Mountain Wild (Harlequin Historical Series) (11 page)

The realization turned his stomach. Garret shoved away from the table and headed for the back door.

“Garret?” Skylar called after him. “You haven’t eaten anything.”

“I need some air.”

His history with women had been nothing but a joke. If they caught wind that even Mad Mag had kicked him from her bed, the ribbing would be endless.

She’d been so damn convincing.

Maggie Danvers.

Not only had she duped him, but she still had his dog!

He walked toward the hillside where his best friend lay beneath the ground. He crouched at the edge of the upturned dirt and reached out, touching the broken earth.

“You’d get a kick out of this one.”

He stared at the tethered feathers twisting in the wind Kuhana had tied to the cross. One-sided attractions seemed to be his curse in life. Twice he’d given his heart to a woman, and twice she’d handed it right back. It wasn’t a lesson he needed to learn a third time.

He had bigger issues to be fretting over than a promiscuous mountain shrew. His partner had been killed. The moment he found out which cattle-grubbing bastard was responsible for Duce’s death, there’d be hell to pay.

H
e ought to cut the damn thing down.

Reclined against a pile of satiny pink pillows, Garret stared at the dusty lace canopy above his large four-poster bed. Rays of light pierced through lace curtains in the window, announcing the dawn of anther spring day. The increasing glow of daybreak burned shadows away from a suffocating concoction of frilly lace, pink satin and dried flowers. Widow Jameson’s new husband had been a smart man to cart off his wife, leaving behind the fancy furnishings of her oversize Victorian dollhouse.

He’d once thought his future wife would enjoy such ladylike surroundings and he wasn’t usually in the house long enough to be bothered by all the feminine frills. In the past two months sleep hadn’t come easy. Dreams of Grace merged into nightmares about Mad Mag, his mind melding rumors with memories of the passionate woman he’d come to know.

No one’s ever wanted to kiss me before.

The woman he’d met in town wouldn’t have welcomed any such advances.

Nor had the defensive woman who’d emerged from the storm, he reminded himself. She’d done all she could to avoid
him in that tiny cave. He’d been the one who’d dumped her into bed with him, despite her protests. He’d been the one who’d given her the kisses they’d both been craving.

While he had tamed the mountain shrew, Duce lay dead. That knowledge tore at his conscience. He’d spent several days with the sheriff in Bitterroot Springs, a man overwhelmed by the violence running rampage across the county. The lawman had too much ground to cover, every cattleman was a suspect and no one had been brought to justice.

With the spring drive closing in and his time constrained, he’d resorted to hiring his own investigating attorney. An expense that had amused his crew and resulted in more questions, more worry and too many sleepless nights of staring at the useless fancy weave above his bed.

His muscles bunched, anger boiling, he surged up and swung his feet to the floor. He stood and grabbed the pile of clothes he’d tossed onto a pink-and-white-striped settee the night before. In the past few days he’d ridden through the northern pasture, surveying his stock, but he’d wanted to ride up that mountain.

Stuffing his shirttails into his pants, he strode toward the window. If he could see across the miles, he’d be looking right into her hideaway. The snowline had receded to the highest peaks. And yet his elusive mountain woman hadn’t surfaced. As much as he wanted to ride into that high country and flush her out, he’d promised to leave her be.

Cursing that bit of stupidity, he shifted his gaze to the long, patchy roof across the yard, a bold reminder that he was the sole owner of his ranch and wasn’t free to simply ride range. The barn roof was about to collapse. He and Duce had talked about doing the needed repairs in early fall but had put it off. Rains would be coming soon and he couldn’t risk the loss of grain. None of his men wanted to spend a day out of their saddle any more than he did. Everett was sure to grumble at
the news that he’d be on the roof today instead of riding out with the others.

He headed for the stairs. His boots clapped on the wood floor, each step echoing through the silence of the empty house, an emptiness that choked him. Spending most of his life on a cattle trail or at his sister’s house, he lived in constant noise and commotion. It wasn’t a wonder Amanda had run and not looked back.

Just enough sunlight spilled into his kitchen to reveal weeks of neglect. Lighting the overhead lamps would only draw attention to a layer of dust, an array of dirty coffee mugs stacked beside the basin he never got around to filling with dishwater. Hard to make much progress in a place he tended to avoid. Now that the spring crew had been hired meals were served in the bunkhouse.

