For the first time she truly accepted that it wasn’t her fault, any more than Annie Redhawk was to blame for her husband’s abuse.
The realization was liberating, emancipating. A small, guilty part of her had always blamed herself for her husband’s actions. If she had been a more enthusiastic lover, maybe he wouldn’t have strayed. If she had been less involved with the clinic and more focused on her marriage, maybe he would have spent more time at home instead of at the office. If she hadn’t been such a protective mother to Nicky, maybe Michael would have tried harder at being a good father.
She hadn’t been the perfect wife, certainly, but neither had she deserved Michael’s derision, his belittling little comments that dug away at her self-confidence with sharp claws.
Tears welled up in her eyes—tears of relief to discover she hadn’t been the weak, ineffectual woman he had always called her and tears of regret that she had wasted so much time trying to mold herself into the kind of wife he wanted.
Now was not the time for this, though. With new empathy, she took a chance and touched Annie’s cold hand again. It trembled underneath hers and Maggie squeezed it firmly. “I realize you don’t know me at all and you have no reason to listen to me, but please believe me. This is not your fault. You need to get help.”
“It’s my problem, and I’m dealing with it.”
“You’re wrong. It’s not just your problem. It affects those beautiful dark-eyed children out there every bit as much. What are you teaching your daughter about how a woman should be treated by a man? And what kind of legacy are you giving your son? That it’s okay to beat women, that he’ll suffer no repercussions when he does the same thing to his own wife?”
Annie was silent for a long time. Just when Maggie had begun to think the other woman hadn’t even heard her, she saw a tear drip into the vivid bruises under one of her eyes.
She closed her eyes before another one could escape. “Will you send Joe back in here?” she finally asked, her voice low, pained.
Maggie nodded and squeezed Annie’s cold hand again, then slipped out of the room.
Hours later Colt let himself into the dark house, feeling restless and unsatisfied. He needed to punch something. Hard. Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to go after the source of his fury. Okay, so he and Joe had both used a little more force than necessary shoving Charlie into Colt’s pickup so they could take him to jail after Annie agreed to press charges.
Joe had even “accidentally” slammed the door on his brother’s fingers. But Charlie had been pathetic, too drunk for them to gain much pleasure out of beating on him like he deserved. By unspoken agreement, they chose to let the sheriff deal with him instead, and Joe had taken Annie to the hospital to have her arm set.
She had insisted on going back to her own ranch to spend the night, and Joe had gone with her to take care of her stock. His absence left Colt to take care of the evening feeding on the Broken Spur, but even two hours of hauling hay hadn’t been enough to take the edge off his rage.
It made his stomach clench to think of Annie and the kids living like that. He couldn’t understand how the sassy girl he had known—the one who would tear strips off his hide whenever he would tease her about being a little shrimp—would let Charlie get away with treating her like that.
Simmering beneath his fury was no small amount of guilt. She and Joe had been his two closest friends in the world and he had abandoned both of them. While he was running away to join the Marines, Joe had ended up in prison for killing his father, and Annie had ended up in her own kind of grim prison.
If he’d been here at the Broken Spur instead of trying to outrun the ghost of his father, could he have helped either one of them? Could he have protected Annie from Charlie’s abuse?
No. If Joe couldn’t persuade her to leave his brother—and he knew damn well he had done nothing but try—Colt wouldn’t have had any better luck.
He walked into the kitchen and saw that Maggie had left a light on for him, the small one above the stove. The television set buzzed softly in the other room, and he realized she must still be up.
He followed the noise, then stopped abruptly in the doorway. The news was on, the volume turned off, and the TV’s flickering blue light cast eerie shadows in the room, illuminating Maggie curled up on the big sofa, sound asleep.
Her hands were tucked under her cheek, just like a sleeping child, and he smiled at the innocence of her posture at the same time a sneaky, fragile tenderness stirred to life inside him.
Without taking his gaze off her, he walked across the room, the thick carpet muffling the sound of his boots. As he sank back into the big plump chair, an odd, easy contentment settled over him, despite the turmoil of the day.
It slowly, steadily washed away the anger and frustration that had been churning inside him since Joe had told him about Annie, leaving only a rare peace in its wake.
Maggie had that way about her, even when she was asleep, he mused. Just her presence was soothing, comforting. Like sitting by the ocean somewhere listening to the waves or in the silence of some still, high-mountain clearing.
She made a little sound in her sleep and shifted. The colorful afghan she had tugged over her against the cool Montana night slipped, but he made no move to lift it again, unwilling to awaken her and destroy the rare peace of the moment.
He wanted this in his life.
Just for an instant a seductive, alluring image crystallized in his mind of what his life would be like if things were different. He could see it clearly: a cold winter night, a fire crackling and popping in the woodstove, and a warm, loving Maggie waiting for him at the end of the day.
It wasn’t just this easy contentment he wanted in his life, he realized with a jolt. He wanted Maggie.
