Mail-Order Millionaire (21 page)

He gave her a puzzled look.

“To see if there’s something you can sink your teeth into.”

“Go ahead. Lord, I feel like I’ve been trapped inside this sick body for weeks.”

“I’m sorry the boys did this to you. They should never have come up here. Look what happened.”

“It wasn’t their fault. They’re a lot of fun. We had a good time.”

“That’s what they said.”

He watched her cross the room to the kitchen, the soft lines of her wool slacks accentuating her slim hips and long legs. He heard her raise the lid of the large freezer.

“I was an only child. I hated it. If I were married I’d have a dozen kids,” he said.

“Where would you put them?” Her voice floated out of the kitchen.

“That’s the problem,” he admitted, knotting the blanket in his hand and wishing he had another shot of bourbon. “They’d be down below and I’d be up here. That’s no good. That’s why I’m not married and instead of a dozen kids I’ve got a room full of instruments.”

She poked her head around the kitchen door. The sympathy in her dark eyes was unmistakable even from across the room.

“Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s my choice.”

“I know that.” She held a package of meat in her hands. “What about steak?”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Steak is fine with me.”

He propped himself on one elbow. “I mean, what do you want, a dozen kids or what?”

She walked back into the room toward his bed, took his glass and refilled it for him. Then she poured one for herself. As if she were at home. As if she lived there, too. The thought warmed him as much as the bourbon did. She swirled the liquid in the glass. Then she sat down in the big wide armchair and looked out the window as the sunset cast an orange glow over the mountains;

“I don’t know what I want,” she said slowly. “I know what I don’t want and that’s to work for somebody else. But I’m beginning to think living off the farm is an impossible dream. I could sell it. Mr. Northwood made me a good offer the other day, but then where would I go, and what would I do? I’ve already tried the city and I’ve tried the country. I’ve failed at both.”

“Don’t say that.” He hated to hear the discouragement in her voice. He set his glass down and sat up straight. There were small lines etched between her fine eyebrows. Her mouth was set in a straight line.  “ You’ve made the farm into a home, without using money or material things. By just being there, by caring about it. It’s a warm place, a place where people feel comfortable.”

“You like the farm?” she asked as dusk fell over the room.

“I love your farm. I don’t want you to sell it. Unless…” He locked his hands together. What was he saying? He had no right to advise her, to tell her what to do. Or offer to buy it from her. “But you have to do what’s right for you,” he added.

“Yes, well...” She stood and went to the kitchen. “Time for dinner. How do you like your steak?”

They both liked their steak medium rare, smothered with peppers and onions and mushrooms, all of which were found in packages in the depths of his freezer. She made coffee after dinner and she sat in the chair next to him in the dark. He told her the light hurt his eyes, but the truth was it was easier to talk when she couldn’t see his face, see the look in his eyes or suspect the depths of feeling that lurked in them and threatened to spill over.

“I appreciate your coming up here to take care of me,” he said.

“It’s nothing more than you did for me.”

“I’ve been sick before, by myself. And I got well by myself.”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t need me?” she asked. “I know that.”

“I’m trying to tell you I’ve gotten used to having you around. I’m trying to tell you I’ll miss you when you go. But I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

“I understand,” she said quietly. “I also understand how you feel about the mountains and your job. When I was outside today I felt a little of it, the sense of peace, the solitude, as if you’re the only one in the world. And the permanence. No matter what man does, the mountains will always be here.”

“Unless there’s another ice age.”

“If there is, I think you’ve got enough food in your freezer to live through it,” she noted.

“Would you be interested in living through it with me?” He couldn’t help it, he had to ask. If she said no he could pretend it was just a joke. If she said yes...

“Sure.”

It wasn’t so much what she said, it was how she said it, a little breathlessly, as if her answer surprised her as much as his question did.

“We might be here for a thousand years,” he warned.

“I know.”

There was a long silence. He pressed his knuckles together. How could he turn her down? An offer to spend eternity with him. Because he had to, because she didn’t know what living with him was like, because she couldn’t live here and wouldn’t want to. “It’s different in the summer,” he said. “Throngs of people come up to see the view when the snow melts. They can walk up then. There’s a hiker’s hut halfway up.” He sounded like a travel guide, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop himself. Maybe it was the bourbon, maybe it was panic. “So there isn’t the same sense of solitude. Not like it was before 1645. That’s when the first white man arrived with his Indian guide. He was looking for precious gems, but he didn’t find any. After him came the pioneers. By the nineteenth century there was even a railroad to bring people up.”

“You know a lot about it.”

“That’s it, the history of this mountain in a nutshell. Tonight you get the bed all to yourself,” he said. “Not that I didn’t enjoy sleeping with you...” He was rambling again. But if he didn’t ramble he might get serious. “My sleeping bag is in the closet behind the bed and I’m going to use it.”

“Didn’t we have this conversation before, the last time I was here?” she asked.

“Maybe. What happened?” he shifted restlessly on the daybed.

“I fell asleep right here in this chair. I was very comfortable. I don’t think I moved all night.”

He smiled in the darkness, remembering how she’d looked with her golden hair framing her face. He knew she hadn’t moved because he’d sat there watching her, wondering how this woman had landed in the middle of his solitude. Even now he wondered, what had he done to deserve her?

