Christmas Male (13 page)

"Hope you're all right!" Howie called through the doorway, taking another step back. "Well, it was a real pleasure to meet you, Miss Maggie. Maybe I'll come back and pay you a visit."

"Well, I'm leaving town today, but it's been nice to meet you," she answered as John closed the door firmly. The older man's weathered face darkened with concern as he marched into the kitchen, milk bottle in hand. He set it on the table.

"Is it true?" John demanded. "Did you ride over and punch Chester?"

"Yes, and I'd do it again." Miles didn't look at her. In fact, he gave her a wide berth as he circled around her. "I taught him a lesson he won't soon forget."

Maggie's chest ached a little bit more. She tore her gaze away from him, remembering the coffee grinder she still clutched. Well, she was going to make him the best breakfast he'd ever had. She set the grinder on the counter and reached for the coffeepot. Very fond feelings flooded her heart, feelings she could no more hold back than the ocean could the tide.

"That was a delicious breakfast, Maggie." Winston tossed his cloth napkin onto his plate and pushed back from the table just enough to pat his belly. "I'm plumb full. I haven't eaten like that since we left New York."

"That's the truth," John agreed with a satisfied nod as he reached for his coffee cup and took a sip. "You're a pleasure to have around, missy."

"It's a pleasure to be here," she confessed, and in more ways than one. The view was beautiful from the dining room, gazing out at the jagged, brilliantly white mountains that seemed close enough to touch. Sunlight glistened on the snowy boughs of thousands of trees, carpeting the mountainside and glittered along the slopes of the yard, like a million tiny twinkling stars. The sky was a breathless, clear, cold blue. She'd never seen anything as captivating.

Unless it was the man seated across the table from her. Miles reached for the coffeepot sitting on a trivet and poured himself another cup, ignoring her presence. To him, she may not have been there at all, he hadn't so much as said a word or glanced at her from the second he'd stepped foot inside the dining room. The bruises on his knuckles reminded her of what he'd done last night. For her. His hand was less swollen this morning, although he mildly winced when he set down the coffeepot. It must still be hurting him. Her pulse gave a little flutter.

Remember, you aren't going to fall for him, Maggie.
She set down her fork with a clink on her plate and reached for her own cup, still steaming and sweetened just right. While she drank, she peeked at Miles over her rim. He looked darker this morning, more shadowed, his handsome face drawn, deep lines bracketing his mouth. Dour furrows dug into his forehead as he stirred sugar into his cup.

"How's the hangover?" John asked, amused as he drained the last drops of coffee from his cup.

"No comment." Miles sounded annoyed and maybe a bit embarrassed as he stirred in another spoonful of sugar. His hazel gaze arrowed across the table, pinning hers. The corner of his mouth tugged downward. "I don't usually drink like this."

"I never thought you did," she said gently, only now remembering the big mug of scotch he'd poured last night. He'd taken both the mug and the bottle up to his bed. She arched one brow, cradling her cup in both hands. "I wouldn't peg you as a drunk the way Chester is, for instance."

"Funny." Miles shook his head, as if he wasn't humored in the slightest. "There's only one reason I drink. Women."

"That'll do it," John agreed, setting down his empty cup. "Oh, the times your grandmother drove me to drink, I couldn’t count them all. Every time I take a drink of scotch, I think of her. Half the time she was waving something at me—a fry pan, a broom, one time a fireplace poker—and the rest of the time she was, well—guess that's not polite table conversation."

He blushed pink to the tips of his ears.

"I don't want to hear this," Winston said gruffly, launching out of his chair. "Although I can't say I disagree with you. My marriage was a lot like that too. My Alice was a remarkable woman," he added, glancing Maggie's way. "Which is why it's such a puzzle to us that Miles has a bad opinion of marriage."

"And women in general," John chimed in. "How much of my scotch is left, boy?"

"Not enough." Miles stared into his coffee cup.

