Hooked (24 page)

Gage needed to get Meg alone, but asking Mrs. Rothman to leave the room would be inconsiderate. And Wilberforce had been anything but thus far.

“Miss Brooks,” Gage began while grasping the handle
to his case, “would you accompany me to the verandah?”

Her cheeks blossomed a floral pink as she nodded. She apparently thought he wanted to get her alone for amorous reasons. His throat went dry and the muscles in his legs tensed. He felt like scum. Right at this moment, Gage wished he really was a Bissell salesman.

Meg went ahead of him and led the way to the door. As they stepped outside, darkness enveloped them. They walked on the verandah and to the railing. The night air was unseasonably warm for April.

Gage disregarded the chirp of crickets, whose songs were an invitation for lovers to cuddle on a porch swing. Instead, he set his case down and turned to face Meg.

“Miss Brooks . . . Meg,” he amended, having wanted to call her that a dozen times. Wilberforce wouldn't have, but Gage would. And right now she would find out he was Gage.

“Yes?” Her face tilted up toward his. The lights from inside the parlor sifted through the lace curtains and bathed their shadows in soft yellow. He could make out her face, her features. The heaviness of her eyelids and the length of her thick lashes. Glistening eyes, their color muted by night. The way her full mouth had no bow to the upper lip, its shape still soft and inviting.

If he were the despicable wretch he'd been accused of being many times, he would have kissed her. Maybe there was something redeeming about his character after all.

Meg smiled at him.

Then again, maybe not.

He took her face in his hands, tilting her chin toward his mouth. Then he lowered his lips over hers and kissed her. Her breath mingled with his . . . sweet and tasting slightly of apples and spices from dessert.

Gage slanted his mouth fully over hers, deepening the kiss and pulling her close to his chest. She lightly laid her hands on his shoulders. Slipping his hands to hers, he captured their delicate softness and brought them around his middle. She complied, holding on to him as he held her while he explored her mouth with his.

How slight she was. Shirt buttons and a woolen suit coat against near-sheer linen and lace. Body against body.

Splaying his fingers, he ran his palms down her waist and to her hips. The fabric of her skirt felt like satin next to his fingertips. Everything about her was feminine. Her touch; her smell. She wore no store perfume that he could decipher. The light scent that touched the air was pure Meg; sunshine, wildflowers, and a trace of rebellion.

What would she be like if she let herself go? Gage wondered.

If she were to put the proper Margaret in her hope chest for good and let the radiance of Meg shine through?

The snippets of true personality she'd showed him, he honestly adored. The Meg he wanted smoked cigars, cast a fishing line, rode on luggage carts. She was like a summer rainbow in his stale world of dark clouds.

Cupping her face once more, his thumbs traced a path across her jawbone as he lifted his mouth from hers and stared into her face. His fingertips grazed her
skin, then downward on either side of her neck. Her skin was warm; the pulse at her throat beat as unevenly as her breathing. Moist lips remained parted, waiting for him to kiss her again.

The innocence of her expression sobered him. Christ, what was he doing?

Not what he should have been doing.

Talking. Explaining. Confessing.

Although the night was warm, Gage felt chilled as soon as he put an arm's length between himself and Meg. Puzzlement filled her eyes, tearing into Gage's heart. He would have liked nothing more than to be her Mr. Wilberforce at that moment, but he could not.

Instead, he forced himself to say, “Meg, there's something I want to discuss with you.”

“I already know.” Her whisper was throaty.

Gage couldn't fathom how; much less why she would have allowed him in her house tonight if she'd known. “You do?”

“Yes.” Compassion etched across her face. “The way you kissed me told me everything.” She looked down a moment, then at him. Her eyes glistened. “It's hard for me to come right out with it, but you gave me courage after you faced those ladies the way you did and tried your best. So I have to tell you now because I might never be feeling this brave again.”

Brave?
Brave for what?

“Meg, you don't have to tell me anything.”

“Yes I do. Right now. Or I might never be able to.” Licking her lips, then snagging the lower one with her teeth, she blurted, “I love you, Vernon.”

Before Gage knew it, she'd raised herself on tiptoe, kissed his cheek and had twirled to head for the door.

Precious seconds passed where Gage stood, stunned. Then: “Meg, wait.”

But she'd closed him out. The door had slipped into place and he'd heard the latch lock.

Gage remained rooted in the darkness. Alone. Meanings and consequences sinking into him.

She uttered words to him that he'd never heard from a woman. Never mind they were spoken to a man whose name was not his. It was still Gage who she felt this way about.

I love you, Vernon.

She'd given him her heart, and he'd give her grief.

How could he tell her now?

*  *  *

Gage rode to Waverly the following morning rather than practice his casting. The competition was set to begin a week from today; he only had seven days left to learn how to fish. Maybe he wouldn't have to get to know Evergreen Creek and its surface tension, what insects hatched when, which fly to use—wet or dry depending on the temperature, and how to anticipate the fish's behavior by studying water.

There was an outside chance he could prove once and for all whether or not Wayne Brooks had come to the hatchery.

The idea hit him last night around three in the morning. He hadn't been able to sleep. His mind had been full of Meg: her feel, her touch, her body, her mouth, her words.

