He gave her a small smile. "Sounds good to me."
Stretching his cramped and aching legs out in front of him, he folded his arms across his chest, considering the woman who sat across from him. She had tried to control her wild mane of hair by tying it up with a piece of string, but silky tendrils curled around her face and neck. And he'd never noticed before how her full mouth was almost pouty—except Mallory O'Brien wasn't a pouter. He almost smiled to himself. Mallory O'Brien was a scrapper and a fighter.
His expression sobered as he noticed that she was chewing on a fingernail, her anxiety getting the best of her. Hell, she had reason to be anxious. It was even getting to him. But he was too tired to think about it anymore. And he didn't want to talk about it anymore. And she probably didn't need to think and talk about it, either. From the way she looked, he suspected she had done nothing but pace and worry the whole time he was gone, and he decided it was time to get her mind off all her considerable problems.
He crossed his ankles, his gaze fixed on her, waiting for her reaction. "That was damned fine stew, Ms. O'Brien. I wouldn't have thought that a woman like you would know one end of the kitchen from the other."
He got exactly what he expected. Her head came up and she turned to look at him with that haughty, regal look, hard-blown annoyance flashing in her eyes. "Just where do you get off making those kinds of assumptions? I'm not a moron, for God's sake."
Finn had no idea why he was deliberately needling her—well, that wasn't exactly true. She did need to get her mind off the mess, but the real truth was that he'd never seen anyone who sizzled the way she did when she was ticked off. Watching her sizzle was kind of like watching fireworks.
He gave her an off-center smile. "I never said you were a moron. I'm just surprised you know how to cook."
Straightening her spine, she placed her hands on the table and narrowed her eyes at him. "Of all the unmitigated, mindless..." Flashing him another irritated glance, she rose and roughly tied the tails of his shirt around her waist; then she snatched away the remainder of his supper, picked up hers and flounced to the sink. "I should have fed it to Rooney. At least he'd appreciate it."
Finn watched her at the sink, her back as stiff as a board. She was tall, with well-defined shoulders and an athletic body. And even as monkish as his life had been over the years, he still had enough red blood in him to appreciate the way his sweatpants molded to her long, long legs and her lush bottom.
But tonight he was so worn down, beat-up and tired, he was certain there wasn't even the smallest chance of arousal left in him. Then she twisted around and bent over as she slammed a dish into the bottom rack of the dishwasher, the neck of the shirt gaping open. And he realized she didn't have a thing on underneath. As if frozen in place, he stared at the soft female flesh, the swell of full breasts, the smooth, freckled skin. Another rush of heat nailed him to the seat, and he broke out in a cold sweat. Gripping the arms of the chair, he clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, his heart slamming against his ribs.
Jarred by his reaction and feeling suddenly trapped, he launched himself out of the chair and headed for the door. Snagging up his mackinaw off the hook, he yanked open the door. "I'd better check the horses," he ground out, then stepped into the porch, pulling the door behind him. The frigid air washed over him, and he rested his forehead against the windowpane in the second door, trying to pull air into his lungs.
But the pulsating heat was not that easy to vent. And it was a long time before he got strength back in his knees. Still half stunned, he raked his hand through his hair. Now he was in big trouble. Very big trouble. For the first time since he'd met her, his rigid self-control had broken down, and he had visions of her naked. Disgusted with that carnal lapse, he ripped open the door and stepped outside, yanking on his jacket as he started striding toward the barn. Damn it, he had to get a grip. He was a grown man, for God's sake—not some hormone-driven adolescent. He swore again. There was something wrong with his head to let that happen.
But there was nothing wrong with his head, prompted a little voice; it held the image of her naked breasts just fine.
As exhausted and as strung-out as he was, Finn found things to do in the tack room until it was a legitimate time to call it a night. With Rooney trotting ahead of him, he headed down the path to the cabin, his collar turned up, his hands in his pockets.
