Maggie's Dad (15 page)

“I can take a kid to a dress shop,” he said belligerently.

“I'm sure you can,” she agreed. “It's just the shock of having you volunteer to do it, that's all.”

“I'm not volunteering,” he said. “I'm protecting you.”

She brightened. “Was that why? You sweet man, you.”

She reached up and kissed him softly, lingeringly, on his hard mouth. He only resisted for a split second. Then he lifted her clear off the ground, and kissed her with muted hunger, careful not to make any more demands on her than she was ready for. He turned and carried her down the aisle, smiling at her warmly between kisses.

 

Mrs. Bates was standing in the middle of the floor looking perplexed when they walked in, although she smiled at the sight of the boss with his wife in his arms.

“Carrying her over the threshold?” she teased Powell.

“Sparing her tired legs,” he corrected. “Did Maggie go through here?”

“Indeed she did,” Mrs. Bates said with a rueful smile. “I'm a wicked witch because I threw away the only clothes she had and now she has to go shopping for more.”

“That's about the size of it,” he agreed, smiling at Antonia.

“I didn't know,” Mrs. Bates said.

“Neither did I,” replied Powell.

They both looked at Antonia.

“I'm a schoolteacher,” she reminded them. “I'm used to children.”

“I guess I don't know anything,” Powell said with a heavy sigh.

“You'll learn.”

“How about taking a tray up to Maggie?” Powell asked Mrs. Bates.

“It's the least I can do,” the older woman said sheepishly. “I'll never live that down. But you can't imagine the shape those jeans were in. And the sweatshirts!”

“I'm taking her shopping tomorrow after school,” Powell said. “We'll get some new stuff for her to wear out.”

Mrs. Bates was fascinated. In all the years she'd worked here, Powell Long hadn't taken his daughter anywhere if she wasn't in trouble.

“I know,” he said, reading the look accurately. “But there has to be a first step.”

Mrs. Bates nodded. “I guess so. For both of us.”

Antonia just smiled. Progress at last!

 

Powell felt out of place in the children's boutique. The saleslady was very helpful, but Maggie didn't know what to get and neither did he.

They looked at each other helplessly.

“Well, what do you want to buy?” he demanded.

She glared at him. “I don't know!”

“If I could suggest some things.” The saleslady intervened diplomatically.

Powell left her to it. He couldn't imagine that clothes were going to do much for his sullen child, but Antonia had insisted that it would make a difference if he went with her. So far, he didn't see any difference.

But when the child went into the dressing room with the saleslady and reappeared five minutes later, he stared at her as if he didn't recognize her.

She was wearing a ruffled pink dress with lace at the throat, a short-skirted little thing with white leggings and patent leather shoes. Her hair was neatly brushed and a frilly ribbon sat at a jaunty angle in it beside her ear.

“Maggie?” he asked, just to be sure.

The look on her dad's face was like a miracle. He seemed surprised by the way she looked. In fact, he smiled. She smiled back. And the change the expression made in her little face was staggering.

For the first time, he saw himself in the child. The eyes were the wrong color, but they were the same shape as his own. Her nose was going to be straight like his—well, like his used to be before he got it broken in a fight. Her mouth was thin and wide like his, her cheekbones high.

Sally had lied about this, too, about Maggie not being his. He'd never been so certain of anything.

He lifted an ironic eyebrow. “Well, well, from ugly duckling to swan,” he mused. “You look pretty.”

Maggie's heart swelled. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her lips drew up and all at once she laughed, a gurgle of sound that hit Powell right in the heart. He had never heard her laugh. The impact of it went right through him and he seemed to see down the years with eyes full of sorrow and regret. This child had never had a chance at happiness. He'd subconsciously blamed her for Sally's betrayal, for the loss of Antonia. He'd never been a proper father to her in all her life. He wondered if it was going to be too late to start now.

The laughter had changed Maggie's whole appearance. He laughed at the difference.

“Hell,” he said under his breath. “How about something blue, to match her eyes?” he asked the saleslady. “And some colorful jeans, not those old dark blue things she's been wearing.”

“Yes, sir,” the saleslady said enthusiastically.

Maggie pirouetted in front of the full-length mirror, surprised to see that she didn't look the way she usually did. The dress made her almost pretty. She wondered if Jake would ever get to see her in it, and her eyes brightened even more. Now that Antonia was back, maybe everyone would stop hating her.

But Antonia was sick, and she wouldn't be teaching. And that was still Maggie's fault.

“What's the matter?” Powell asked gently. He went down on one knee in front of the child, frowning. “What's wrong?”

Maggie was surprised that he was concerned,
that he'd even noticed her sudden sadness. He didn't, usually.