Was it her imagination, or was he studying her through his dark lashes? Her stomach gave a deep, low twinge, a feeling of longing. Of wanting. Now it was her turn to blush. She took another long drink of coffee, swallowing hard, feeling exposed, even though none of them could know of her body's reaction to the man?

"You had best get Maggie to the depot. And while you're in town, stop by the saloon and replace that bottle you drank." John sounded stern as he pushed to his feet. "That scotch gives an old man comfort on a cold, lonely night while he's waiting to die."

"The guilt isn't going to work, old man," Miles answered gruffly, rolling his eyes. But there was affection there, too. Great affection. "But I'll get you two bottles. Will that make you happy?"

"It's a start." John circled around the room, and when Miles couldn’t see he tossed Maggie a wink. "And I think we need groceries. That will give you something useful to do, Miles."

"Yes, I did notice the pantry is on the empty side," she agreed, eager to get to town. She set down her cup and reached to grab John's dirty plate, stacking it neatly on top of hers.

"Yes, that's right," John agreed. "Maybe if Maggie has time before her train arrives, she could help you out."

"I know what you're doing, Pops." Miles called over his shoulder as he rose from his chair and towered over the table, over her. "It's not going to work."

"Yes, John, I'm afraid there's no way trying to match me with Miles is going to work," Maggie couldn’t help joking. "Like I said before, he's not my type."

She went to scoot back her chair. Before she could get far, Miles was there, hand on the back of the chair, helping her.

Oh, he smelled good. Like fresh soap and wood smoke and something pleasantly male. She breathed it in (she couldn’t help herself) and it hit her blood like aged scotch. Her veins burned, her equilibrium shattered and when she bopped out of her chair she swayed just a little. Whew. She had to grab the edge of the table for support.

Get control of yourself,
she ordered sternly, but it didn't seem to help.

"Look at Pops, he's disappointed." Miles arched one dark brow as he moved away to fetch his plate. "He and Pa want me to find a woman and settle down. They don't seem to care what woman."

"Well, I'd like to think quality matters." She chuckled as she gathered Winston's plate. "I like to think I'm not just any old woman."

"No, that's not what I meant." Miles blew out a sigh, looking contrite as he added his plate to the stack. "I—"

A loud knock on the front door interrupted him. Whatever he was going to say shone in his eyes, though—an apology and an appreciation of her. It was a soft thing, and it surprised her, considering what he'd said to her last night.

"Who could that be?" Sounding frustrated and bothered, Miles stormed powerfully away, his gait long and predatory, his hands fisted at his sides, his brawny shoulders tensed. "It's seven o'clock in the morning."

No one answered him as he marched away. A lock of dark hair stuck up at the top of his head, rocking with his gait. He had a cowlick, she thought, having no idea why that melted her a tad more.

You are in trouble, she told herself as she took the stack of plates into the kitchen. She ignored the faint sound of the door opening, the male voices rising and falling at the other end of the huge house, and set the plates on the counter. She liked Miles, and her body
really
liked Miles. It seemed to have a mind of its own when she was around him. Worse, so did her heart.

Yes, it was a good thing she was leaving, she thought, grabbing a wash basin and hauling it over to the big cook stove.

"Maggie!" Miles's voice boomed through the house, carrying a definitely surly note. "It's someone for you."

"For me?" Startled, she nearly dropped the basin. She set it on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Curious, she tapped his way, wondering who on earth would want to see her—and at this hour when most folks would be preparing to go to work.

"You have an admirer." Miles tossed her a bitter smile from the sunny foyer. His hazel gaze shuttered, giving no sense of his true feelings about the man standing on the porch, hat in hand. Disapproval twisted Miles's mouth as he stepped back, gesturing with his hand toward the door. "Maggie, meet Rick."

"But—" She started to protest, not understanding why he'd suddenly turned angry. Miles stepped back, glowering. She felt knotted up, tight with confusion and alone with a stranger.