There were only a few clouds left in the sky, and the full waning moon cast a silky sheen on the drifted snow, the stars so bright in the high mountain air that they seemed close enough to touch. It was the kind of night that he would never get enough of, the kind of night that allowed him the space to take a deep, full breath. A shifting band of northern lights shimmered and wavered above the trees and he paused to watch them. If he hadn't felt so battered and tired, he would have stayed outside to appreciate the enormous sense of space in that night sky. Or he might have even strapped on his snowshoes and trekked out to the little meadow where the deer often gathered at night.
But not tonight. Tonight he was just too damned beat to appreciate anything. Except, prompted that wicked little voice in his head, Patrick O'Brien's daughter.
Giving himself another lecture, he stomped the snow off his boots and entered the porch, the dog preceding him. Okay, he thought to himself, this was no big deal.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the cabin was that the furniture had all been rearranged. He closed the door, perusing the arrangement with a jaundiced eye, then expelled his breath on a heavy sigh. It didn't matter. It really didn't matter. If it made her feel better to shove furniture around, then far be it from him to say anything. Although—hell, he didn't know—it seemed cozier like this.
Shaking his head, he stepped out of his boots, telling himself he was going to go to bed and keep his mouth shut. She was at the stove, stirring something in a pot, and she glanced at him. He could tell from the redness around her eyes that she'd been crying. Feeling like a heel for baiting her earlier, he made an awkward gesture to the new arrangement. "The living room looks great."
She managed a wan smile, indicated the pot. "I've made some hot chocolate. Would you like some?"
About to take off his coat, Finn hesitated. She had been locked inside for three days, with nothing to do but worry, and then he had to give her a hard time on top of it. He jammed his hands in the pockets of his mackinaw. "Have you ever done any snowshoeing?"
She looked startled for a moment, then gave a low, husky laugh. "No. I've never been snowshoeing, but I'm a wonder on the subway."
Experiencing a weird kind of approval for her not wallowing in self-pity, he awarded her a lopsided grin. Okay. So maybe snowshoes weren't such a great idea. But there was another option. Feeling almost as if he were asking her out on a date, he nodded at the pot. "Why don't you dump that in two of those thermal mugs on the second shelf, and come out and watch the show?"
She stared at him a moment; then acting oddly flustered, she wiped her hands on the thighs of her pants, her smile tentative. "I would love to come out and watch the show."
Ten minutes later, they were back outside, with her wrapped up in his sheepskin coat and an old pair of his mukluks on her feet. Each of them carried a thermal mug as they trudged through the trees. Rooney plunged ahead of them as Finn broke trail through the undisturbed snow, leading them to the little clearing just north of the cabin and situated on the rim of the ravine. His objective was the old tree stump anchored there.
When he finally reached it, he dusted it off as she climbed the last of the trail, her labored breath hanging in the air. "Here," he directed. "Come have a seat. It's the best in the house."
Huffing and puffing with exertion and laughter, she grasped his hand and let him pull her up the last little bit, then she collapsed on the stump. "Ah. Darn it. I am so out of shape." She shivered, then moved over so there was room for him on the stump.
This spot was a particular favorite of Finn's. It was a high spot, clear of the barrier of trees, an
d the land rolled away from them, giving the impression that they were on top of the world. The vast, unblemished blanket of snow undulated and shimmered in the moonlight. And below, the silver thread of the unfrozen creek snaked its way through the wolf willow that grew in clusters at the bottom of the ravine. If there was a place where he felt almost whole, this was it.
Mallory looked up as she took a sip from the mug, then went perfectly still. "Oh, my God," she breathed, awestruck by the night sky. Her breathless admiration warmed him, replacing the bone-deep weariness with a surge of pleasure.
"That is so amazing," she murmured. She turned and looked at him, and he could see the sparkle in her eyes in the silvery light. "You weren't kidding. This is the best seat in the house." She grinned. "You must know somebody who knows somebody to get these on such short notice."