She lifted her eyes to his. “Miss Hayes won't be teaching. It's still my fault.”

“Antonia.” He corrected her. “She isn't Miss Hayes anymore.”

A thought occurred to her. “Is she…my mom, now?”

“Your stepmother,” he said tersely.

She moved closer. Hesitantly she reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. It barely touched and then rested, like a butterfly looking for a place to light. “Now that she's back, you don't…hate me anymore, do you?” she asked softly.

His face contorted. With a rough sound, deep in his throat, he swept her close and held her, standing with her in his arms. He hugged her and rocked her, and she clung to him with a sound like a muffled sob.

“Please don't…hate me…anymore!” She wept. “I love you, Daddy!”

“Oh, dear God,” Powell whispered huskily, his eyes closed as he weighed his sins. His arms contracted. “I don't hate you,” he said curtly. “God knows, I never hated you, Maggie!”

She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her own eyes, savoring the newness of a father's arms, a father's comfort. This was something she'd never known. It was so nice, being hugged. She smiled through her tears.

“Say,” he said after a minute, “this is nice.”

She gurgled.

He put her down and looked into her uplifted face. Tears were streaming down it, but she was smiling.

He dug in his pocket and cursed under his breath. “Hell. I never carry handkerchiefs,” he said apologetically.

She wiped her eyes on the back of her hands. “Me, neither,” she said.

The saleslady came back with an armload of dresses. “I found a blue suit,” she said gaily, “and another skirt and top in blue.”

“They're very pretty!” Maggie said enthusiastically.

“Indeed they are. Why don't you try them on?” he said invitingly.

“Okay!”

She danced off with the saleslady and he watched, astonished. That was his child. He had a very pretty daughter, and she loved him in spite of all the mistakes he'd made. He smiled reflectively. Well, well, and they said miracles didn't happen. He felt in the middle of one right now. And somehow, it all went back to Antonia, a cycle that had begun and ended with her in his life. He smiled as he thought about the process that had brought them, finally, together and made such a vital change in the way things had been. He glanced at himself in the mirror and wondered where the bitter, hard man he'd been only weeks before, had gone.

M
aggie ran into Antonia's bedroom ahead of her father, wearing the blue dress and leggings and new shoes.

She came to a sudden stop at the side of the bed and seemed to become suddenly shy as she looked at the pink-clad woman in the bed. Antonia's blond hair was around her shoulders and she was wearing a pink lacy gown with an equally lacy bed jacket. She looked fragile, but she also looked welcoming, because she smiled.

“Oh, how nice,” Antonia said at once, wondering at the change in the child. “How very nice! You look like a different girl, Maggie!”

Maggie felt breathless. “Daddy got me five new
outfits and jeans and shirts and sweatshirts and shoes,” she sputtered. “And he hugged me!”

Antonia's face lit up. “He did?”

Maggie smiled shyly. “Yeah, he did!” She laughed. “I think he likes me!”

“I think he does, too,” Antonia said in a loud whisper.

Maggie had something in her hand. She hesitated, glancing warily at Antonia. “Me and Daddy got you something,” she said shyly.

“You did?” she asked, too surprised to correct the child's grammar.

Maggie moved forward and put it into Antonia's hands. “It plays a song.”

It was a small box. Antonia unwrapped it and opened it. Inside was a music box, a fragile, porcelain-topped miniature brass piano that, when wound and opened, played “Clair de Lune.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “I've never had anything so lovely!”

Maggie smiled crookedly.

“Did your dad pick it out?” she asked, entranced by the music.

Maggie's face fell.

Antonia saw the expression and could have hit herself for what she'd asked. “You picked it out, didn't you?” she asked immediately, and watched the child's face brighten again. She would have to be careful not to do any more damage to that fragile
self-esteem. “What wonderful taste you have, Maggie. Thank you!”

Maggie smiled. “You're welcome.”

Powell came in the door, grinning when he saw Antonia with the music box. “Like it?” he asked.

“I love it,” she replied. “I'll treasure it, always,” she added with a warm glance at Maggie.

Maggie actually blushed.

“You'd better put your clothes away,” Powell said.

Maggie winced at the authority in his tone, but when she looked up at him, he wasn't angry or impatient. He was smiling.

Her eyes widened. She smiled back. “Okay, Dad!”

She glanced again at Antonia and darted out the door.

“I hear we're handing out hugs today,” Antonia murmured dryly.

He chuckled. “Yes, we are. I could get to like that.”

“She could, too.”

“How about you?” he asked with a speculative glance.

She held out her arms. “Why don't you come down here and find out?”

He laughed softly as he tossed his hat into the chair and eased down on the bed beside her, his arms on either side of her to balance him. She reached up to draw him down, smiling under the warm, slow crush of his mouth.