The thought came out of nowhere and slammed into him with all the force of a 49ers’ linebacker, and he sat back in the chair, reeling. He didn’t want her and Nicky just for some imaginary cold winter night, but for always.
The picture shifted and he saw a dozen other scenes. Fishing trips with Nicky up to Butterfly Lake, taking them both along on roundup, making love to Maggie in the big log bed his father had fashioned from lodgepole pine cut on Broken Spur land.
He shook his head to clear the images away. He had no business even thinking this kind of nonsense. No business at all. Not only was his timing abysmal—she was on the run for her life, for hell’s sake—but she would never forgive him for his deception the past few weeks.
He had a grim feeling that even if she cared for him now, she sure wouldn’t after she found out he had lied to her.
Besides, the mistakes he made during his short-lived marriage proved he wasn’t a forever kind of guy. He had too many ghosts haunting his psyche, was too restless to ever be content playing house for long.
After a while he would get edgy and have to move on, then where the hell would she be? He couldn’t do that to her, not and be able to live with himself after leaving her.
He sat forward, thinking only to leave her sleeping and go somewhere where he could figure out what had just happened to him, but his jeans must have made some sound as they rustled on the upholstery of the chair. She stirred again, and then her eyes fluttered open.
Consciousness returned slowly, like the first gentle flakes of snow on a cold December evening. When she finally awoke enough to sense his presence, her eyes lit up and she gave a soft smile of welcome that seemed to reach right through his chest and yank at his heart, despite his best efforts at keeping it away.
“You’re back,” she said, her voice rough with sleep.
He nodded, clenching his hands into fists against the need to reach for her, to draw that warmth against him and taste her sweetness, just for a moment.
She sat up, yawning, and clasped her wrists above her head to stretch the muscles of her back. The movement—completely without guile, he knew—thrust out her breasts and threw all his arguments out the window, leaving only whitehot desire.
He wanted her. Right here, right now. Hard and fast, slow and easy, any way he could have her.
He felt his pulse begin to pound, felt the blood begin to pool relentlessly in his groin as he hardened.
Damn. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. With more effort than it took to wrestle a four-hundred-pound steer, he managed to clamp down on the desire.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
Not by a long shot, he thought, but he knew she was talking about the ranch chores, not the sudden snarl of his emotions.
He gave a jerky nod. “How about in here? Nick asleep?”
She laughed softly. “He crashed about eight o’clock. It’s been quite an eventful day for him. Riding by himself for the first time, catching his first fish, then making two new friends. It wore him right out.”
“Looks like it wore you out, too.”
She smiled sheepishly. “I wanted to wait up for you, but I’m afraid everything caught up with me. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
He thought of the way she had come apart in his arms the night before on the porch, then grimaced as his body responded. He jerked his mind away to safer channels. “I’m sorry about the way the day ended. I promised you a chance to rest, but I’m afraid I haven’t been able to deliver.”
“Don’t apologize. Our time on the Broken Spur has been exactly what I needed. On several levels,” she added softly.
“Things were so crazy earlier that I didn’t get a chance to tell you thank you. For what you did with Annie.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t do anything except give her an examination. I couldn’t even set her broken arm without an X-ray.”
“You did more than that. I don’t know what you said, but you convinced her to press charges this time. That’s more than anyone else has been able to do.”
She was quiet for a long time, fiddling with the fringe on the afghan. “Do you think she’ll be okay?” she finally asked, her voice small and tight. “Will she go through with the prosecution?”
“I don’t know.” Some of the frustration slithered back. “I hope so, but Charlie has some kind of weird hold on her. I don’t understand it. She couldn’t stand him when we were kids. The truth is, I always thought she and Joe would end up together, but the next thing I know she shacked up with Charlie after I left.”
“I hope she can break away.” The fervency of her voice startled him, reminding him of the hints she had given about her own marriage.
“Maggie—”
She cut him off. “Nobody deserves to live like that, afraid to say or do anything for fear of the consequences. Nobody.”
An ugly thought sneaked into his mind at her vehemence, a thought so abhorrent he didn’t even want to think about it, let alone voice it, but he knew he had to ask. “Doc, did your husband beat you?”
She looked away from him, toward the silent television set. “No. Not like Annie’s husband. He was an expert at the kind of jab that always finds its mark. I always blamed myself, thought if I had only been a little bit better at being a wife, our marriage might have been stronger.”
She met his gaze again and there was a new strength there he hadn’t seen before. “I realized something today talking to Annie, though. I couldn’t control Michael’s behavior, just my own. The one thing I feel responsibility for is that I was willing to put up with it for so long. You know what they say about a fool who spends her time scrubbing the deck while the ship is sinking? That was me, scrubbing away.”
Her voice broke off, and she flushed suddenly and looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry, Colt. I didn’t mean to unload all that on you. It’s just been running through my head all evening.”
He shook his head. “Don’t apologize, Doc. I’m just sorry you had to go through that.”
“I survived.” She smiled then, a radiant smile that took his breath away. “Besides, if I hadn’t married Michael, I never would have had Nicky. Then where would I be?”