He gave her a half grin back. "I have my sources." He pointed out the aurora borealis shimmering and wavering in the northern sky, the colors changing from white to pink to a misty shade of green, the bands constantly shifting and changing. Mallory was a fascinated spectator, and that warmed Finn even more.
He'd done this hundreds of times in the past—come out here to watch the night sky and to soak up the unbelievable sense of space. But it was different tonight, with someone there to appreciate it with him, someone to share in the spectacle, someone else's frozen breath hanging in the air beside his. And it was as if the whole universe was putting on a display for them. And the countryside was so still, it was like sitting in a perfect crystal dome.
They sat there watching the northern lights and sipping their hot chocolate, silently viewing nature at her most spectacular. It was so huge and impressive, neither of them spoke, the need to communicate taking second place to the awesome display. And Finn discovered something significant about Ms. Mallory O'Brien. She might have an unpredictable temper, and she might be as opinionated as hell, but she was also very comfortable with silence. That was a rare gift. And one that suited him.
They had been sitting out there close to half an hour when the northern lights finally began to fade. Finn drained the last of his hot chocolate, preparing to call it a night when Mallory spoke, her voice quiet. "Finn?"
He turned and looked at her, waiting for her question. She held his gaze, her face unsmiling in the moonlight. "Would you mind telling me about your wife?"
Finn stared at her, then roughly stuck his hands in the pockets of his mackinaw, his throat suddenly cramped shut, an age-old pain rolling through him. His sweet, sweet Sally. How could he ever explain Sally to another woman?
His face feeling almost paralyzed, he took a deep, uneven breath, trying to ease the constriction in his chest. Not aware of making any conscious decision to answer her, Finn found himself responding. "What do you want to know?"
Her response was very soft. "What was she like? What happened?"
Finn plowed snow into a heap with his foot; then he took another uneven lungful of cold air and started at the beginning, his voice gruff with remembering.
Mallory never said a word. She just sat there looking out across the snow-laden ravine, quietly listening.
Finn had never told anyone the whole story before—not from beginning to end. For one reason or another, he had always given an abridged version of the tragic circumstances leading up to her death. The version all depended on who he'd been telling it to. But tonight was different. Tonight he told it start to finish, unburdening the whole ugly, devastating end to that part of his life.
He was pretty torn up when he was through, and she didn't say anything. Instead she took off one mitt and slipped her hand into his pocket, lacing her fingers through his, silently offering him the kind of comfort he hadn't had in years. She just held his hand for a long time, then softly, so softly, she spoke. "I completely understand why you did what you did," she said, giving his hand a firm squeeze. She paused for a moment, then eased in an unsteady breath. "And I am so sorry about your wife."
Her words went straight to his heart, and Finn clenched his jaw, the surge of emotion nearly blinding him. Rubbed raw by her absolution, he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, tightening his hand around hers. Those words and the warmth of her hand were the kindest, most thoughtful gestures anyone had ever extended to him since Sally's death so many years ago. And her kindness and compassion made his chest hurt. It was almost as if that single touch had broken the chains around his heart.
Ice crystals had begun to glimmer in the cold night air, coating the trees and shrubs with a fine layer of hoarfrost when Mallory finally broke the silence. As if needing to confide, she started talking. "My father and I have been in a battle of wills ever since I can remember. He wanted to take control of my life, and I wanted to take control of it myself. It was a constant fight between us." She let go an uneven sigh, a definite wobble in her voice when she continued. "Now I don't even know where he is or if he's all right. And I wish I could take back all the arguments we've had."
He gave her hand a reassuring little shake. "We're eventually going to get this all sorted out, Red. And with your chauffeur looking out for him, I'm sure he's being well taken care of. The really important thing is that we keep our heads on straight until we figure out what to do."
As if bolstered by his reassurance, she turned and looked at him, a hint of a smile around her mouth. "What exactly does that mean—keeping one's head on straight? It's never made any sense to me. What has a straight-on head got to do with anything?"