He stepped up to the stove, missing the scent of bacon and coffee, the buzz of conversation—
life.
A few months back every man on the ranch would have piled into his kitchen for Duce’s mean flapjacks. Early mornings were the only time Duce stood at the stove, a cheroot clamped in his teeth, spatula in hand. The cast-iron monstrosity was big enough to grill ten flapjacks at once. His two-pound hotcakes would weigh down a man’s gut clear till nightfall.

Garret lifted the coffee kettle from the cold range and gave the contents a swish.
A quarter pot.
After lighting the stove he scoured the side table for his shaving supplies. Didn’t make sense to haul water up to his room when no one cared if he shaved at the kitchen pump.

By the time the back door squeaked open, Garret stood beside the stove with a cup of the lukewarm coffee in his hand, his toothbrush stuck in his mouth.

Kuhana stepped inside. A sleek black feather tucked under the band of his high-domed hat gleamed against the morning brightness. The satiny texture reminded Garret of Grace’s ebony
hair. Kuhana’s tawny face creased with a scowl as he glanced around the darkened room before spotting him at the stove.

“You are late,” he said, stepping inside.

Garret gave his teeth another pass with the toothbrush before spitting into the basin. “Last I checked I owned this place. I’d say you’re early.”

His Indian friend eyed him warily. “Then you pay us to wait.”

Everett stomped in behind him. “Hey, boss. We helping the crew on the south side today?”

Not ready to kill his youthful eagerness by announcing the roofing task, he avoided the question and reached for his coat draped over the back of a kitchen chair. “Everyone in a hurry this morning?”

“This place is a mess,” Everett said, his gaze raking across the dirty floor and cluttered tables. “You ought to get your sister to come for a visit.”

The last thing he needed was his older sister picking up after him and meddling in his business. “I’ll get to it later tonight.”

Kuhana grunted. “You need wife.”

“I’ve got all the complications I can handle.”

Sweat dripping in his eyes, Garret sat back on his heels and swiped his arm across his brow as Everett continued to hammer nails. He shifted his hat over his damp hair and blinked up at the midday sun. A rooftop was not the best place to be at high noon on a hot spring day. Fresh, sweet scents of spring permeated the air as busy birds chattered around them. His gaze was drawn back to the mountain.

He couldn’t take a breath without thinking about the scent of her skin, the taste of her kiss, the sting of her deception.

I’m not going to wait much longer.

He stood, his gaze skating across miles of green hills spotted by splashes of gold and blue. A herd in the distance
darkened the land like a shadow over the thick grasses. Having been raised in the saddle, he’d seen just about all the terrain the States had to offer, and none of them compared to this rich expanse of wilderness and blue sky—a beauty that used to soothe his restless spirit.

“You worried that trapper ain’t bringin’ Boots back?”

Garret looked over at Everett watching him from a few feet away. He hadn’t told his crew more than the basics. A trapper had helped him out and was keeping Boots until the spring thaw.

“Last few weeks you’re always lookin’ at that western range,” he said.

“Boots will turn up.” He wouldn’t drive stock without his dog. “We’re making good time,” he said, nodding at the section of roof they’d finished. Everett hadn’t put up the fuss he’d expected and had set to the task with a skill that surprised him. “We’ll be done by this evening. You’ve had some experience with roofing.”

“Yeah.” The corners of his mouth turned down. The instant sadness in his expression added a childlike quality to his brown eyes. “My pa and me roofed our barn just weeks before it burned.”

Garret felt for him. The boy’s family was another victim of the panic following the freeze, rancher turning against rancher. Their neighbor saw fit to torch the homestead. After fighting each other, both ranchers had lost their land to new money moving into the area, those who sought to capitalize off the tragedy of longtime residents. He’d hired Everett as a favor to his folks. At fourteen he was a decent ranch hand and a hard worker, but he was still a boy who missed his family.

“You’ll get to see your folks in another month, once we reach the stockyard.”

Fighting moisture from his eyes, Everett gave a nod as he looked away.

“Why don’t you head on into the bunkhouse and find us something to eat.”

He didn’t hesitate. His boots tapped rapidly across the steep slope to the top rung of the ladder. “Bacon and toast all right?” he asked as he descended.

“Sounds good.”

He hoped he’d done the right thing by bringing the kid out here. Barns were still being burned and ranchers lynched or run off their land. Two years since the freeze and tensions continued to rise. Everett’s father now worked a mining job to support his five younger children, and spent his days deep underground.

Garret shuddered at the thought.

