Mountain Wild (Harlequin Historical Series) (7 page)

“I’ll start digging you out and see how it goes.”

Boots stuck his head in, his sharp barks rattling through the cabin.

“Would you stop shouting at me,” Garret said with exasperation. “I can’t squeeze through a rabbit hole!” Boots moved back and kept barking as Garret dug at the thick snow pack. “All your yapping isn’t helping,” he grumbled, which Boots answered with another series of barks.

Maggie was surprised to find herself grinning as she watched them. The way he talked to Boots, as though talking to a person, had been something she’d always found endearing about him. His wide shoulders shifted in fluid motions as he cleared the doorway with impossible speed, shoveling
away snow in minutes that would have taken her half the day. She envied his strength.

He turned back and dragged the flat shovel across the floor, clearing out the hard-packed snow that had slid inside. “I’ll bring in some wood as soon as I uncover the woodpile. You go on and get some sleep,” he said, nodding toward the bed before shutting the door.

Sleep?
With him tromping around outside her cabin?

He sure seemed spry this morning for a man who could barely stand the day before. Amazing what a good meal could do. Maggie dried the floor and went to check the stove. She wasn’t pleased to find he’d cleared out all the hot coals, leaving the stove completely cold. She knew better than to let the fire die out during a storm. The way it was snowing, she’d have to go up top and dig out the stovepipe before she could light a fire. The mere thought made her shiver.

Garret came in with an armload of wood as she shrugged into her coat. He dumped the wood into the box, his hands slamming down on his hips as he regarded her for a silent moment.

“What’s wrong?”

“I let the fire die down, which means the pipe likely snowed over. I’ll have to clear it before I build a fire.” She refrained from telling him she never removed all the hot coals from the stove in the dead of winter.

He turned, his gaze following the pipe up through her ceiling. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, tugging his collar up as he headed for the door.
“Stay inside.”

The door slammed and she bristled at his parting words. Who was he to be giving her orders?

Biting out a curse, she took off her coat and went back to the stove. As she filled it with kindling and wood, she could hear the scraping sounds coming from up above. The very idea of him knowing her location filled her with unease.

“All clear.” His deep voice carried through the pipe with crystal clarity and caused an annoying stir of ripples in her belly.

If food was what it took to keep him strong, she’d keep cooking until he was gone.

Garret had hoped to get a lay of the land, but could hardly see more than five yards in front of him. Through the distortion of snowflakes none of the surrounding white ridges looked familiar. In this storm, eight miles from his ranch might as well have been a hundred.

Chilled to the bone, he went back to clearing snow from around the woodpile stacked along the front of her cabin, or so it appeared. Wood slats wedged into the mouth of a cave. Even with a wide storage chest built up to one side of the false front for added support and the woodpile stacked on the other side, the upkeep had to be constant. He’d uncovered a large kettle a few yards out she likely used for laundry.

He shook his head, hardly able to believe a man had left his woman in a place like this. A miner should know only trappers, outlaws and renegade Indians frequented these mountains—even they sought more hospitable ground over winter.

Pulling back the heavy tarpaulin covering the woodpile, he collected a few more pieces to take inside. She’d at least stay warm until the end of winter. Hopefully she’d hunkered down in that bed while he uncovered her yard. Despite all his labor, fresh snow continued to pile up, the steady snowfall showing no sign of slowing. Just as Grace had said, he wouldn’t be going anywhere today.

“Come on, Boots. Let’s head in.”

He opened the door to a welcoming burst of heat and a mouthwatering scent that made his stomach roar with hunger. His gaze locked on a steaming pile of golden biscuits at the center of the table.

“Breakfast is ready.”

He whipped his gaze toward the all-too-inviting view of Grace lifting a kettle from the stove. Apron strings created a tidy white bow just above the gentle swell of her backside…a shapely backside that had him appreciating her buckskin britches.

Don’t go there,
he silently warned, forcing his gaze up to a second white bow securing the silky black hair she’d brushed into a single ponytail. Boots bumped up beside her. Soaked from his morning run, he was about to shake water all over Grace’s cabin.

“Boots.”

His dog froze—so did Grace, her eyes popping wide as he rushed toward them.

Garret grabbed the dog’s blanket from the corner and draped it over him, briskly drying his wet fur. “Miss Grace doesn’t take kindly to a wet floor.”

