Christmas Male (9 page)

In the darkness of the lean-to, Miles shrugged into Pops's old winter coat, not sure why his pulse was racing. Maybe it was because Maggie's golden beauty was affecting him—the way it would any red-blooded man. She was a heady combination of sweetness, soft curves and desirable woman. Those glints in her eyes and the mischief lurking in the corners of her rosebud mouth would make any male worth his salt wonder what it would be like to kiss her. Add that to the fact that he hadn't touched a woman in years—Bethleigh had insisted on making him wait until after the wedding, not because she loved him but because, come to find out, she was busy getting in bed with some other man behind his back.

Remembering, anger shot through him, made it easier to open the outside door and step into the beat of the storm. He propped the door open, letting the wind-driven snow whip against him, driving ice through his clothes and cold into his bones. Maybe that was just what he needed to cool his blood, since it was feeling way too hot for comfort. It was a sad state of affairs that the mere thought of a certain woman's kisses could get him in an aroused state.

He gritted his teeth, shook his head at his sorry self. What kind of man was he if he didn't have better self-control than that? He scooped up the basin of water, carried it down the steps and emptied it against the side of the lean-to. The fierce gale wasn't quite blizzard strength, but close. White snow beat at him out of the dark, blocking out all view of the open door and the faint spill of light where Maggie might still be standing.

There his pulse went, beating double time again. Ridiculous. He shook his head, tossed the basin through the open doorway and debated going back inside. His tea was waiting for him, and he'd planned to retreat to his den and get some work done, but that would mean going back into the kitchen. She would be there with her unguarded blue eyes and mesmerizing smile and good humor curving her mouth. That kissable mouth. He'd just discovered he had a hard time looking away from it.

Disappointed in himself, he hung his head and let the storm pummel him. He tried to purge every image of her soft pink lips from his mind. But they lingered, the curve they made when she smiled, the way her pearl-white teeth dug into her lush bottom lip, the way she pursed them together when she thought.

Sudden, surprising need fisted in his gut, making the decision for him. He'd never wanted to kiss anyone this badly before. There was no way he could go back inside and spend the evening a stone's throw away from her in the parlor. Especially knowing his pa and grandfather would be watching and hoping for his attraction to her.

No, it was much better to spend the evening out in the barn with the horses. He swung back outside, firmly wrestling the door closed behind him. Funny, he could have sworn he saw a flash of something out of the corner of his eye—maybe a movement, maybe someone out in the storm—but when he glanced again there was only the dark wall of snow and wind gusting along the eaves.

Who would be out in the middle of the dark evening storm? With a shrug, Miles headed into the yard, following the stretch of the clothesline until he reached the first wooden rails of the paddock. He followed the fencing to the barn, glad that every step he took brought him farther away from Maggie. That woman put an extra beat in his heart and heat in his blood. That could not be good.

Not good at all.

"I can't think where Miles got off to." John ambled into the front room, where the fire crackled merrily in the big stone hearth. The older man set the book he'd fetched onto the end table next to his overstuffed reading chair. "I looked high and low. First in his room, then in the den and even in the west wing. Didn't find hide nor hair of him."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about Miles." Winston looked over the top of his reading spectacles and the top edge of his newspaper, his mouth hiking up wryly. "I expect he's as far away as he could get from our pretty little Maggie here."

"I don't know why." Maggie closed the novel she'd packed in her satchel. She hadn't taken it as a good sign that Miles had never returned to the kitchen for his tea. She couldn’t help but take that personally. "I'm no threat to him. He isn't my type."

"And believe me, he works hard not to be any lady's type." Winston chuckled, shaking his head. "That boy. I don't know what I'm going to do with him."

That boy, Maggie reflected as she ran her fingertips along the title on the book's cover, was a grown man in his thirties, tough, capable and surly. But it was his kindness that attracted her. A kindness that ran deep in him, far deeper than the bitterness.