He studied her smile and felt something shake loose inside him. His heart, maybe. “You are one remarkable woman, Maggie Rawlings,” he said, his voice gruff.
Her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink. “I’m not.”
“I think you are,” he said, then, without thinking beyond the need to touch her, he reached out and pulled her from the couch and into his arms.
Chapter 13
She gave a muffled exclamation as he tugged her to him, but lifted her mouth to his with a willingness that seemed to fill a cold, empty spot deep inside him.
The need he thought he had contained came thundering back at the touch of her mouth on his—soft and warm and inviting. It pounded through his veins thickly, urgently.
Her arms slid around his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair, and she sighed against his mouth. The soft sound of arousal was all it took to make him lose control. With a groan he forgot about all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this and deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing hers.
She met him eagerly kiss for kiss, taste for taste, and didn’t protest when he pushed her back on the couch, intent only on greater closeness. Her body welcomed him, gentled to accept him.
The heady contrast of her soft curves against his hardness was almost enough to send him over the edge. She moved her hands to his back and clasped him to her more tightly and he pressed into her, stunned by the force of his desire, by the depth of his tenderness toward her.
He trailed kisses down the soft curve of her cheek, down the long, elegant length of her neck, to the neckline of her shirt. He reached for a button, but the jarring feel of the small, hard plastic against his thumb brought reality crashing back.
With a low, heartfelt groan, Colt yanked his hand back as if he’d been stung and wrenched his mouth from hers. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her arms, to forget about the job and Damian and everything else.
But how could he possibly make love to her with so many secrets still seething between them?
Simple. He couldn’t. He had to tell her the truth, about his assignment, about his real reason for befriending her, about searching her trailer the other night in Butte.
The knowledge congealed in his stomach. He couldn’t drag this out any longer—he owed it to her to tell the truth. But damn, he didn’t want to hurt her.
Drawing on all his strength, he stiffened his spine and pulled away from her, needing distance for what he had to do. If he risked a glance at her, he knew he wouldn’t be able to go through with telling her the truth, so he stood and walked to the window, feeling old and tired and bitter.
“What’s wrong? Did I...did I do something wrong?” Her voice sounded low, smoky with need, but the anxiety in it twisted his heart. What had her husband done to her to make her think she wasn’t desirable?
He looked out at the mountains he loved so much, seeking strength there. When he turned back, he forced his voice to be calm and emotionless. “No. It’s not you. It’s me.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not the man you think I am, Doc.”
For an instant, bewilderment muddied the cinnamon of her eyes, then it faded, leaving them clear, determined. “You’re kind and generous and caring. That’s all that matters to me.”
It was. She loved him. Even though she knew they would never have more than this moment—that she would be wounded, scarred, forever altered when he moved on—she needed this. She needed something sweet and real and solid to hang on to when their roads separated. She needed to be cherished if only for a moment.
He wanted her, she knew, and although she ached for much, much more from him, it would have to be enough.
Imbued with a confidence she hadn’t felt in a long time—if ever—she rose from the couch and crossed the room to his side. The blue light from the muted television she’d forgotten all about flickered over his lean features, giving him odd hollows, unfamiliar planes and angles.
The strange light made him seem like a stranger, someone harsh, forbi
dding. She replayed his words: I’m not the man you think I am, and felt a moment’s twinge.
She shook the unsettling thought away. This was Colt, the man who showed such gentleness to her son, who had helped her to laugh again, who made her feel safe.
The man she loved.
“Kiss me again, McKendrick,” she ordered softly. She reached out and gripped the fabric of his shirt. His pulse beat strong and fast under her fingertips, and a muscle twitched in his jaw as she reached on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his.
He stood stiff and unyieldmg in her arms for just a moment then slowly, subtly, his mouth moved against hers.
Tasting victory, she pressed against him, exulting in the contact of her breasts against his broad chest, even through all the layers of cloth. His hand slid up from her hip under her shirt to the undercurve of her breasts and she held her breath, needing him to touch her more than she remembered needing anything in her life.
His fingers stopped just inches short of touching her heated skin. Abruptly he dropped his hand and she nearly wept in frustration when he stepped away from her. “Maggie. Stop. We can’t do this.”
All her life people had been telling her what she could and couldn’t do. First her mother, then Michael. She was heartily tired of it, so sick she wanted to scream.
She wanted to do this, dammit, and she wasn’t going to let him talk her out of it.
“I have to tell you—”
She bridged the distance between them and pressed a finger to his lips. “Not now. Please not now. Tell me later. After, you can tell me anything you want. But not now.”
“Maggie—”
“Just let me have this, Colt. Please.”
He wavered for just a moment, then with a low oath, he reached for her, kissing her with all the fierce passion she could ever want. With barely restrained violence, he devoured her mouth, his lips and tongue urgent, demanding.
His hands were everywhere, in her hair, on her back, grasping her bottom to yank her against him.
The Wrangler and the Runaway Mom Page 15