Christmas Male (3 page)

"Don't let him worry you, Miss," Bill said. "He's a curmudgeon. Every town's gotta have one, and Miles McClintock is ours."

Miles rolled his eyes. Honestly, he wasn't always dour and bitter—only when it came to women. For instance, he wasn't grousing about the weather, which was sideways snowing at the moment and colder than the outer limits of hell. It was hard to figure how he'd gotten the reputation of a curmudgeon. He was generally a helpful guy, if not pleasant. He untied Big Jack from the nearby hitching post.

The wind just happened to be blowing his way, bringing the woman's words straight to him. Lucky him. He tried to close his ears off to that songlike voice, which really was lovely. Too bad he didn't believe in lovely anymore. No, he'd caught a good glimpse of what was at the heart of a woman and it was anything but lovely.

"...well, yes, I am a mail-order bride," she explained, her voice coming in snatches as the wind gusted and blew. "...marry, yes, someone here..."

"Looks like some poor man in town is about to get a rude awakening," Miles told his horse as he fumbled with the snowy, icy knot the reins had become. "Matrimony is a death trap."

Big Jack didn't seem to agree. He shook his head in protest and his brown eyes seemed to sparkle with a positive attitude as he pricked his ears, straining to listen in on the young lady's plight. That was another thing about young ladies. They always had a plight. They came with a lot of drama, most of it self-invented. Scowling, doing his level best not to remember his own failed experiences with love, he tromped through the accumulating snow and swung onto his seat.

"Hey, Miles!" Bill hung out of the ticket window, hands cupped to his mouth, hollering across the way. The train gave a loud blast of its whistle. "—okay?"

"What?" Miles shouted back, but Bill was already waving and smiling.

"Thanks!" Bill called out. "Glad you'll be—"

The train cut him off as the engine rumbled into motion, chugging and belching smoke and noise. Miles had a bad, bad feeling. The kind that burrowed into a man's gut and bit hard with sharp teeth, like a rabid wolf.
Not
the kind of feeling a man wanted to have. He saw why when the woman turned his way and smiled through the veil of snow. She took a few dainty steps toward him, her long wool coat and red dress ruffle swaying gracefully, and he knew beyond all doubt she was coming his way.

The hair stood up on the back of his neck. This was definitely a problem. He clamped his jaw tight, already knowing what she was going to say. Damn Bill and his friendliness. Friendliness with a woman only got a man into trouble. Every time.

"Excuse me, I'm so sorry to bother you." She sashayed up uncertainly, biting her lush bottom lip at his lack of friendliness. She was beautiful, even striking with those cascading, soft blond curls framing her heart-shaped face. As delicate as porcelain, her high cheekbones, wide blue eyes, sloping nose and carved chin could have been made by a master sculptor. The smile shaping her rosy, Cupid's bow mouth would make any man's heart fall right out of his chest and land on the ground next to his toes.

Not him, but most men.

"You are bothering me," he said, using the gruffest tone he could muster, only out of self-protection. You gave a woman an inch, she took a mile and your heart right along with it. "Let me guess. You need a ride and Bill said I would be happy to oblige."

"Why, yes he did." She took another step forward, as if torn between uncertainty and the hope that he wouldn't turn into a wolf and bite her. "He said you would be eager to help, but the funny thing is, you don't look too eager."

"Sure I do," he lied, hopping down to take her satchel. Just because he didn't trust women didn't mean he wasn't a gentleman. He dropped her bag onto the wagon seat and held out his gloved hand. It was too cold to leave her standing here and there wasn't anyone else around to help her. What choice did he have? "Get in. I'll take you where you need to go."

"That's very kind of you. Thank you so much." She sent sincerity beaming his way with those striking blue eyes of hers. A compelling shade of cornflower blue, wide and almond shaped and framed by thick, curling golden-brown lashes. She lightly set her hand on his and an intense, wrenching squeeze twisted trough his midsection. A strange reaction, one that was
not
attraction. He refused to let it be.