He kissed her hungrily, but with a tenderness she remembered from their early days together. She loved the warmth of his kisses, the feel of his body against her. She writhed under his weight suggestively and felt him tense.

“No,” he whispered, easing to one side.

She sighed wistfully. “Heartless man.”

“It's for your own good,” he said, teasing her lips with his forefinger. “I want you to get well.”

“I'm trying.”

He smiled and bent to nuzzle her nose against his. “Maggie looks pretty in blue,” he murmured.

“Yes, she does.” She searched his black eyes. “You noticed, didn't you?”

“Noticed what?”

“How much she favors you. I saw it when she smiled. She has the same wrinkles in her face that you have in yours when you smile. Of course, she has your nasty temper, too.”

“Curses with the blessings.” He chuckled. His eyes searched hers and he drew in a heavy breath. “I never dreamed when I went off to Arizona to find you that it would end up like this.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“What do you think?” he murmured and kissed her again.

 

He carried her down to the table, and for the first time, he and Antonia and Maggie had a meal
together. Maggie was nervous, fidgeting with the utensils because she didn't know which one to use.

“There's plenty of time to learn that,” Powell said when he saw her unease. “You aren't under the microscope, you know. I thought it might be nice to have a meal together for a change.”

Maggie looked from one adult to the other. “You aren't going to send me away, are you?” she asked her father.

“Idiot,” he muttered, glaring at her.

She glared right back. “Well, you didn't like me,” she reminded him.

“I didn't know you,” he replied. “I still don't. That's my fault, but it's going to change. You and I need to spend more time together. So suppose instead of riding the bus, I take you to and from school all the time?”

She was elated and then disappointed. Jake rode the bus. If she didn't, she wouldn't get to see him.

Powell didn't know about Jake. He scowled even more at her hesitation.

“I'd like to,” Maggie said. She blushed. “But…”

Antonia remembered what Julie had told her. “Is there someone who rides the bus that you don't want to miss seeing?” she asked gently, and the blush went nuclear.

Powell pursed his lips. “So that's it,” he said, and chuckled. “Do I know this lucky young man who's caught my daughter's eye?”

“Oh, Daddy!” Maggie groaned.

“Never mind. You can go on riding the bus,” he said, with a wicked glance at Antonia. “But you might like to come out with me some Saturdays when I'm checking up on my cattle operation.”

“I'd like to do that,” Maggie said. “I want to know about your weight gain ratios and heritability factors.”

Powell's fork fell from his fingers and made a clanging noise against his plate. To hear those terms coming from a nine-year-old floored him.

Maggie saw that, and grinned. “I like to read about cattle, too. He's got these herd books,” she explained to Antonia, “and they have all the statistics on proper genetic breeding. Do you breed genetically, Daddy?”

“Good God,” he said on a heavy breath. “She's a cattleman.”

“Yes, she is,” Antonia agreed. “Surprise, surprise. Speaking of genetics, I wonder who she inherited that from?”

He looked sheepish, but he grinned from ear to ear. “Yes, I do breed genetically,” he told his daughter. “If you're that interested, I'll take you around the operation and show you the traits I'm breeding for.”

“Like easy calving and low birth weight?” Maggie asked.

Powell let out another breath, staring at his daughter with pure admiration. “And here I was
worried that I wouldn't have anyone to leave the ranch to.”

Antonia burst out laughing. “It looks as if you're going to leave it in the right hands,” she agreed, glancing warmly at Maggie.

Maggie blushed and beamed, all at once. She was still in shell shock from the sudden change of her life. She owed that to Antonia. It was like coming out of the darkness into the sunshine.

Antonia felt the same when she looked at her ready-made family.

“That reminds me,” she said. “Your granddad would like to take you with him on an antique-buying binge next weekend. He's going to drive over to an auction in Sheridan.”

“But I don't got a granddad,” Maggie said, perplexed.

“Don't
have,
” Antonia corrected her. She smiled. “And yes, you do have one. My father.”

“A real granddaddy of my own?” Maggie asked, putting down her fork. “Does he know me?”

“You went to see him with your dad. Don't you remember?”

“He lived in a big white house. Oh, yes.” Her face brightened, and then it fell. “I was scared and I didn't speak to him. He won't like me.”

“He likes you very much,” Antonia said. “And he'll enjoy teaching you about antiques, if you'd like to learn. It's his hobby.”

“That would be fun!”

“I can see that you're going to be much in demand
from now on, Maggie,” Antonia said, smiling. “Will you mind?”

Maggie shook her head. She smiled a little unsteadily. “Oh, no, I won't mind at all!”