"Hello, Miss Maggie." The stranger—Rick—gave a courteous bow. "Let me introduce myself. My grandfather is Bill Burdett, he works at the train station. You met him yesterday?"

"Yes, I remember." She warmed, instantly liking this man. He looked a few years older than she was, with Bill's kind brown eyes. She smiled. "You look like your grandfather. Without the mustache, of course."

"And you're every bit as pretty as Grandfather said." Rick looked down bashfully at the toes of his boots. He blushed, his cheeks and nose turning pink. He was handsome in his own way with a comely face and a nicely angled jaw. "I was hoping you might do me the honor of going on a sleigh ride this afternoon."

"Well, I—" she started speaking, but nothing else came out. She was unprepared for this. A man wanted to come courting? "Sorry, I'm leaving town today."

"Oh, I didn't know." Rick said, looking mortified. "I thought you were staying here for a while."

"Sorry," she said consolingly. She felt sorry for Rick standing there, with Miles glaring at him like a bear about to attack.

"Shouldn't you be heading to work?" Miles barked out.

"Yes, but I wanted to swing by here first," Rick explained, his blush deepening to a deep crimson. He straightened his spine, not a man to back down. "Word has gotten out that there's a new lady in town, and I didn't want to miss my chance. It's too bad you're leaving, Miss."

"Yes, it is," Maggie answered politely. "Thank you so much for coming by. Have a good day."

"You too, Miss Maggie." Rick smiled, and he looked very nice indeed. Kind, strong, good. Just what a man ought to be. Plus, it was nice to see someone who actually wanted to like her. "Goodbye."

He plopped his hat on his head, crossed the porch and hopped down the steps where his horse and sled were waiting. Maggie let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. That just wasn't what she'd expected at all.

Miles shut the door. His eyes were accusing, his mouth stern and hard with judgment. "I'm surprised you didn't go after him. He's a supervisor. He makes pretty good money."

"That's not fair, Miles." She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, studying him—really studying him. He'd been terribly wounded. It shadowed his eyes, stole the light from him. When he fell in love, it had to have been the deep, all-the-way kind of love. Hurting for him, she reached out, her hand landing on the solid, granite span of his chest. "Not every woman judges a man by his financial worth. I certainly don't."

"You just say you don't." Miles caught her hand in his, physically yanking it from his chest as if angry, but the bitterness digging in deep around his mouth was a sign that it wasn't anger that drove him. It was the remnants of a wound that had never healed.

Wounds to the heart were the worst, and cut the deepest. He gripped her hand in his roughly, as if he were ready to thrust her away, but he didn't. "You're looking for a husband like every woman does. A man is just someone to pay the bills and provide for you. Admit it. You came all this way to marry a stranger because he promised you security."

"This is an unsecure world for a woman," Maggie said evenly, refusing to let his hard words hurt her. She saw the pain crinkled in the corners of his eyes, felt it surge through her as if his blood beat in her veins, as if by holding her hand he joined them in a way she didn't understand but was essential, primal. "I make pennies in wages compared to what men earn. The only jobs available to me are childcare, housework, cooking and it pays terribly. I've worked sixty hours a week scrubbing laundry on a washboard day in and day out since I got out of the orphanage at sixteen. That's six whole years, and if my sisters weren't working demanding jobs too, then we wouldn’t be able to have the basics we need. We're lucky, but we've worked hard for it. And I have never aspired to a more comfortable lifestyle than what I've had. It's happiness I want. It's love."

"And you think you can find that with Rick?" Miles arched a brow, pain in his eyes. Sheer, raw pain.

Was he remembering his own heartache, she wondered as she extricated her hand from his hot, heady grip. Miniature tingles raced through her blood, her breathing hitched from his touch. Her body began to melt deep inside—stomach, pelvis region, even the inside of her bones. She stepped back when she wanted to be closer to him, to brush away his pain.