“Got it,” they parroted back, hopping into the wagon bed with more shrieks and laughter.
Blaze threw his hands up in the air as he looked at Maggie, smile askew. “Well, so much for the nice and quiet fishing expedition I planned.” Wagging a finger in her face, he issued a warning tinged with a smile. “I’m going to teach you how to fish, Nurse Nightingale, but if I do, I don’t want to hear any whining when you have to bait your own hook, you hear?”
Maggie stomped a boot where she stood, arms in a threatening fold despite the glint of humor in her eyes. “I do not whine, Blaze Donovan! Say that again, and you’ll be wrestling with some lightning right here as well as the south forty.”
His rich chuckle filled the horse barn with a sound she had come to love. “No, but you have been known to demand, Miss Flo, which is worse to my way of thinking.” He attached the trace to the wagon, and Maggie was grateful he’d explained all parts of the harness before their second drive to town. He finished up with a wink, then ambled over to prod her toward the horse, his hands squarely on her shoulders from behind. “You already know how I feel about pushy women.”
She teased with another stomp, adding a mock glare over her shoulder for good measure. “And I am not pushy either—”
He raised a palm. “Pardon me, Miss Particular—independent, then.” He pinched the back of her neck, causing her to scrunch her shoulders with a giggle. “Which is pert near the same thing to my way of thinking. Now, young lady, once Snowflake is harnessed up and hitched, which”—he leaned over her shoulder to give her a stern eye—“is too big of a job for a runt like you …”
She jabbed his shin with the heel of her boot like they were siblings. Only we aren’t, she quickly reminded herself.
He bellowed a fake groan, rubbing his ankle as he sidled next to the Shetland. “So, Clint volunteered to harness her up each morning and take care of the rig when you come home.” His smile compressed at the mention of the one cowhand Sheridan said matched Blaze head-to-head, be it with guns, bronc busting, or the ladies. “Most likely because he’s sweet on you, Nurse Mullaney, so I’d keep a wary eye on that one because he has a reputation.”
“Oh, you mean like you?” She fluttered her lashes, fully aware he didn’t particularly like it when she called him a Romeo. He always insisted he was a one-woman man despite his flirtatious nature with nurses, nuns, or other “respectable” women in town.
“But,” he said with tight emphasis, clearly ignoring her comment, “you are responsible for checking all your straps before getting into the carriage, so make sure every buckle is buckled and your traces are flat and untwisted, all right? Then you want to make good and sure your reins are straight from the bit, over the back, and to your seat on the carriage.”
He demonstrated and she repeated his every motion, almost letting out a squeal when he clamped hands to her waist and whirled her up into the wagon without notice. “Now, you’ll want to sit in the center of the seat when you’re alone, so go ahead and finish what I taught you, walking me through it.”
Scooting to the middle of the seat, she sat up straight, then picked up both reins and the whip. “Whip in right hand and reins in left, firmly held between index and third fingers,” she said with no little pride. “Then gentle contact with the horse’s mouth so his ears flick back to listen like this.” She gave a tiny tug, giggling when Snowflake did just that.
“Her,” he corrected.
“Her,” she repeated with a roll of her eyes. “When I’m ready to go, a gentle tap of the whip on the rear will suffice along with the verbal command to ‘step up.’ Then, with my hand light on the reins, I calmly guide her where I want her to go, and when I need to stop, a soft tug will do, with the least amount of pressure.”
“Good.” He studied her through narrowed eyes, arms in a fold. “Why?”
“Because this teaches the horse to obey a soft touch, which will help me in the long run to keep him light in the bridle instead of wrestling with me.”
“Her,” he said again, butting his hip to the rig with a crooked smile. “Now, why do I get the feeling you’ve ‘wrestled’ with more ‘hims’ than ‘hers’?”
“Because I have.” Heat dusted her cheeks while the edge of her mouth tipped up.
Chuckling, he left to rustle up more rods and reels while she chatted with the boys, finally jumping up in the wagon beside her. He made himself comfortable with hands behind his neck while he stretched out, long legs to the floorboard with ankles crossed. “So … what do you do once you get to town?”
She sucked in a deep breath, feeling a lot like she had when she took her nursing exam. “I always make sure to leave a wide space when going around corners or passing other people or wagons. To stop, a gentle tug will do it along with a ‘whoa, girl.’ Then I tie the horse up at the hitching post behind the hospital till I’m ready to go home again, making sure to give her a carrot, water, and lots of love during my lunch hour.”
The faintest of smiles shadowed his sober lips while the boys chattered like chippies in the wagon bed. “And finally, what should you never, ever do, Nurse Mullaney?”
Chin high, she gripped the reins all the more. “You never ever let go of your reins while in the rig or out until you’ve safely tied them to a hitching post.” Chewing her lip, she chanced a sideways peek to see his response, and a thrill rippled through her at his smile of approval.
“Excellent,” he said with a wink that unleashed another quiver of pleasure along with a touch of warmth to her cheeks. He tipped his hat down as if to take a rest, a sculpted jaw peppered with dark bristle the only thing she could see. “Now take me out the front gate to the main road.”
She blinked. “You mean you’re going to let me drive to the fishing hole?” she said in a near shriek that rivaled those of the boys’.
“Yep,” he said in a lazy drawl, not even bothering to look up. “Consider it your final exam, Miss Mullaney. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun.” She slid him a thin gaze. “Is there a decent road to travel?”
He nudged his hat up a hair to reveal shuttered eyes assessing with a secret smile. “Why, you scared, Flo?”
“Of course not!” She swallowed hard as she glanced down at her calico dress. “I’m just not sure I’m dressed appropriately for either fishing or bumping along a weedy field to access some remote fishing hole.”