“You’ll be even more comfortable in the bed,” he assured her.

“Max, you’re sick. I’m here to take care of you, because I owe it to you. After my party, I made you sleep on that terrible couch. I’ll take the sleeping bag. Later. I’m going to wash the dishes now.”

He was too tired to argue anymore. He tried to roll out of bed and find the sleeping bag, but he got tangled in the blankets. The sound of the water running into the dishpan lulled him into a troubled sleep.

Miranda washed the dishes slowly, dried them carefully and put them back in the cupboard above the sink. When she finished she tiptoed across the room and found the sleeping bag in the closet where he’d said it would be. Then, in the bathroom, she changed into the long underwear her sister had packed for her. It was warm and snug. An extra pillow was stashed on the top shelf of the closet and she made herself comfortable on the carpeted floor near the bed where Max was sleeping soundly.

She was warm, she was comfortable and she was tired. But she couldn’t sleep. She was confused, confused by the mixed signals Max was sending her and confused by the mixed reactions she was feeling. She thought she’d made it clear how she felt about him, both subtly and directly. But what good did it do if he didn’t feel the same? He wanted her, but he wanted his way of life even more. And who could blame him? It was a good life, a life that challenged him and rewarded him. Who was she to think she could compete with that? She couldn’t. And the sooner she got it through her head the better.

The trouble was she liked him, liked hearing him talk, liked seeing the smile light up his face, liked cooking for him. Liked it so much she was willing to make a fool of herself over him. Barging in on his solitude on a flimsy excuse. Yes, it was an excuse. She admitted it. He knew it. He’d been sick before and he’d gotten over it. Without her. And he’d do it again, no matter how much he appreciated her being there, he didn’t need her.

Where was her pride? How could she go on this way? The truth was she couldn’t. She was leaving tomorrow and nothing, not sleet, not hail or lost boots or childhood disease could bring her back, and she was sure Max felt the same about her and her farm. So why not go to sleep, get through the day tomorrow somehow and then be off? She turned over to block the moonlight that shone on her face.

Somewhere outside in the night the deep muffled hooting of an owl broke the silence. Only it was too early in the season for owls. She slid out of the sleeping bag and padded silently to the side window between the desk and the metal supply cabinets. A shaft of silver moonlight illuminated the snow-covered trees and bushes. The sound came again. Whoo, whoo, whoo-whoo! whoo, whoo! The six-noted hoot of the great horned owl. She raised up on tiptoe and pressed her face against the window. Where was he?

Max stirred in his sleep and awoke to the deep, soft, resonant sound of a faraway owl. He sat up in bed and looked around. No owl and no Miranda. The sleeping bag on the floor was empty. He got out of bed and sat on the coffee table. Then he saw her outlined against the window in moonlight, every curve, every line of her body delineated. His heart pounded, his mouth went as dry as cotton. She was wearing nothing at all. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He sat and stared and felt the desire well up in him so strong he couldn’t fight it off much longer. He gripped the sides of the table. He had to fight it off. She sensed his presence and turned. His eyes lingered on her profile, the upward tilt of her breasts, her flat stomach, the curve of her thighs and her long legs.

The pale moonlight turned her hair to silver and it was then he realized she must be wearing something, and it was her long underwear. The same underwear she was wearing in the catalog. The same catalog that had driven him to distraction ever since he’d seen her picture such a long time ago.

“What’s going on?” he asked in a voice like gravel.

“I thought I heard a great horned owl. But isn’t it too early?”

“Much too early. Come back to bed.” He meant it. He wanted her in bed with him. He wanted to feel the soft knit cotton that covered her body like a second skin, to press her close to him.

But she turned back to the window, still searching for the owl. “There he is,” she said at last, “in the fir tree. I wonder what he’s looking for.”

“It sounds like a mating call to me,” he muttered. He ought to know. If he were an owl he’d be out there calling too. It was a sure sign of spring, the male of the species looking for the female. Max had found the female he was looking for; she was right here in this room. But it wasn’t so simple for humans. They didn’t mate for life the way owls did and they thought too much.

He rolled back onto his bed and watched her return to his sleeping bag, the moonlight following her like a spotlight. Even then he wasn’t sure if she was really wearing the long underwear or nothing at all.

He felt better in the morning. Physically. The rash was subsiding and his temperature was normal. But mentally he was sinking fast. Especially after he called Fred and made arrangements for him to come up and get Miranda in the afternoon.

They went out on the deck together and he showed her how to adjust the vernier to read the barometer. A wind had come up, nothing like the 234 mph record-setting wind, but strong enough that he had to put his hands on her shoulders to steady her as she bent over to look into the telescope.

There wasn’t much of a view today. The sky was gray and there was a light mist in the air. She turned to face him and he kept his hands on her shoulders. The humidity made her hair curl in damp tendrils around her face. Lord, if he could only think of a way to keep her here a little longer. He thought of having a relapse, of telling Fred not to come, of quitting his job. But nothing seemed practical, nothing would work. He had to let her go, once and for all. But not without taking a kiss, one last kiss.