 

Antonia was half asleep when Powell slid into bed beside her with a long sigh and stretched.

“She beat me,” he said.

Antonia rolled over, pillowing her head on his bare, hair-roughened chest. “At what?” she murmured drowsily.

“Checkers. I still don't see how she set me up.” He yawned. “God, I'm sleepy!”

“So am I.” She curved closer. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

She smiled as she slipped back into oblivion, thinking as she did how lucky they were to have each other. Powell had changed so much. He might not love her as she loved him, but he seemed very content. And Maggie was friendly enough. It would take time, but she felt very much at home here already. Things looked bright.

 

The next morning, she was afraid she'd spoken too soon. Maggie went off to school, and Powell went to a cattle sale, leaving Antonia at home by herself on what was Mrs. Bates's day off. The persistent ringing of the doorbell got her out of bed, and she went downstairs in a long white robe, still half asleep, to answer it.

The woman standing on the other side of the door came as a total shock.

If Antonia was taken aback, so was the gorgeous redhead gaping at her with dark green eyes.

“Who are you?” she demanded haughtily.

Antonia looked her over. Elegant gray suit, pink camisole a little too low-cut, short skirt and long legs. Nice legs. Nice figure. But a little ripe, she thought wickedly. The woman was at least five years older than she was; perhaps more.

“I'm Mrs. Powell Long,” Antonia replied with equal hauteur. “What can I do for you?”

The woman just stared at her. “You're joking!”

“I'm not joking.” Antonia straightened. “What do you want?”

“I came to see Powell. On a private matter,” she added with a cold smile.

“My husband and I don't have secrets,” Antonia said daringly.

“Really? Then you know that he's been at my house every night working out the details of a merger, don't you?”

Antonia didn't know how to answer that. Powell had been working late each night, but she'd never thought it was anything other than business. Now, she didn't know. She was insecure, despite Powell's hunger for her. Desire wasn't love, and this woman was more beautiful than any that Antonia had ever seen.

“Powell won't be home until late,” Antonia said evasively.

“Well, in that case, I won't wait,” the redhead murmured.

“Can I take a message?”

“Yes. Tell him Leslie Holton called to see him,” she replied. “I'll, uh, be in touch, if he asks. And I'm sure he will.” Her cold eyes traveled down Antonia's thin body and back up again with faint contempt. “There's really no understanding the male mind, is there?” she mused aloud and with a nod, turned and walked back to her late-model Cadillac.

Antonia watched her get in it and drive away. The woman even drove with an attitude, haughty and efficient. She wished and wished that the car would run over four big nails and have all four tires go flat at once. But to her disappointment, the car glided out of sight without a single wobble.

So that was the widow Holton, who was trying to get her claws into Dawson Rutherford and Powell. Had she succeeded with Powell? She seemed very confident. And she was certainly lovely. Obviously he hadn't been serious about marrying the widow, but had there been something between them?

Antonia found herself feeling uncertain and insecure. She didn't have the beauty or sophistication to compete with a woman like that. Powell did want her, certainly, but that woman would know all the tricks of seduction. What if she and Powell had been lovers? What if they still were? Antonia hadn't been up to bouts of lovemaking, since that one long night she'd spent with Powell. Was abstinence making him
desperate? He'd teased her about not being able to go without a woman for long periods of time, and he'd said years, not weeks. But was he telling the truth or just sparing Antonia's feelings? She had to find out.

 

Late that afternoon, another complication presented itself. Julie Ames came home with Maggie and proceeded to make herself useful, tidying up Antonia's bedroom and fluffing up her pillows. She'd come in with a bouquet of flowers, too, and she'd rushed up to hug Antonia at once, all loving concern and friendliness.

Maggie reacted to this as she always had, by withdrawing, and Antonia wanted so badly to tell her that Julie didn't mean to hurt her.

“I'll go get a vase,” Maggie said miserably, turning.

“I'll bet Julie wouldn't mind doing that,” Antonia said, surprising both girls. “Would you?” she asked Julie. “You could ask Mrs. Bates to find you one and put water in it.”

“I'd be happy to, Mrs. Long!” Julie said enthusiastically, and rushed out to do as she was asked.

Antonia smiled at Maggie, who was still staring at her in a puzzled way.

“Whose idea was it to pick the flowers?” she asked knowingly.

Maggie flushed. “Well, it was mine, sort of.”

“Yes, I thought so. And Julie got the credit, and it hurt.”

Maggie was surprised. “Yes,” she admitted absently.

“I'm not as dim as you think I am,” she told Maggie. “Just try to remember one thing, will you?
You're
my daughter. You belong here.”

Maggie's heart leaped. She smiled hesitantly.

“Or I'm your stepmother, if you'd rather…”