His Mountain Miss (Smoky Mountain Matches)

by Karen Kirst

  Megan waited for him on the opposite bank, white teeth worrying her bottom lip. Standing in a patch of buttery sunlight, she was a vision in blue, a burst of color amid the vast green landscape. He wished then for a camera or a canvas and paints, any way to capture this image to keep for all time.

  Splashing through the cool water to reach her, he lifted her into his arms without a word of warning.

  “Lucian!” she exclaimed, fingers clutching at his coat lapels. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” He grinned, reentering the water. “Hold on tight.”

  Encircling his neck, she pressed into his chest. Hid her face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. “Please don’t drop me.”

  He tightened his hold about her waist, delighting in her soft, warm weight. Her delicate scent. “I’ll do my best.”

  Her response was to snuggle closer. Up on the bank, water sluicing from his boots, he was loath to put her down. But he did, slowly lowering her, steadying her. The undisguised yearning in her wide blue eyes did him in.

  “This bonnet has to go.” The unsteadiness in his voice took him by surprise.

  Her brow puckered. “I realize it isn’t fashionable or new, but it’s durable.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if it was fresh from the store or twenty years old, I still wouldn’t like it.”

  Tugging on the bow beneath her chin, he undid the loops. When no words of protest followed her audible breath, he carefully lifted it from her head, stepping away only long enough to hook it on the saddle horn. Her white-blond mane shimmered in the sun’s rays. Still not satisfied, he reached around and untied the blue ribbon at her nape. Curls cascaded down past her shoulders.

  “Much better,” he murmured.

  Their gazes locked, she didn’t move or speak, but her wishes were written there for him to see. Cradling her face, he skimmed a thumb across her mouth. “Has anyone ever told you that your lips are the color of ripe peaches?”

  “A-actually no,” she whispered, her hands coming up to grip his forearms. “You’re the first.”

  “They haunt my dreams,” he ground out, dipping his head and capturing them with his own. He slid his fingers into her glorious hair, cool, liquid silk whispering across his skin.

  Ah, yes, she was as sweet as he’d imagined. So much so that his chest ached with the knowledge that she would never be his. A whirlpool of need, accompanied by emotion he couldn’t identify, spiraled through him, and he deepened the kiss. Megan’s arms looped around his waist to hug him close. Her mouth was soft and inviting, clinging with a tenderness that made him want to weep.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the haven of Lucian’s arms, Megan felt protected. Cherished. And blissfully happy. Knowing it couldn’t last, she savored every second, memorizing the feel of his broad chest, the leashed strength in his powerful arms, the delightful sensation of his fingers threading through her hair. His kiss was warm, insistent yet tender.

  She’d been right about the effects. Already she was picturing herself in a beaded gown and flowers in her hair, pledging herself to this man. She was mentally sliding the ring on his finger when he literally jerked away as if burned.

  Startled, she gripped the sides of his coat to stop his retreat. “Lucian?”

  His hands resting heavily on her shoulders, he struggled to regain his composure. There was a vulnerability in his dark eyes that hadn’t been there before. Regret pulled his mouth into a grimace. “I’m leaving Monday morning.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. “What? Why?”

  “I’m leaving the house in your care. You may do with it what you wish, except sell it. I prefer for it to remain in my family.”

  When his hands fell away, she relinquished her hold. He moved downstream, leaving her to process the news. Denial ripped through her. She’d known this day would come, of course—she just hadn’t expected it so soon.

  “What about the lawyer?”

  Head bent, his dark layers slid forward and concealed his eyes. Near his jawline, a muscle twitched. “I’ve written him to call off his search. It’s clear you cared a great deal for my grandfather, and I have faith you’ll take care of the house just as you’ve done in the months since his death.”

  Speechless, she scuffed the grass with her boot. The elation she should be feeling didn’t come. Wasn’t this what she wanted? Hadn’t she prayed that he’d change his mind and let her use the house?

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you. Not when I have no plans to court you.”

  His blunt words chilled her to the bone, his cool reserve chasing away the warm and fuzzy feelings of a moment ago. Hugging her arms about her waist, she looked away. Couldn’t risk him seeing how much this hurt.

  “Look, I don’t want this to ruin our last day together. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, Megan.” His voice deepened as he spoke. “I’d like to carry good memories back home with me.”

  Tomorrow he’d be preparing for his trip while she was attending church and having lunch with her family. They’d both be too busy to do much more than say goodbye. After tomorrow, she would likely never see Lucian again. Sadness leached the color from her surroundings, muting the grass and rushing water and sky above. Even the birds’ songs seemed to take on a hollow, mournful quality.

  “If you’d rather return home,” he continued into the lingering silence, “I’ll accompany you. No hard feelings.”

  “I suppose we shouldn’t let all that food go to waste.” She waved a hand towards D’Artagnan’s bulging saddlebags. “Not after all the trouble Mrs. Calhoun went to. And then there’s the matter of your boots. You would’ve ruined them for nothing.”

  Water streaks marred the mirrorlike surfaces and bits of mud clung to the heels. She knew how their condition must irk him.

  “You didn’t ask me to carry you across. I did that all on my own.” He shrugged. “It’s nothing a little spit and polish won’t fix.”