Maybe it was revulsion, he thought hopefully. Revulsion would be a much better reaction to her.

"...Especially since there's no one else here," she was saying, and her words now grabbed his attention as she settled on the cushioned seat, adjusting her skirts. "I hadn't realized Pine Haven would be such a small place."

"Didn't your husband-to-be warn you?" Wryly, he hopped onto the seat beside her, aware of the way the hair on his arms stood up on end. Another sign she was more trouble than he could handle. "Or were you so desperate for marriage that you didn't ask too many questions when you saw the advertisement?"

He hiked up one brow, gathering the reins, wondering if his tone had been too harsh.

She bristled, pursed her pretty mouth, scrunched up her adorable sloping nose and narrowed her heart-felt blue gaze at him. Not a wilting flower after all. "I wasn't desperate, just trying to find a dream."

Desperate, he thought stubbornly, refusing to believe her. She looked poverty-stricken, now that he took a closer look, as if life had not been easy for her. Her coat was far from new, the sleeve's cuffs neatly patched to hide fraying and it was at least one size too big for her, sagging a little in the shoulders. There was a little too much fabric cinched up around her sash at the waist—her very slim waist, he noted. She might be willowy but she was curved in all the right places.

Not that he was noticing that particularly. It was just an observation. He had a writer's eye, so his interest was purely a professional one. In case he needed a fictional damsel in distress to lay across a train track, for instance. Or a sad tale of the poor, besotted hero marrying a pretty woman, only to find out how she'd duped him.

He snapped Big Jack's reins and the bay gelding obliged, neck arched, ears pricked, displaying his best behavior for the lady. Honestly. Miles shook his head. His horse ought to have the dignity not to be showing off for a woman.

"You don't seem to approve." She turned toward him, the snow dappling her, catching in her hair and gathering along her knit cap like a snowflake tiara. "Let me guess. You aren't married."

"No, and that's a stroke of luck." He shrugged, reining through the storm. The road was rutted and tricky, with the snow accumulating fast on the frozen, already snowy ground. The storm worsened, casting the afternoon with a twilight darkness. A faint glint and gleam of lamplight from the shops flashed now and then through the mightily falling snow. "I'm too smart to be caught in the trap of marriage."

"I see. Yes, you look very smart to me." She tossed a sweet smile at him.

Sarcasm, he thought with a half-frown, half a grin. "Did you just insult me?"

"Who, me? No, of course not." Her blue eyes sparkled with a touch of humor. "Why would I insult the man who is giving me a ride?"

"I guess that's fair, as I insulted you for marrying a perfect stranger." He leaned back in the seat. The foreboding squeeze remained cinched hard around his stomach, and the hair still stood up on his arms, so he wasn't going to forget his stance. He had to keep disliking her on principle. "Where are you going? I'd take to you to the hotel in town, but there isn't one."

"There isn't?" She squinted through the downfall, swiping snow off her face. "I can't see anything but the storm."

"Trust me. We have three blocks of shops, and that's all." Miles pulled Big Jack over next to a few horses and vehicles parked at the hitching post. "I've got to stop at the feed store, pick up some oats for Big Jack."

Big Jack nickered in agreement—one wouldn't want to forget something so important on their trip to town—and arched his neck even more, tossing the lady a charming look.

"Oh, he's precious." The woman's hand landed on her chest, her eyes going mushy, her amazing mouth curving into a soft O. "He's just a gentle giant, isn't he? Just a sweetheart, aren't you, Big Jack?"

"You didn't answer my question." Miles frowned. He hopped out, his boots hitting the ice and snow with a muffled thud. "Where am I supposed to take you?"

"My fiancé was supposed to meet me, I'm sure something unexpected came up." Her lovely face crinkled up with concern. "I hope it's not too far out of your way. I'm here to marry Mr. Chester Collins."

"Chester?" An image of the drunk's face, scruffy from lack of shaving, his dark hair wild from lack of combing and perhaps lack of washing, flashed into Miles's mind. "You're here to marry Chester? Does he know this?"