"We never should have let him move all this way." John settled into his comfortable reading chair and winked. "I know you're gonna say there's no talking sense to that boy when he's set his mind on something, but still. We've been here since May and nothing has changed."

"That's the truth, but it hasn't been a year yet. The boy is still hurting." Winston agreed, turning his attention back to his newspaper with a sigh. "Well, maybe Maggie can help us with that too."

"Oh, no. I see where you are going with this." She flipped her book open again, moving aside the length of old, fraying red ribbon she used as a bookmark. "Don't think because I wanted to marry a man I'd never met before, that I'm desperate enough to marry Miles. Don't even try match-making. Believe me, I'm not that bad off."

"She's funny," John said to Winston with a chuckle. "I like her. I think she's just what Miles needs."

"I don't argue there." Winston turned the page with a rustle. "Maggie, maybe if you stayed on long enough, Miles could grow on you."

"I doubt it." She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Honestly, she tried to picture it. Stern, stoic Miles wandering into the kitchen every morning, brow furrowed, mouth clamped tight, turning his back to her as he poured a cup of coffee. Not exactly the wedded bliss she was looking for. "I thought Chester was poetic and open-hearted. That he was looking for a wife to cherish."

"Oh, you want true love. That's what you're looking for." Winston smiled at her over the edge of his newspaper. His gaze warmed as if with a treasured memory. "Well, that's something that comes around once in a lifetime. You can't expect to find it at the other end of a mail-order bride advertisement."

"Callie did." Her chin went up, a tad defensively. Maybe because deep down inside she knew the kindly older man was right. Very right. Had she been naïve, maybe even foolish, thinking that a dream so rare could happen so easily? Troubled, she stared down at the page in front of her, stark black letters in neat rows across the crisp white page.

Maybe true love was never going to happen for her. Maybe it was time to accept the truth.

"Well, Callie didn't marry the man she'd corresponded with," Maggie explained, hanging her head. "When she arrived in Clark Creek, she discovered he'd lied to her terribly. He was completely the opposite of what he'd made himself out to be. Just like Chester did to me. But she married a different man and he is everything she'd been looking for."

"Then maybe that can happen to you too, missy." Across the room, John grinned at her. "Miles is quite a catch, you know. Maybe not now, but that could change. You could change him."

"I'm not interested in changing a man." She traced the first line of the page, the words just jumbled letters she couldn’t make sense of. She couldn’t concentrate. Maybe because this had been her only chance to find real love. She was going to have to accept that love and all that went with it (a husband, babies, and a family of her own) would pass her by. It really might be too late for her. She took a painful, grating breath. "Or I could have tried to get one of the widowers in town to change his mind about me being a faded rose."

"You are no such thing. You're lovely," John argued affably. "But Miles changed because of a woman, it stands to reason another woman could change him back. It would be good to see the old Miles again. Wouldn’t it, son?"

"That it would," Winston answered from behind his newspaper.

"Well, it's getting late. I'm heading up," John said, turning to her as if he had something to say. Hopefully it was nothing more about Miles.

Maggie launched out of her chair, taking her book with her. "I think I will, too. It's been a long day."

"That it has." Winston opened his newspaper to the first page, all settled in to read. "Personally, I can't wait until morning for that breakfast you're going to make us."

"Don't get your expectations too high," she warned him, feeling lighter as she left the room. "I'm not the best cook in my family, but I'm passable."

"Passable is more than we've been getting lately," John informed her as he waited for her to head up the staircase. "It's a great relief knowing I won't be cooking. I burn everything, and if there's one thing you don't want to eat it's burned eggs."

"I'll take your word for it." Oh yes, she thought climbing the stairs, she did feel a little lighter. Talking with John and Winston this evening had helped. Maybe she didn't have a ring on her finger or a new life as a bride (maybe her sister Emma had been right all along), but she felt safe here and welcome. Maybe Callie would have a baby one day, which would make her an aunt. That wasn't the same as being a ma, of course, but she would have a little niece or nephew to dote on. That was something special, too. Maybe she should be content with that.