Or sudden moves from stray cowpunchers,
he thought, noting how her slender body had shuddered before she had dragged in a deep breath. She grabbed up the mugs and hurried to the table.

The moment he released Boots his dog shot to the bowl of broken biscuits and meat Grace had placed in his corner. He turned and she stepped back, practically pressing her back to the door.

“I filled the basin with warm water so you could wash up.”

He spotted a fresh towel beside the water-filled basin and realized the pleasing scent of spring mingled with the aroma of breakfast. Glancing back at Grace he noted the fresh shine of her skin. He reached for the buttons on his coat and she instantly fluttered past the foot of her bed, anticipating his move toward the door to hang his jacket.

Her wariness of him stung at his pride—not that he blamed her.

By the time he finished scrubbing up she was rummaging through her shelves, conveniently giving him plenty of clear
ance to get to the table. His plate had already been served, a stack of broken biscuits smothered with chunks of venison and white gravy. He collected the linen napkin from beside his plate, noting the tiny pink flowers across the bottom as he draped it over his thigh.

She hadn’t set a place for herself. Already back at the stove, she obviously didn’t have plans to join him at the table, so he dug in. Just as the heavenly aroma had hinted, her biscuits and gravy were the best to pass his lips since he’d lived in his sister’s home.

Maggie glanced up from mixing a fresh batch of biscuits as a low, rumbling groan sounded behind her. Garret sat with his eyes closed as he chewed. The coarse stubble along his jaw from a couple of days ago had become smooth fibers with another day of growth. She missed being able to stroke his face, his skin.

I don’t need to be petting on any man,
she silently scolded.

His tongue skimmed over his full lips and tingles danced across Maggie’s skin, awakening the memory of his soft mouth pressed to hers, the shocking surge of pleasing sensations stirred by his seeking tongue. His blond lashes lifted and Maggie forced her gaze back to her task.

He didn’t mean to kiss me.
No man in his right mind would.

Anger burned away the reverie.

“Grace, that was the best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

She started dropping biscuits into the pan with extra force. “It’s not hard to please a starving man.”

He stepped beside her holding his empty plate, and Maggie wondered how he could spend his morning shoveling snow and still smell of wood smoke and musk.

“You’re a great cook. But I thought you’d be sleeping.”

“And I’d hoped you’d be leaving.”

Realizing the rudeness of her words, she looked up. His blue-green eyes sparked with amusement. Of course he’d find her amusing, and not at all ladylike.

Damn it!

“Thank you,” he said, his steady gaze holding hers.

Be normal.
She forced a smile. “You’re welcome.”

There,
that hadn’t been so hard.

His lips shifted slightly, and the heat blossoming inside Maggie warned her that nothing was going to be easy in his presence.

“Grace, would you mind returning the rest of my gear? If I can’t head out today I’d like to at least get ready and my revolver likely needs cleaning. You can hold on to the bullets.”

Cleaning the gun would keep him busy and
stationary.
“All right,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron—yet another item sacrificed from her winter bartering supply. “I’ve stored them outside.”

“In the box against the house?”

Her breath stalled. She hadn’t even thought about him digging out the storage chest.

“It was locked,” he said.

Oh, thank God.

“If you want to give me the key—”

“No,”
she said, ushering him back as she moved toward the shelf. “Excuse me.”

He stepped back as she reached for a cup near the top shelf. She dumped out the slender key. “Wait here,” she said before pulling on her coat.

“Mind if I refill my tea?”

“Tea canister is above the stove. Help yourself.” She slipped outside and shut the door firmly behind her.

What had she been thinking to let him come out here with a shovel? She dropped to her knees before the storage box and brushed the fresh powder from the lid. She lifted the cold lock and tugged it open without use of the key. The temperamental thing wouldn’t always open and she’d gotten used to leaving it unlocked. A partially closed lock was enough to
keep out critters. The tap of a shovel would have clicked it open and all her effort would have been wasted. Just as Ira had told her, a safe place wasn’t something that lasted—it was something to be found. With folks crowding her every turn, it was getting harder to find peace, even in the wild.

She glanced at the door, making sure Garret didn’t take a mind to join her as she opened the latch and lifted the lid on her old livelihood. Hinges creaked as the odor of bear hide rolled out into the whip of wind. She pushed the thick brown pelt aside, uncovering traps and snares and various tools. She’d also tucked her rifle inside for good measure. With her shotgun inside for protection, she didn’t want to chance Garret recognizing the Winchester carbine she’d had that day in town. Folks didn’t tend to look too closely at her, but she didn’t doubt Garret had noticed her rifle.