  “All right, then.” Snatching her bonnet, she crossed to her horse and thrust her boot in the stirrup. “We have another quarter of a mile to go.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, giving her time to regain her composure, to marshal her emotions. Time enough to deal with them later. Like Lucian, she wanted things to be peaceful between them. If memories were all she would have, she wanted them to be good ones.

  A break in the trees, a wide swath of sunlight streaming through the overhead canopy shone down on her favorite meadow. A thick carpet of grass intermingled with purple-and-blue wildflowers. Butterflies flitted above blooms. She soaked in the sight, remembered all the fond memories associated with this spot.

  “How did you find this place?” Lucian unlatched the saddlebag containing their lunch.

  Taking the quilt he held out to her, her gaze tracked the massive tree trunks up to their leafy branches far above. “My father and I discovered it long ago on one of our bird-watching hikes. We came here often. Sometimes Juliana would tag along, but for the most part, it was just he and I. He’d sit and play his harmonica while I read or made friends with the butterflies.”

  He straightened, a square, lidded basket in his arms. “Where is your father?”

  “He passed away when I was young. Heart attack.” Even after all these years, she still missed him. “Sometimes a man will walk past me on the street, and I’ll get a whiff of the cologne Father used to wear. In that moment, the grief resurfaces and I long to tuck my hand in his again. See his smile once more. He had a great, booming laugh that shook the walls.”

  Lucian winced. Too late, she understood the wounds her words were likely to inflict on someone whose loss was still fresh.

  He wore a grim expression. “Does it ever get easier?”

  “Time helps. And lots of prayer.” Making her way throug
h the grass, she chose a good spot and, shaking out the quilt, bent to smooth it. He set the basket aside to assist her. “My father’s passing was unexpected. One minute he was sitting on the porch, rocking and playing his harmonica, and the next he was gone. We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. The shock would’ve devastated us were it not for God’s comforting hand. ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.’”

  The quilt smoothed, Lucian settled the basket in the middle and waited for her to sit before lowering himself to the ground. Long legs stretched out so that his boots rested on the grass, he watched silently as she unpacked first the dishes and silverware, then the jar of tea and the food.

  “I haven’t found any measure of comfort in my mother’s death.”

  Megan’s hands stilled. His bitter grief hung in the air between them. Beneath the black coat that molded to his athletic build like a second skin, his back and shoulders were rigid. Anguish swirled in his eyes like an out-of-control tempest.

  “You haven’t allowed yourself to grieve, have you?”

  “I’m not sure I know how. I have to be honest—I’m...angry at God for taking her. She was too young. And vibrant. If He cared about me like you say He does, then how could He take away my one true friend?”

  “Oh, Lucian, I can’t answer that.” Heart heavy for his loss and his loneliness, she covered his hand with her own. “No one can fathom God’s intentions or reasons. Why did my father have to die when he did? Why are precious babies taken from their mothers before they even have a chance to live? No one travels through life untouched by heartache, but God is there to help us. He promises to never leave us.”

  Flipping his hand beneath hers, he threaded his fingers through hers. “I carry her Bible with me everywhere I go. When I’m out riding, it’s in the saddlebags. When I’m at home, it’s on my bedside table. She cherished that Bible. Keeping it nearby helps me feel close to her.”

  “But you don’t read it, do you?” When he shook his head, she suggested, “Maybe it’s time you started. We keep Father’s on the living room mantel so that we all have access to it. He wrote sermon notes in the margins and underlined important passages. It’s a glimpse into what he was thinking, the things the Lord was teaching him. Perhaps Lucinda did the same.”

  His gaze flicked to his horse, standing in the shade with Mr. Knightley and nibbling on grass. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Disengaging her hand before she did something foolish, like pulling him into a hug, Megan focused on dishing out the fried chicken and potato salad. Lucian poured tea into the glasses.

  “You know, I hadn’t intended for this outing to become so somber. You’re probably wishing you’d stayed home.”

  She handed him a filled plate and cloth napkin. “On the contrary. I’d much rather speak plainly than ignore the deeper issues. What would be the point in that?”

  Funny. She hadn’t felt that way the night before. With Tom, she craved the exact opposite. Had been relieved to speak of nothing of import, to avoid the one subject they needed to address.

  Accustomed to giving thanks before meals, Megan said a silent prayer before picking up her fork. She wasn’t as hungry as she should’ve been. In a hurry to finish her morning chores, she’d settled for a single biscuit slathered with blackberry jam.

  When they’d eaten their fill and cleared away the dishes, Lucian asked if she’d mind reading to him. A little self-consciously, she agreed. He lay back, tanned hands folded on top of his chest, and closed his eyes. Before long, he was sound asleep.

  Megan lowered the book to her lap. The harsh set of his features relaxed in sleep, he looked ten years younger. And at peace. Watching the even rise and fall of his chest, her throat closed as unshed tears sprang up. Lifted trembling fingers to her lips. Oh, Lord, I’m going to miss this man so.

  He was leaving, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. She felt helpless and a bit frantic. Desperate. Was this...love? Surely not. Surely it wouldn’t hurt this much. Surely she wouldn’t have been so foolish!