"And before you head for bed, Maggie, you might want to check the necessary room." John opened the first door on the left, his bedroom. "When I left the parlor for a while, I poured a bath for you. My Elma, God rest her, said a hot bath before bed always soothed her. Go on and soak for a bit. That will help comfort you after your loss today."

"Oh, I will. Thank you." Surprised, she paused in the middle of the hallway, touched. John only smiled at her, stepped into his room and closed the door.

Which room was Miles's, she wondered? Her feet shuffled forward, turning the corner and following the shadowed hallway. A lamp sconce tossed light far down the hall, faintly guiding her. The storm battered the house, scouring the walls and gusting against the eaves. An icy chill penetrated the wall, making her shiver.

Miles was outside. He had to be much colder, probably hiding from her in one of the barns she'd spotted out the kitchen window when she'd been washing dishes. She blew out a sigh, troubled. She didn't want to be the reason he was uncomfortable, because she liked him. He'd probably not like that if he knew, but it was the truth.

She turned a final corner in the hallway, suddenly feeling uneasy for no good reason. Lemony light fell from another wall sconce, lighting her way. She walked past her bedroom door, which was closed and kept walking toward the last room at the end of the hall, where a second set of stairs led down near to the kitchen. She opened the necessary room door and stepped into a warm, candlelit glow.

Oh, my.
Her hand flew to her throat, surprised at the trouble John had gone to. Steam curled upward from a big slipper shaped tub, gleaming copper in the dozen candles flickering on the nearby windowsill. It would be the perfect way to relax, she realized, setting her book on the little wooden shelf next to the tub. The tension in her body unfurled as she imagined slipping into that hot, delicious water. Tears burned behind her eyes. She'd never had anyone do something so nice for her before—anyone who wasn't family, that is.

Eagerly, she shut the door, unbuttoned her dress and shimmied out of her clothes as fast as she could go. Callie had written about a bathtub like this at her house—a cozy and comfortable home Mason had owned before they'd married. Maggie smiled, starting to feel truly excited about her decision to visit Callie. Wait until she knocked on Callie's door! Callie would be so surprised to see her. Her spirits soared just thinking about it and put a big smile in her heart.

She slipped into the water—
ahhhh.
Every muscle she owned relaxed. Her bones melted. She slipped back, resting her head against the upper curve of the tub, her eyelids closed and she savored the decadent, wonderful bliss. Now this was living.

Outside the room in the hall she heard the faint pad of footsteps. Light and quick, which was odd because with three strapping men in the house, they boomed everywhere they went. Maybe it was the wind or a sound from outside and she was mistaken, she thought, reaching for a hand towel on the stack of things John had left tub-side.

But then the door handle turned, the hinges whispering open and she didn't have time to react. She instantly crossed her arms over her breasts, squinting at a man's shadowed form in the doorway, silhouetted by the light behind him and yet standing out of reach of the candlelight.

"Miles?" she asked, although she knew that was wrong. The man wasn't Miles. He was too thin, his shoulders too narrow. His stance wasn't right. Something dark emanated from him.

It wasn't John or Winston either. Her breath caught.
There is a strange man in the house looking at me naked.

Vulnerable and defenseless, she didn't think, she acted. Her hand grasped the corner of her book and she tossed it with all her might. It sailed in a blurred arc and struck the shadowed stranger in the head. He cursed low and mean—did she recognize that voice? It sounded vaguely familiar somehow—and fell to the floor with a loud thud.

"Is someone up there?" A man's voice (Miles, she thought with relief) called from downstairs. "Maggie, is that you?"

Before she could answer, the shadow darted away, slipping into the hallway. She caught a glimpse of a dark coat and dark, disheveled hair, but that was all before he disappeared from her sight. Breathless, pulse pounding in her ears, Maggie realized she was on her feet, standing in the tub with water trickling down her bare, completely exposed body as Miles pounded up the stairs and into sight.