She tugged his chaps and holster out from the far end. Setting the holster aside, she sniffed the buffalo hide, making sure they hadn’t absorbed Mad Mag’s odors. Wasn’t nothing compared to the stench that old coat could give off in the warmth of spring.

“You ever smell a b’ar?”
Ira had said to her when she’d first complained about his foul odor.
“They don’t smell invitin’ for a reason.”

She sure missed him at times. And he’d been right of course. Folks didn’t come within six feet of her. The few her coat didn’t discourage, her rifle did.

All but Garret.
He’d actually touched her. Her eyes burned at the thought of him knowing she’d been the one standing beside him that day.

“Stay in there,” she said, tucking in the telltale signs of Mad Mag before clamping down the lid.

She had him fooled. One more day and he’d be gone.

G
arret stood at the open door. His muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he gripped the door frame overhead and stared out at steady snowfall. Maggie could feel the restless tension rolling off him from her spot on the bed. The entire day he’d been a mess of pent-up energy. The task she’d hoped would keep him busy all day had taken him an hour.

The backpack she’d given him sat beside the door, filled with the salted venison and biscuits she’d packed, now topped by his holster and polished gun. He’d since reshoveled the yard and brought in more wood than she’d use in a week. They’d shared a surprisingly silent evening meal and she actually found herself missing the sound of his voice. He’d taken his dog outside for a while afterward, and while Boots now slept in the corner, Garret clearly hadn’t worn himself out.

His shoulders flexed, bunching beneath his shirt, and Maggie’s thoughts drifted to the varying textures of his body, hard muscles, coarse hair and warm, smooth skin.

A sharp sting in her finger brought her gaze back to her needlework. Blood swelled from a pinhole on her index finger, the newest among many already dotting her finger. Trying to stitch with such distractions in the room was plain
hazardous. Biting back a curse, she stuck her finger in her mouth before she bled on the white apron.

A burst of cold wind swirled inside, putting a chill in her skin.

“Do you really think you can stare down the storm?”

He glanced over his shoulder, his green eyes aglow with frustration. “Four days, Grace, and hardly a reprieve?”

“You slept through the reprieve. And now you’re wasting my wood by trying to melt snow.”

His lips twitched with the start of a grin, and Maggie realized she’d snapped at him again. Knowing he found such humor in her sharp tongue increased her annoyance.

He shut the door, a hard sigh breaking from his chest. “All that snow makes me nervous.”

She didn’t have to guess why. She’d weathered her share of harsh winters, but nothing so powerful as the late-winter freeze a few years back. It had taken her a few days to dig out and a week before she’d trekked out to the rim. The blizzard had blown clear across the plains, smothering those grasslands and freezing man and cattle alike.

“This type of storm isn’t uncommon for this elevation,” she said, wanting to ease his worry. “Your place likely hasn’t gotten a foot of snow, if any at all. Your pacing and staring hasn’t helped to clear the weather.”

He dragged the chair toward the stove and dropped onto the hard surface. “Storm or not, I’m heading out at first light.”

Maggie looked up as he shoved his hands through his tousled hair, which only seemed to emphasize the span of his chest, the thickness of his arms. His short beard added to his rugged appearance. He looked like a man who could take on a storm.

“How do you stand it? You just hibernate up here all winter?”

“I keep busy.”

He glanced around the room. “In this small space?”

“I’m used to being snowed in. I venture out and hunt on
clear days. I have to keep the fire going and food on my table. And I sew.”

Garret eased back in the chair, his gaze moving over the tiny woman sitting near the head of her bed, her legs stretched out before her, her sewing basket tucked close beside her. She appeared relaxed, focused on her stitching, but he knew she was subtly watching him. She fluttered around him like a little bird, always managing to keep a few feet between them. No small feat considering the tight space of her cave. She wasn’t obvious in her evasion, which intrigued him. He moved in, she glided back, fluttering to safer ground.

“You do real fine needlework,” he said, leaning in to look at the tiny pink roses spaced across what appeared to be an apron.

She glanced up, a smile curving her lips before she looked back at the cloth in her hands. “It passes the time.”

