave it a good twist, and shoved his body backward at the same time. Satin leapt up, teeth bared to grab hold of his arm, pulling his hand away from her mistress. The dog’s added strength helped Maggie’s second shove send McCready sprawling on the sawdust-littered floor. He was stunned for a moment, and that was all Satin needed. She planted herself on top of him, once more baring her most impressive teeth.

Smacking her hands together, then wiping them down the sides of her gown, Maggie glared at him. “Keep that sidewinder pinned, girl,” she ordered Satin.

Maggie had had enough. She had reached the limit of being able to hold back her fear that McCready might have told her the truth. How could she prove he was lying? They couldn’t be married. She detested him and all he stood for. Lazy no-count tinhorn!

With a graceful turn that twisted the dragging trail of her gown around her boots, Maggie ignored his mutterings. Yanking the entangling cloth free, she walked away.

“Maggie! Maggie, come back here!” he yelled. “Get this devil’s bitch off me.”

“Get her off yourself. Use your silver tongue to slide your way out of this. Or tell me the truth, McCready. You were lyin’ to me about us bein’ married, right? I know that you are. So did Pete. He never would’ve tied me to a stingy thievin’ Scot like you.”

“He did! Tie you to me, that is. An’ I’m no more a—”

“Tell me where you had those men take Quincy.”

“I don’t have him here.”

“That’s no damn answer. Stay with him, girl.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “Seems you’re stuck, McCready.”

“If I am, expect payment in kind, O’Roarke.”

Maggie stopped in the act of hooking her thumbs in her gunbelt. She was still. Looking at him, startled by the fierce challenging gaze that met her own, Maggie had no time to attempt to hide the fear and hurt she felt.

“If you told me the truth and we are married, McCready, I’ll be payin’ for it the rest of me life. Why I don’t kill you now and be done with it is beyond me. But I’ll swear this, sidewinder, I’ll find a way to prove you’re a liar, a cheat, and a thief.”

“Maggie, I didn’t want to tell you this way. I tried to talk to you—”

“The day I buried Pete?”

“I wanted to protect you. But you left me no choice.”

Maggie wasn’t going to be fooled by the soft sincerity in his voice, but Satin whined and looked at her.

“Don’t you be turnin’ traitor, too. What Pete did to me was enough.” Saints be! What was she admitting?

“Maggie, you are
my
wife.”

“Only if you catch me, McCready,” she taunted, having regained some of her spirit and knowing that she had only herself to depend upon to help her out of this.

McCready didn’t miss the flash of excitement in her eyes. The corner of his mouth tugged up the beginning of a smile. “I’ll catch you, Maggie. What’s more, you’ll like it when I do. I’ll hogtie you so tight that you won’t have room to move, much less think. And then, Maggie mine,” he promised with all the male arrogance that too many easy women had enforced, “then I’ll make you understand what being my wife means.”

“You can try, boyo. You surely can try.”

She stood a moment more, legs spread, hands on hips, her chin angled for battle, and McCready felt heat melt his bones. She was exactly what he had called her: barbaric. The fire of her passionate denial only settled matters. He wanted her.

Maggie’s leaving broke the spell, her laughter floating back to him as he cradled his hands beneath his head. He longed to deny the underlying desperation he heard along with her taunting laughter. But McCready lived by few enough rules. One was that he never, ever lied to himself.

Maggie was afraid of him.

Satin pawed his chest and forced him to look at her. He thought about freeing his hands and closing them around the dog’s throat to throw her off him. Satin inched each of her large paws upward until they rested on his shoulders. She cocked her head to the side.

McCready smiled. “There, lass, that’s a good girl.”

He spoke too soon. Satin’s teeth were once again bared. The dog resettled her considerable weight over his chest with her rump planted on his knees.

McCready sighed. “What we have here is a Mexican standoff, Satan.”

Deep and low came her warning growl.

“All right. All right. Satin. Satisfied? ’Tis a cursed life I lead, girl. I’ve had some possessive females wanting my body, but none were ready to rip my throat to keep it.” He eyed her tongue lolling to the side. “Wouldn’t you like to be petted? Not by a woman’s soft hand but by a man’s strong one?” Satin’s ears perked up.