He gave her a wry smile. "You're a pain in the butt, you know that?"
She grinned at him, withdrawing her hand. "Speaking of butts, you look very comfortable, perched there on yours."
It wasn't really a question, but she seemed to be waiting for a positive response. Actually, in spite of how tired he was, he'd gotten pretty darned comfortable. At least with her. He gave her another half smile. "I have no complaints."
He didn't know how it happened. One minute he was sitting on the stump beside her, and the next he was flat on his back in the snow. Looking totally pleased with herself, she dusted her hands together and had the audacity to laugh at him. "Well, now you do." Whistling for Rooney, she headed down the trail toward the house. "Don't forget to bring the mugs," she called back to him.
Still flat on his back, Finn stared up at the blanket of stars, feeling just a little ticked. He'd spent the last three days wading through snow up to his armpits trying to find her downed plane, then instead of hauling his sorry butt off to bed, he'd dragged himself out here tonight—for her benefit—to give her a break from being locked up in the house for three days. And then she showed her appreciation by dumping him in the snow?
"What did you do that for?" he yelled, feeling aggravated.
"Because you looked too darned complacent," she yelled back.
He lay there for a moment longer, irritation building in him. She was a crazy woman. Wearily getting to his feet,
Finn dusted himself off, digging snow out from the neck of his jacket, catching himself almost wanting to smile. And he wasn't pleased about that either.
She was already inside and had her winter gear stripped off and hung up when he entered, and he was so intent on nursing his annoyance, he nearly tripped over the dog.
Slamming the mugs down on the shelf over the boot rack, he opened the door wider, giving a stern hand signal that indicated the porch. "Rooney. Out!"
Mallory looked at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses. Giving him one of her determined, narrow-eyed looks, she snapped her fingers and indicated the floor beside her. His tail wagging and looking totally pleased with himself, Rooney waddled over to her, looking up with puppy love worship. Finn could not believe his eyes. She had his dog taking sides, for Pete's sake.
Fixing her with a baleful look, Finn said nothing. Okay. He was too tired to even fight with her over it. And after spending another hour outside with her, he was too damned tired to care. He'd let her win this one.
The effects of the past three days hit
him like a locomotive, and he felt his knees wobble. No wonder he was cranky. He hadn't had more that nine hours of sleep since he'd left. Dragging off his coat, he felt the room wavering. It was time to call it quits. He was bloody well retiring from the battlefield.
Once in his room, he flipped the switch that turned on his bedside light, then grabbed his shirt by the back of the neck and pulled it off over his head, his insides going very still when he saw his bed. Pillows stacked up. A novel spread open on the covers. The lamp moved. He let out an exasperated sigh. Someone had been sleeping in his bed, and it sure in hell wasn't Goldilocks.
But right then, he was too tired to care. He dragged back the covers, revealing the dark blue sheets and flipping the book to the floor. Shucking the rest of his clothes, he sprawled facedown on the bed, sure every vertebrae in his spine had been disconnected. He was getting too old for this crap. Way too old.
Dragging up enough energy to move, he braced himself up on one elbow to pull up the covers and shut off the light. And he saw dog hair—on the sheets and on the pillowcases—all kinds of dog hair. Another flicker of irritation almost gave him enough energy to pile out of bed and go give her hell. She was going to ruin the best dog he'd ever had if she kept that up.
But it just wasn't worth the effort—having to put on some clothes and walk all the way back out there. He'd deal with the dog issue tomorrow. Too tired to even think straight, he closed his eyes and let the first stages of unconsciousness take him under.
Finn dreamed about the plane crash that night, and Jackson, and he woke up abruptly, the dream still clear in his head. He stared into the darkness, his pulse racing, his mind turning over. What would anyone gain from keeping her alive only until they could do away with her father? Suddenly wide-awake, he considered all the pieces. She had no siblings, and her mother was dead. So who would benefit if Mallory O'Brien, heir to millions, were to survive her father, then turn up dead?
THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS Page 12