"Well, of course. We've been corresponding." She patted her reticule as if it held a treasure trove of love letters.

The very bad, bad feeling in Miles's stomach grew. He couldn’t imagine why a drunk needed a wife. It wasn't as if he had the wherewithal to support a woman or the sobriety to deal with one. But really, it wasn't his business.

"Then you're in luck." Now it was his turn to be sarcastic. He nodded at the shop front near the feed store, just two doors over. "Chester's in there."

"But it's a saloon." Maggie blinked snowflakes off her lashes and studied the sign swinging merrily in the gusting winds one more time. Yep, it definitely said Pine Haven Saloon. "Why would Chester be in there?"

"You tell me, since you know him so well." The man—Miles—rolled his eyes as he looped a lead rope around the hitching post and gave it a yank. "You're the one who wanted to marry a drunk."

"A drunk? Why, Chester is no such thing." Indignant outrage roared through her and she bolted off the seat and onto her feet. How could this man—this gruff, brawny mountain man in a buffalo coat—malign dear, sweet Chester? "You, sir, seem to have an attitude problem."

"Thank you. I work hard at it." He swept off his hat to shake the snow from the top and brim, all the while studying her with speculative, hazel eyes. "Let me guess. You didn't know Chester was a drunk. He didn't happen to mention it in his letters?"

"No, he's a hard-worker," she insisted, a horrible hollow feeling beginning to creep into her heart. "And one thing I do know about him is that he's honest."

She thought of the dozen or so letters tucked in her reticule, felt the pang of love warm away that hollow feeling in her heart. No, she wasn't going to let some man with a sour disposition cast any shadow on this special day. She thought of how Chester had written of tending his brother, sick with brain fever, to a full recovery, and all the devotion he showed to them. Chester's confession of how he longed for a wife to love, someone to share his life with, raise a family with, of how he longed to be a pa.

No, Chester's heart was full of love for her. She would not listen to this misanthrope any longer. Clearly this Miles fellow had some issues. She hefted her satchel from the seat. "Thank you, sir, but I'll find my own way. Have a pleasant afternoon."

"Yeah, you too." He stood in the shadow of the covered boardwalk, swathed in darkness. It was hard to make out his face or to understand the reason for the sarcasm in his tone, but she didn't bother. She wanted to find Chester more than ever. Her heart ached for him. She longed for his safe and protective presence.

"Where are you going?" Miles called after her.

She took another step, turned around and blinked furiously against the driving wind and snow. It battered her like fists, unrelenting. She didn't know how to answer him. She didn't even know which direction she should be walking. Perhaps she'd find a friendly storeowner and ask the way. In a town this tiny, surely everyone would know of dear, sweet Chester.

"Seriously, try the saloon." Miles jerked his thumb at the double doors to his left, behind him on the boardwalk. She could just make out the shape of his fist, of his thumb as his tan leather glove caught a faint glow through a lit window. "Trust me, you'll find your answers there."

She batted more snow out of her face, watching his muscular, impressive silhouette meander across the light from the store window, painting him briefly with gold. His handsome face could have been hewn from granite. He had strong, high cheekbones, a straight nose and a square, chiseled jawline dusted with a day's growth. The surliness had vanished from his features, and in that touch of light a flash of sympathy gentled him. Just for a second, and it vanished as fast as it had come. That brief flash of his honest emotion hit her hard. He felt sorry for her? Did that mean he was telling the truth?

No, she automatically denied, cold disbelief shivering through her. Chester wasn't like that. He'd written on and on of how hard he worked, all he did for others. Where would he have time to copiously drink? But for some reason, her feet pulled her forward toward the double doors of the saloon and Miles, who'd stepped out of the light, watching her from the shadows.

Her pulse tripped crazily in her chest, through her veins, making her shaky as she climbed the two steps from the street level to the boardwalk. Snow plastered her. She rubbed her face with her sleeve, her jelly-like legs taking her to the double doors. She'd never been inside a saloon before (mostly because if she'd tried, Emma would have had an apoplexy and been pronounced dead on the spot).