Her smile hinted at her growing ease with him. Lamplight glinted on the needle she pulled through the fabric. As she repeated the process it was her hands that stole his attention. He leaned in, looking closer at the array of scarring on her tender skin.

My God.
Every finger bared a white mark of some previous injury. Surely that bitty needle didn’t inflict such wounds. Her man likely had her holed up in a mine somewhere. Part of him hoped her husband had left her a widow instead of abandoning her. The fact that she was too embarrassed to tell him her full name suggested otherwise. He didn’t doubt she’d been mistreated. Beneath all her apprehension was a gentle and giving woman. He wished she’d tell him her husband’s name so he could find him and beat the living hell out of him.

“You’ve got a real talent and a mess of patience to sew such tiny things. You must have a hundred little pink flowers on that apron.”

“There about.” She met his inquisitive stare over her nee
dlework. “Maybe you ought to give it a try? I could show you how to darn socks.”

He enjoyed sarcasm. She had knack for answering his questions without telling him a damn thing about herself—other than she had a quick mind and a stubborn nature. “I’m game if you are. That is, unless you have a deck of cards?”

“No.”

“Checker board?”

“With whom would I play checkers? My shadow?”

Garret grinned, liking how she’d said that. Seemed to him most folks dropped a swear word or two when their guard was down. Even his sister had been known to slip on occasion despite her efforts to keep a clean mouth in front of her youngens. Yet the more relaxed Grace seemed around him, the more pristine her word choice became. Which told him she’d most likely been raised in a strict and fancy household.

“How long have you lived up here, Grace?”

“Long enough to know you can’t fight the weather.”

“I’m not trying to pry,” he hedged.

“Uh-huh,” she countered, her disbelieving eyes briefly meeting his gaze. “Must be why you ask so many questions.”

“I’m going a little stir-crazy, Grace. I hate being away from my ranch and not knowing…anything. For all I know, my ranch is under siege. One of my ranch hands, his folks were burned out of their place last year—burned their house and barn to the ground. They lost everything.”

“Did they catch the raiders?”

“His own neighbor.” Garret shook his head. As if the freeze hadn’t been bad enough, desperation had turned folks plumb crazy. “Those hangings haven’t slowed the number of rustlers springing up all over these hills, hitting ranchers still trying to recover from the freeze.”

“That’s the nature of folks.
Vultures.
Attracted by the weak and the dying.”

The disdain in her voice sprang a new crop of questions in Garret’s mind. Not that she’d answer a single one. His gaze moved over the fabric that had held her attention over the past couple of hours.

“I suppose I’m interrupting your production.”

“Yes, in fact. Because of you I’ve missed out on nearly a week of work.”

“So thread me a needle.”

Her blue eyes rounded. “You’re not serious.”

He seriously enjoyed her reaction. He liked those big blue eyes looking up at him. “Why not? You labored over me. I’m not above doing needlework.”

“Quit it,” she said, a smile breaking through her scowl.

“I’m serious. I need something to keep my mind busy.”

He stood and eased onto the mattress beside her, trapping her between her sewing basket and the headboard. Expecting her to take flight or reach for the knife at her hip, she surprised him by resuming her stitching. Though her hands were none too steady. He didn’t have to wonder why she preferred life without her man—he’d hurt her. Of that he had no doubt. Anger tensed his muscles at the thought of any man raising a hand against her tender body.

“Let me help you, Grace.”

“You’ll waste my thread,” she said, a quiver in her voice.

“You think I’m just a clumsy cowpoke, don’t you?” he accused.

Her heart skittering from the sudden closeness, Maggie risked a glance at the man sitting beside her. Garret Daines was far from clumsy—and neither was she, unless he was nearby. She’d never known anyone like him. Good-natured, hardworking,
and charming as sin.
“I don’t want—”

“Have I told you that I have eight nieces?” he asked, delivering that bit of information as though it pained him. “They’ve taken great pride in teaching their uncle the finer
points of tea parties and needlepoint. I’ll have you know I can knit a fine scarf—
while under proper guidance.”

She could just picture him surrounded by eight little Morgan girls, the image widening her smile.

“I’ve never stitched flowers,” he said, leaning over, his shoulder brushing hers as he looked at her design. “But I’m not afraid to try somethin’ new.”

Maggie swallowed hard. She doubted Garret feared much of anything. And yet he wasn’t a hard man. She wasn’t afraid of him, that admission alone was enough to terrify her. She knew more about Garret than she wanted to admit to herself.

