His Mountain Miss (Smoky Mountain Matches)

by Karen Kirst

  Thank You, Lord, for bringing this delightful woman into my life. Kate’s friendship eased the ache of Juliana’s absence.

  Turning speculative, Kate rested her hands on her hips. “Charles’s grandson is certainly a distinguished gentleman. You failed to mention how utterly handsome he is!” Her brow furrowed. “He does seem a bit haughty, however. Is he a cold man?”

  Megan rushed to his defense. “That was my first impression of him, too, but he’s not at all that way. Actually, he’s quite kind. Lucian’s a good man—he’s just...going through a rough patch right now.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve learned a lot about him in a short amount of time.”

  “You could say that.”

  Strange—she couldn’t recall what life was like without him around. There was a connection between them, one she hadn’t experienced with anyone else. One she must ignore, must fight against. At the very most, they could be friends. There would be risk involved, of course, but she was certain she could withstand the temptation to care for him more than was wise. He was only here temporarily, after all.

  “Be careful, Megan,” Kate warned. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m perfectly aware that Lucian isn’t the one for me.”

  “Hmm.” She moved to the door. “Well, I believe we’ve left them to their own devices long enough, don’t you?”

  To Megan’s relief, the men were involved in a deep discussion about furniture. Josh winked at her, continuing to talk as he placed an arm about Kate’s shoulders. She took it as a sign that he liked Lucian, which pleased her. Both were businessmen, so they had something in common. Lucian searched her face as if trying to ascertain if everything was all right and, apparently satisfied, returned his attention to Josh. His stance was relaxed yet focused.

  Twenty minutes later, they were back on the boardwalk.

  “Do you want to return home?” she asked.

  “Not unless you do.”

  Shielding her eyes with one hand, she scanned the blue sky above. No clouds. Good. “I can show you our favorite picnic spot, if you’d like. It’s a twenty-five minute walk from here.”

  “I’d like that.”

  They were quiet as they left the town behind, each lost in their own thoughts. Walking side by side in the forest, Megan was acutely aware of his commanding presence. There was no compulsion to fill the silence with inane chatter.

  Spotting one of her favorite birds, she tugged on his sleeve to stop his forward progress, pointing to a branch above their heads. “Do you see that?”

  He tipped his head back to study the elegant golden-hued bird with a splash of red on its wings.

  “That’s a cedar waxwing,” she told him, suddenly reminded of a verse she’d read the night before. “‘Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?’”

  His gaze turned quizzical. “That sounds familiar. Is it from the New Testament?”

  “The book of Matthew. And Luke writes, ‘Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.’”

  “You’ve memorized quite a bit of Scripture.”

  “That’s true, but you’re missing the point.” She spread her arms wide. “Since God took the time to create an astonishing array of creatures for His pleasure and ours, don’t you think He’d care about us, who are created in His image?”

  His mouth lifted in an indulgent smile. “Oui, it would make sense.” He didn’t elaborate, however, leaving her wondering if she’d gotten through to him. When he resumed walking, she had no choice but to follow. He shot her a sideways glance. “Thank you, Megan.”

  She stepped around a large hole in the ground, likely a gopher’s. “For what?”

  “For caring.”

  Uncertain how to respond, she merely nodded and averted her gaze. When they reached the forest’s edge, she paused in order for Lucian to take in the view. A wide, sweeping green field sprinkled with clover lay before them, and in the distance, a tree-lined river meandered through the valley. On the far side of the river, green hills and pastures gave way to the mountains, rounded peaks shining in the sun.

  Inhaling the fresh, sweet-smelling air, he wore a look of appreciation. “I can see why you like it here.”

  “Our families come here to relax. My ma, aunt and uncle normally sit and talk while the rest of us swim or fish or play games.”

  He held out his hand. “Want to walk to the river?”

  Placing her hand in his felt like the most natural thing in the world. The sun warmed their skin and the light breeze teased their hair as they crossed the field.

  “Your cousin is an astute businessman,” he said after some time. “I enjoyed our discussion.”

  “More importantly, he’s a good man. He’s like a protective older brother—irritating at times but always looking out for my best interests.”

  “His wife seemed upset when we arrived. Is everything all right?”

  Megan hesitated, not because she didn’t trust him but because it was a delicate subject. How to say it? “Kate is eager to start a family.”

  His grip on her hand shifted so that their palms fit snugly together, his fingers firm and sure. He shot her a sideways glance. “And it’s not happening as quickly as she’d like?”

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Exactly.”

  “I see.”

  Oh, dear. In this moment, she didn’t resent that phrase quite so much.

  They stopped at the river’s edge and stood on the low, gently sloping bank, their boots sinking slightly in the soft earth as they watched the clear water tumbling past. Thousands of tiny rocks littered the riverbed, all shapes and sizes and colors. Pond-skater bugs pushed across the surface. Fish the size of her thumb darted back and forth.