“I love you, Vernon.”

He had to remind himself over and over, she hadn't meant them for him. Not for Matthew Gage. If she knew who Gage was, she never would have declared such a sentiment.

Even knowing this, he couldn't help wanting her to mean it For him.

But how could he ask her to feel anything at all for him but contempt? Once she knew who he really was, she'd hate him. No more so than Gage hated himself for lying to her. The bitter battle of telling the truth weighed him down. Bogged his thoughts. Kept him from focusing.

When he'd come to town, he never had expected any of this. Never had expected a woman to fill his heart. Now he was going to make her miserable. He wished he could take all the hurt from her.

Unable to sleep, he'd spread his notes around him, going over them dozens of times and trying to put them all together. Nothing made sense. There was nothing concrete, just a lot of hearsay. Yet Gage felt the guilt.

At one o'clock, he'd turned down the light and laid in bed fully dressed. Resting his back against the bed frame, he'd stared into the darkness and reflected how he came to be the man he was. He was thirty-one and not fit to live with. He obsessed over details. He couldn't leave anything to fate. He had to know the why of wrongs.

For ten years, he'd chased whispers in whirlwinds never knowing what he'd find out or where he'd end up or who he'd have to pretend to be. He was growing old with no memories that he could call fond. Love for a woman had never lived in his heart.

Christ almighty, what a sad commentary on his life.

He'd never had a sweetheart; he'd had fancy women.

He'd never taken a girl to a dance; he'd taken her to bed.

He'd never done the things a woman like Meg Brooks wanted from a man. Courting and cooing. Love words. Expressions of desires. Talk of building a life together. Settling down.

Maybe he didn't have it in him.

Maybe he didn't want to find out.

By three o'clock, he knew what he had to do.

Chasing thoughts from the night away, Gage exhaled and reined into the yard of the hatchery. Leroy Doolin stepped out of the shack he worked in; beyond the grounds surrounding the outbuildings lay dozens of pools. Evergreen Creek wound its way from Harmony to here, then up and beyond into the mountains.

“Vernon Wilberforce,” Doolin greeted with more than a hint of irritability. “Didn't expect to see you again.”

Not bothering to dismount, Gage rested his forearms on the pommel of his saddle. “Mr. Doolin, I asked you once before if you'd sold brown trout to a man named Brooks.”

“And I told you no, I did not.” Doolin wasn't a very large man, and when he spoke his denial, he straightened as tall as he could with a puff of indignance filling out his chest. Something was there that Gage didn't quite believe. In the eyes, in the coloring. The way the irises widened into the gray color.

“Let me describe him for you anyway, Mr. Doolin. Perhaps it will jog your memory.” Gage proceeded to describe the man in the photograph he'd seen on the center-table in Meg's parlor last night. He was a gutter dog for using the image to further his investigation, but he was doing this for Meg. He wanted to be proved wrong.

Gage was sure the man in the studio portrait was Wayne Brooks. He looked like Meg in many ways; same skin tone, jawbone, nose and forehead. In the gallery setting, Meg sat on a chair and her brother stood behind her with one hand on her shoulder. When Gage had gone to her house, he'd never intended to use her invitation to his gain. But the photograph had been there, and he couldn't ignore it.

When Gage was finished with his description, Doolin shrugged. “No, sir, I have never seen such a man. Wayne Brooks or anyone else with his description and another name. I wish you would let this go, Mr. Wilberforce. I conduct delicate work here and interruptions from you fishing contest men are getting on my nerves.”

“Fishing contest men?” Gage returned. “Has somebody else from Harmony been up here?”

“Just this morning.” Doolin turned on his tall rubber boots and waved Gage off.

“Who was it?” Gage shouted at Doolin's retreating back.

The hatchery owner paused and looked over his shoulder at Gage. “Said his name was Ham Beauregarde.”

12

N
ever in her life had Meg told a man she loved him. She didn't know what possessed her to tell Vernon.

Meg had been presumptuous.

Margaret had been fainthearted.

So it was Meg who had done the talking, but Margaret did the running away. As soon as she'd spoken the words of love aloud, she'd had to flee and catch her breath. Thank goodness he hadn't rung the bell. She didn't know what she would have said to him.

Actually, she should have waited for him to say what he was going to say to her while they'd been on the porch. He hadn't been specific and she had jumped to conclusions. All he'd announced was he wanted to discuss something with her. Looking back, Meg realized telling a woman you loved her wasn't a discussion.

Maybe he didn't feel the same way about her as she did him.

But if that were true . . . Why did he take her into his arms the way he had?

The day was sunny and bright, but cool enough for Meg to wear her blue coat trimmed with gold braid and buttons. The mandolin sleeves set with double box-plaits from the shoulders gave the impression her shoulders were set and squared. When in reality, she really wanted to hunch over with regret.

Being in love wasn't easy.

Being deceptive was even worse.

Meg had decided this morning that she must tell Vernon just exactly who she was. Wasn't.

Margaret Brooks was a fraud.

Meg Brooks was the real her. But with that realism came undesirable traits. Or so she'd been told. Frankly, none of that mattered to her anymore. She had to be who she was or she would suffocate from trying to fit in. She just couldn't anymore.