“I want to help you out,” he said. “It’s the least I can do when you saved my life.”

After the way his big hands had moved so gently over her body, she didn’t doubt those callused fingers could likely handle a needle.

“Okay.”

Stunned by her quick acceptance, Garret watched her scamper off the bed and over to her trunk.

Well, hell.

He likely couldn’t stitch anything resembling a flower—he’d just enjoyed sitting by her. She shocked him again by reclaiming her spot on the bed, her eyes bright with a smile. Lingering on her blue eyes conjured images he had no right remembering.

He watched as she placed a small hoop beneath a fresh white dish towel and clamped another hoop over the top of the fabric, trapping the towel between the two, the circular portion of cloth stretched tight and ready for stitching.

“Any particular design you’d like to sew?”

The clear amusement in her sweet expression made him smile. She didn’t truly expect him to sew a decent flower any more than he did. But, hell, to keep her smiling, he’d give it a shot.

“You choose.”

She plucked a pencil from her sewing basket and began drawing at the center of the tight circle.

“You don’t draw your designs.”

“I do if I’m trying something new or if it’s a large pattern. There you go,” she said, passing his project over.

Garret held up the circle and frowned. The faint crisscrossed lines at the center didn’t resemble any flower he’d ever seen.

“What is it?”

Grace looked up from her basket, a needle protruding from her lips, and his smile was back.

“You’re holding it upside down. It’s your brand.”

He turned the hoop and gooseflesh prickled across his skin. Sure enough, the lines across the circle created an off-kilter
L
leaning over a slanted
J.
His gaze strayed back to the woman busily pulling brown thread through a needle.

How the hell did she know his brand? Had her man been a rancher? Knowing she wouldn’t answer his questions, he held his tongue—and nearly swallowed it as she scooted up beside him, taking the cloth from his hands.

“You want to start at the bottom,” she said, placing his hand on the hoop as she drove the needle up from underneath. “Up, then back,” she said.

Garret tried not to notice the gentle brush of her breast against his arm as he breathed in her intoxicating floral scent.

“Each stitch should be the same size. See?” She smiled and held the needle out to him.

He didn’t see much beyond the sparkling blue eyes of a mighty sweet woman. “Thank you, Grace.”

She stiffened, as though just realizing she was practically on his lap. “Just…follow the lines,” she said, sliding back against the headboard. She shifted her basket into the space between them.

He studied the few stitches she’d done for him. He’d
already violated her, and here she was starting to trust him and all he could think about during her lesson were the perfect breasts he’d had no right touching, or kissing.

Oh hell.

Forcing himself to focus on the cloth, he gauged the length of stitches she’d started and he poked the needle through to the backside. Trying to get the tip to come back up at the base of the stitch took a dozen attempts. Beside him, Grace’s needle moved in and out in a steady rhythm.

“Do you really think anyone will want to buy a dish towel with my brand on it?”

“Well, no. But I’m hoping it will keep you quiet for a while.”

Laughter leaped from his chest and echoed off the surrounding walls. How a woman could speak her mind with such quick honesty yet manage to hold so many secrets truly amazed him.

His finger knocked the needle through before lining up the next stitch. “Damn.”

“Problem?”

“How do I fix this?” he asked, turning the cloth to show her the thread hanging a half-inch from its target.

She plucked the towel from his hand and expertly guided the needle back through, freeing the thread. “There.”

“Once again, my saving Grace.”

He enjoyed the soft pink in her cheeks as she went back to her own stitching. He managed a few more passes, pleased to find he’d nearly completed the first leg in the
L.
He didn’t mind the easy silence between them, but his curiosity was like a coal burning in his mind.

“Why haven’t we met before?”

“We likely have, and you just didn’t pay me any notice.”

“Not possible,” he said. “I would have noticed you, Grace.”

She stiffened, her hand pausing midstitch. “Well,
you didn’t.
”

“We’ve met?” he asked, his shock apparent.

“I’ve seen you, is all. Why don’t you have a wife?”

The question stunned him as much as her admission. It was the first question she’d asked about him, and likely the only question he’d rather not answer.

“I did for a short time.”

She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

She obviously misunderstood, and he was tempted to let it go at that. Wasn’t easy for a man to admit his wife had left him after the worst eight months of his life—and likely the worst eight months of hers.