  Lucian didn’t release her hand. She’d hoped he wouldn’t, relishing the connection although she knew she shouldn’t.

  He turned to her. “How many children do you want?”

  “Me?” The question startled her. “Oh, I don’t know. Five or ten.” A laugh burst forth when his jaw dropped.

  “Surely you jest!”

  “I love kids. I’ll take as many as the good Lord sees fit to give me.”

  He shook his head in wonder. “I noticed you seem to have a way with them.” He asked quietly, “Is Tom the lucky man?”

  “What? Tom and I? No.”

  His face inches away, his dark gaze pierced her. “I got the impression that the two of you are more than friends.”

  “I don’t feel that way about him.”

  Was that relief in his eyes?

  Breaking eye contact, they stood and gazed at the scenery. After long moments of silence, she asked, “What about you? How many do you want?”

  Hitching a shoulder, he spoke matter-of-factly. “I need a son to carry on the Beaumont name. If my firstborn is a son, then I’ll have only the one.”

  His detached attitude made her feel slightly nauseous. “You make having a child sound like a duty,” she accused.

  His gaze sharpened, his jaw hardened into marble. “That’s because it is. Unlike you, I won’t marry for love or some other fickle emotion. I’ll do so because I have a responsibility to my family to further the Beaumont legacy.”

 
Snatching her hand from his, she lifted her chin. Why was she so angry? “Let me guess—only the brightest, richest, most well-connected young debutant will do?”

  His eyes shuttered, he jerked a nod. “That’s the way things are done in my world.”

  “Then I’m glad I inhabit a different one.” Trembling now, she hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “We should probably be heading back.”

  Without a word, they retraced their path. Only this time, the silence was strained, heavy. As disheartening as it was, she’d needed this reminder of their vast differences, not only in their stations but their outlooks. While she envisioned marriage as a union of hearts, he saw it as a cold, emotionless business arrangement. She could never live that way, and it saddened her that Lucian would choose such a life.

  Rounding the base of a live oak, he nearly trampled a patch of pink heart-shaped flowers. He stopped short. “What are these?”

  “Bleeding hearts.” Joining him in the shade, she gently traced a petal. “There’s a legend associated with them,” she said offhandedly. “It involves a tale of a young man’s quest to win the love of his life.”

  He cradled one flower against his flat palm. “Is it an interesting story?”

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that.” Snapping one off, she removed the two pink petals and, balancing them on her hand, lifted them up for his inspection. “A young man fell deeply in love with a wealthy and beautiful maiden and, in an effort to win her love, gave her extravagant gifts. The first gift consisted of two rabbits to keep as pets.”

  One black brow snaked up as he eyed the petals. “I see the resemblance. Let me guess—she didn’t want them?”

  “Oh, yes, she did. She accepted the gift, but rejected the giver.” Pulling out the white inner petals, she said, “He didn’t give up, though. Next, he gave her a pair of silk slippers. The finest money could buy.”

  “Well, I know for certain she kept those,” he drawled. “What woman would turn down a pair of shoes?”

  “You’re right—she did. But she still wasn’t interested in him. Desperate now, he spent the last of his money on a pair of extravagant earrings.” She showed him the question-mark-shaped stamens.

  Lucian outlined her palm with his fingertip. “It didn’t work, did it?”

  His light touch and husky voice sparked shivers along her skin. Her gaze caught in his, she shook her head. “No.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He had no more gifts to give,” she murmured, unable to maintain eye contact, “and no way to win her love, so he took his knife and plunged it into his heart.” Placing the stamens side by side, she created the heart shape. The green pistil represented the knife. “They say the first bleeding-heart plant sprung up in the spot where he died.”

  All of a sudden, she wished she hadn’t told the story. Just as there was no hope for the mythical characters, there was no hope for her and Lucian.

  When she started to drop the disassembled flower onto the ground, he stopped her. “May I have that?”

  “Of course.” When she’d transferred the pieces to him, he placed them in a handkerchief and, folding up the sides, tucked it into his pocket. He didn’t offer an explanation. And she didn’t ask for one.

  At the lane leading into town, she stopped to bid him goodbye. She resorted to twirling her hair, a nervous habit she’d developed as a small child and one she’d mostly abandoned. “I need to get home and help the girls with supper.”

  His hands at his sides, he stood tall and straight and formal. “Thank you for showing me around. I know you have responsibilities to tend to.”

  The solemn expression on his handsome face, the weariness in his dark eyes, called to her. How she yearned to throw her arms around him, to pull him close and smooth all the cares from his brow. She ruthlessly squelched the urge. Heartache lay down that path.

  “I was happy to,” she said in all honesty.

  He sketched a bow. “Until Friday evening.”

  “Yes, I’ll see you then.”

  She watched him go, his long, sure strides carrying him quickly in the opposite direction, his shiny Hessians winking in patches of sunlight. A solitary figure with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Megan desperately wanted to be the friend he needed. But at what price?