They’d have to bury me first.
He lived for ranching, driving herd. His livelihood was his life.

He walked to the next bundle of cut planks. He released the rope and began spacing out the shingles. Over the clatter of wood and chirping birds, he swore he heard a faint bark.

About to drop another board, he paused.

A series of faint barks carried back on the southern breeze.

It’s about time!

Straightening, he turned, looking toward miles of open range in the lowlands. She was trying to sneak him in through the south end. His gaze honed in on the line of dark foliage marking the nearest river, the only real coverage to be found in those open hills. She had to be following the river.

He wasn’t about to let her slip through his land without talking to him.

He was down the ladder and mounting his saddled horse in seconds.

“Hey, Everett,” he called out as he rode the brown and white mare past the bunkhouse. “I’ll be right back.”

A half mile out he reined in, easing his horse into a slow, silent trot, the mare’s hoofbeats drowned out by the steady rush of the swollen river. He rode along the outside edge of
the trees and scrub, peering through the low, dense branches. He wanted to call his dog, to flush them from the brush, but he knew if he did that she’d take flight. They couldn’t be far.

A sharp bark from just ahead confirmed that notion.

Garret dismounted, leaving his horse as he pushed past the thick brush, stepping into the blend of light and shadows.

“Damn it, Boots.”

Her low voice grated over him, prickling his skin, heightening his anticipation.

“Stop following me. You know your way home from here.”

He eased past another veil of low branches. The sight of her kneeling in a patch of sunlight to pet his dog slammed his heart against his chest.

“I took off the muzzle so you could
go home,
not chase after me,” she said, her voice strained with frustration.
And affection,
he thought, watching her set her rifle aside to embrace his dog. He recognized the well-worn Smith & Wesson, the gun she’d held to Strafford’s chest. Something else she’d hidden from him.

She sniffed as she sat back on her heels, a shudder in her breath suggesting he’d find her eyes wet with tears. The wide brim of a familiar tan hat hid her face and the loose black hair touching the base of her shoulders. Buckskin covered the rest of her. The dark fur coat any man in this area would recognize was tied to the outside of her large backpack.

Mad Mag.

She’s not crazy,
his mind shot back.
She’s sneaky as hell and sharp as a tack.

“Don’t make me be mean,” she said, pushing Boots away. “Just go on,” she urged, pointing in his direction.
“Go home!”

His dog turned and ran right to him. She looked up, her glistening blue eyes popping wide at the sight of him. She lunged up, but the weight of her pack dragged her back down and she fell to her knees.

Boots pounced up, his front paws landed against his thigh.

“Hey, boy,” he greeted, petting his dog as he stared into the startled blue eyes looking back at him. She didn’t so much as blink. Slowly she picked up her rifle and subtly shifted the shoulder straps of her large backpack as she stood. She took a step back, her delicate features tense, her posture defensive.

Didn’t matter that he knew her name was Maggie or that she wore the garb of Mad Mag…all he could see was
Grace.

A married woman,
he had to remind himself.

“Afternoon,” he offered.

“Garret.” She lifted her chin a few notches, standing her ground. But she wanted to run. He could tell by her quick side-glance.

Lucky for him, her pack appeared to double her weight, keeping her grounded. Fear darkened her eyes. The fear of a woman caught in a lie.

I don’t expect you to lie to your family.

And yet she couldn’t be troubled to tell him the truth. She’d sent him off, knowing he’d look a fool in front of the two men who’d never see him as a grown man.

Not trusting his tongue, he turned his gaze on his dog.

“Looks like she took good care of you.” He’d make sure Boots got some extra scraps from the table for giving him the chance to sneak up on their mistress.

A twig snapped, drawing his gaze back to
Grace.
“Leaving so soon?”

She stared at him as though waiting for him to explode, to demand answers he damn well deserved. But he was a patient man. He’d let her stew on her curiosity just as he’d stewed for more than two months.

“You look good, Grace.”

Surprise showed in her eyes and he had to fight a grin.

“Are you back to being your silent self, or do you not have anything to say to me?”

“I didn’t expect to see you.”

She had an odd habit of stating the obvious and leaving the rest to his imagination. “I have your shotgun. My horse is just beyond the trees.” He turned away, wondering if she’d follow him or run. She wouldn’t get far.

“Come on, Boots.”

Maggie watched him duck beneath the low braches and step out into the open sunlight. Uncertainty kept her rooted in place when she likely should have run. She’d seen anger in his eyes when he’d first looked at her.