  Jumping up, the book slipping from her lap, she strode across the meadow and into the forest’s cool shelter, not stopping until she was certain she wouldn’t cry. Lucian would see the evidence and seek to discover the reason. Better to wait until he was gone.

  She’d have the rest of her life to cry over him.

  * * *

  Lucian stirred from his slumber, disoriented at first. Then he remembered. He’d drifted to sleep to the soothing sound of Megan’s voice. Propping himself up on one arm, he scanned the meadow. Where was she? The book she’d been reading lay facedown on the quilt, some of the pages bent. Frowning, he righted it and got to his feet, turning in a circle to search the surrounding woods for a sign of her.

  “Megan?”

  “I’m here,” she answered, as she ducked from behind his horse. “I’ve got most of the supplies packed away. We should probably be heading back.”

  Lucian rested his hands on his hips. Something was wrong. Beneath her bonnet’s brim, her face was pale, without expression, and she was avoiding his gaze. Was she angry he’d fallen asleep? Suffice it to say, he wasn’t exactly thrilled he’d wasted precious time with her.

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep like that. I’m sorry.”

  She faltered and her lips softened. “I don’t mind. You needed the rest.” Then she passed by him without another glance. Turning, he followed and helped gather the rest of their things.

  When they were about to mount up, he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “Are you all right?”

  The smile lifting her lips didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m fine.”

  While he didn’t believe her, he refused to argue. “Thank you for bringing me up here. For sharing your special place with me. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself more.” It was the best he could give her without admitting how much she’d come to mean to him. She was a once-in-a-lifetime woman. Yet you’re going to turn your back on her.

  Her blue eyes grew luminous. “I’m glad. I—I enjoyed our time together.”

  Shaking off his hand, she climbed into her saddle and signaled her horse to head out. Lucian caught up to her, and they rode side by side, lost in thought. At the stream, he halted his horse but didn’t dismount. Absorbed the magnificent view one last time.

  Megan seemed as reluctant to move as him. Was she thinking about the kiss they’d shared? He longed to take her in his arms again. Glancing back at her, he was disappointed to find her face hidden from view. Dreadful bonnet.

  “Lucian.”

  Staring at the ground, she held herself very still.

  “Lucian, don’t move.”

  He started to scan the ground. “What—”

  Tension screaming from her body, she hissed, “There’s a copperhead close to D’Artagnan’s rear leg, and he’s poised to strike.”

  Heart pounding, teeth clenched, his fingers tightened on the reins even as he forced his muscles not to react. Sweat popped out on his brow. The rushing water masked the sound of the snake’s warning hiss. If his horse was struck, Lucian would be forced to put him down. He couldn’t let that happen. Not to this loyal friend.

  Megan was inching her hand towards her boot. “What are you doing?” he demanded softly.

  She didn’t answer, and he didn’t shift in the saddle to look for the reptile. He was afraid that if he moved even an inch, D’Artagnan might sidestep. When she scooted up her skirts, Lucian averted his gaze. What on earth was she doing?

  “Hold on,” she ordered.

  He did look then, shock reverberating through his body at what he saw. A gun. She was holding a gun. A mean, dangerous-looking weapon more suited to a lawman than a young lady like herself.

  The sudden blast spooked the horses. D’Artagnan reared. Lucian felt himself s
lipping backward. In his haze of disbelief, he’d let go of the reins. Too late. He felt nothing but air as the hard earth rushed up to meet him. The sound of bones cracking as he landed echoed in his ears an instant before he registered mind-numbing pain.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Lucian!”

  Megan watched in horror as he hit the ground, face contorting as he cradled his right arm against his body. Sheathing her weapon in her leg holster, she worked to calm her horse. When he’d settled, she scrambled down and, sidestepping the dead snake, sprinted to where Lucian lay on his side.

  “I’m so sorry,” she stammered, reaching out a hand to touch him only to snatch it back when he grimaced, burst forth with a slew of French. Pale beneath his tan, breathing fast, he held his injured arm tight against his midsection.

  “The snake?” he pushed out through clenched teeth.

  “Dead. But I’m afraid D’Artagnan bolted.”

  He closed his eyes. Muttered in French again.

  Sick with worry, she went to her knees beside him, looking for evidence of other injuries. “Does anything else besides your arm hurt?”

  He grunted a negative response.

  “You didn’t hit your head?”

  “Non.”

  She skimmed shaky fingers over his scalp to be sure, then turned her attention to his arm. “We need to get that coat off so I can take a look at it. Check if the bone pierced the skin.”

  She prayed it hadn’t. That would mean surgery and the potential for complications, as well as risk of infection. Oh, God, please...

  “I don’t feel any blood soaking through,” he panted, wincing as she helped him into a sitting position.

  “That’s good. Is it the upper or lower part?”

  “Forearm.”

  His hair hung in his eyes and bits of grass and dirt clung to his clothes. First she removed the sleeve of his good arm, then she moved around to the other side, sliding the material down as carefully as she could to avoid aggravating the injury. When he flinched and sucked in a harsh breath, she clamped down on her lip to keep from crying.