  Chapter Eight

  In Charles’s study Tuesday afternoon, Lucian refolded the letter and, sliding it inside the top desk drawer, let his head fall back against the leather chair. Stared at nothing in particular. His lawyer had written not to impart news, but to reassure Lucian of his efforts to find a way around the stipulation. Upon seeing the return address on the envelope, he’d assumed it meant his stay here in Tennessee was coming to an end. Not another delay. Apparently the gentleman hadn’t been able to give the matter his immediate attention as he’d been wrapping up a delicate legal matter.

  He needed to leave and soon. He had work and responsibilities. A life to resume. With nothing pressing calling for his attention here, his mind was free to wander down paths he’d rather not explore.

  He’d spent the better part of the day searching his mother’s and grandfather’s rooms for clues, anything that might shed light on the status of their relationship in recent years. He’d rifled through this desk, examined the bookshelves. No letters. Nothing. No way to know what, if anything, had transpired between them.

  The lack of evidence was telling in and of itself. Besides a couple of photographs, Charles hadn’t kept anything near him that would remind him of his estranged daughter. And there certainly wasn’t anything here linked to Lucian.

  Going from room to room, touching their belongings, he’d felt like an intruder.

  Pushing to his feet, he crossed to the single window, taking in the sweeping view of property, the flower gardens and beyond, the forest and distant mountain peaks. He could easily picture Megan there, a vision in pink. Had it been only yesterday that she’d stormed up to him, demanding to know the reason for her nickname?

  Hands curling into fists, his nails bit into his palms. Megan was the primary reason he couldn’t afford to stay much longer. The alluring country miss was dangerous to his peace of mind, to his goals. Too much time in her company, and her naive dreams about love and marriage might start to make sense.

  He’d purposefully shocked her yesterday, spoken plainly about his expectations all the while knowing her views were in complete contrast to his. The censure in her beautiful blue eyes had stayed with him the rest of the day and long into the night. Of course a romantic like her would find his businesslike approach to marriage difficult to swallow. A man such as he—practical-minded, cynical, uninterested in love and without a single romantic inclination—could never meet her high expectations, would only disappoint her.

  His housekeeper poked her head in the door. “Mr. Lucian?”

  He turned and motioned for her to enter. “Mrs. Calhoun. What can I do for you?”

  Although in her mid-sixties, the woman had boundless energy and could accomplish more than ten men put together. A hard worker, she was pleasant without being intrusive. He appreciated that.

  Her shoes squeaking on the polished floorboards, she held her folded apron in her hands. “I’m off to the mercantile. Is there anything in particular you need?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “All right, then.” She made to leave.

  “Uh, Mrs. Calhoun? If you give me a list, I’ll go for you,” he blurted, unable to shake the restlessness plaguing him. Needing something to do, he was even willing to do her shopping for her. If she didn’t accept his offer, he was going to go find Fred and help him weed the
gardens.

  “Well...I do have a new recipe for buttermilk pie I’d like to try out. I could do that while you went to town. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” Moving around the desk, he pointed out, “I’m not used to having this much time on my hands.”

  “Rest isn’t always such a bad thing, you know. I suspect you don’t get much of it back home.”

  Shrugging, he brushed aside her words. “I prefer to keep myself busy.” So he didn’t have to face his problems. To think about this past year and all its disappointments and losses. The glaring mistakes. Coward, a taunting voice accused.

  Shaking her head in motherly concern, she sighed, turned and led the way to the kitchen where she handed him a slip of paper.

  “Is this everything?” He scanned the ten items.

  Retying the apron around her ample hips, she instructed, “Give the list to Emmett or his wife. They’ll gather everything for you. Don’t be surprised if you have to wait a little while. They fall behind sometimes, depending on how many orders they have to fill. Besides, I’m in no hurry.” She thumped a bag of flour on the work surface, alongside a bowl. “And if this here recipe of Juanita’s is any good, you can have a slice of pie when you get back.”

  Smiling, he rubbed his stomach. “I don’t see how Fred has managed to stay fit after all these years eating your cooking. Our chef could learn a thing or two from you.”

  Though she waved away his compliment, she fairly beamed. “He works it off doing all that yard work.”

  “Ah, I see.” He glanced out the window to where Fred was trimming bushes with a wicked-looking pair of shears, sunlight bouncing off his sweat-slicked bald head. “If I’m here much longer, I’ll have to join him if I don’t want to go home stouter than I arrived.”

  “It’s been a pleasure having you here.” She held a spoon aloft, gazing at him with disconcerting nostalgia. “It’s almost like having Charles here again.” Then she turned her attention back to her recipe.

  He didn’t know what to say to that. He supposed it would be strange for the elderly couple to work here with no one around. They’d been here for most of their lives, were here while his grandmother, Beatrice, was still alive, and his mother was small.