“It’s on our land, Maggie, so I promise it’s not all that remote.” He squinted up at the sky, where the sun was edging toward the horizon. “We have a couple of hours of daylight, and I guarantee you’re going to love my favorite fishin’ hole.” His smile crooked. “Or at least the boys will. And don’t worry, darlin’, you’re dressed just fine.” He nodded toward the gate. “Now get a move on, woman,” he said as he settled back once again, hat over his face. “Those fish sure won’t catch themselves.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Oh my goodness, have you read Mark Twain’s latest—Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?” Maggie’s breathless tone told Blaze that at the moment, she’d rather focus on literature than fishing. Bubbling more than the cool, crisp mountain stream that rippled and rushed against scattered boulders, she chattered on. The sound of her voice was in beautiful harmony with birdsong, the boys’ laughter, and the gurgle of the brook as it swirled against the mossy shore.
“I absolutely loved it!” she gushed on, not even giving him a chance to answer. She literally glowed, competing with the desert sun as it made its lazy descent over a profusion of pines. Barely taking a breath, she told him everything she liked about it and everything she didn’t, finally leaning forward as if she had a secret to tell. Shooting a quick glance to where the boys were fishing downstream, she pressed a hand to her mouth, her whisper laced with mischief. “But sweet Providence, some of the language is so coarse, I was sorely tempted to wear gloves in bed while I read it and turn the pages with a bar of soap.”
He chuckled and cast his line, the mental picture making him grin. Perc
hed atop a large boulder on a blanket with boots crossed and pole limp in her hand, she sparkled as much as Blaze’s favorite fishin’ creek, glittering with the promise of adventure and fun. Which was something Maggie Mullaney always delivered, he soon discovered.
Whether discussing literature, politics, or current events in the world at large or at the hospital, she was a wealth of chatter and opinion that provided endless hours of lively debate or agreement. Somehow the woman could even make cleaning bedpans sound exciting, and Blaze was never bored when she was around.
Grinning, he recast his line. “Uncle Finn bought a copy as soon as it released earlier this year,” he said, “but I haven’t had the chance to read it yet. But I sure enjoy his style.” He slipped her an off-centered smile. “Especially his irreverence.”
“Oh, now there’s a shock!” she teased, bobbing her rod as if that would somehow hurry the fish. “I know Nevada sees him as a favorite son and all since he worked for The Territorial Enterprise, but honestly, the man does ruffle feathers with his scathing satire on traditional thought.” Reeling her line in, she tossed him a playful grin. “Not unlike someone else I know.”
“Keep that up, young lady, and you’ll be baiting your own—”
Her high-pitched squeal interrupted when she jumped up, making him wince. “Sweet jubilation, my fourth catch!” she said while she reeled her fish in, presiding over that blasted boulder as if she were Queen of the Creek. Boots straddled and rod straight in the air like a scepter, she beamed while she held the line as far away as she could, allowing plenty of distance for the fair-sized largemouth bass that wiggled on her hook. “Oh my goodness, this is fun!”
“Yeah, fun,” Blaze groused with a mock frown, but he was actually pleased as a prairie dog in a patch of petunias that Maggie was enjoying herself as much as the boys were. He liked showing her a good time, which wasn’t hard to do because the woman put so much passion into everything she did. His gaze drifted to those full, berry-colored lips, and he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of passion she’d put into—
“Don’t look now, mister, but I believe I’m winning …” Her voice took on that adorable sing-song quality whenever she bested him at a challenge, which lately was more often than he liked. Although Maggie Mullaney was one of the sweetest, kindest human beings he’d ever met, when it came to a contest, he soon discovered she bordered on diabolical. Didn’t matter if it was checkers in the parlour or pitching pennies on the porch—the girl had to win or it doused her good mood faster than a cloudburst on a campfire.
He shook his head with a wry smile. For a Christian lady who didn’t like to gamble, she sure liked to wager on whatever she could. One edge of his mouth ticked up. But not for money. Nope. The woman was obsessed with butterscotch candies from Mort’s Mercantile, and would pert do anything to win them. Just like he would for peppermint drops.
Thus, this confounded fishing tournament he’d actually expected to win.
She waved the stupid fish in his face. “My, this one has a rather large mouth, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He snatched it from her hook with a wry look. “And the fish does too.” He squatted to attach the bass to their stringer beneath the cool water. Correction: her stringer since most of the fish on it were hers. His mouth went flat. “That’s because I spend all my time baiting your blasted hooks,” he mumbled, pride pinched that she was whipping his hide when he’d been the one to teach her how to fish.
“Or maybe I’m just naturally better at it because, goodness—I surely seem to be on fire.” She fluttered those ridiculously long lashes as if fanning that blasted “fire,” clucking her tongue in a show of sympathy that was anything but. “While you can’t seem to catch a fish to save your soul.”
Eyes locked on hers, he slowly rose to his full height, delivering a shuttered look as slim as his smile. “Well now, maybe you are better, darlin’,” he said as he reached into his bait bucket for the longest, fattest worm he could find, “and probably better at baiting hooks too, so here you go.” With a flick of his wrist, he pretended to fire it at the little brat.
He was pretty sure her shriek could be heard in the next county, drawing the boys’ attention and scaring the fish away, no doubt. It bounced off the mountain peaks like a screaming banshee as she abandoned her pole to leap up and down, slapping invisible worms off of her body like her dress was on fire.
“Uh, Mags?” Bobbling the worm in his hand, he gave her a wicked smile. “The next time you malign my fishing skills, ma’am, you’ll be wearing this one and plenty more.” Retrieving her pole, he calmly baited her line with the offensive worm, eyelids lifting a hair to pin her with a pointed look. “And leave my soul out of it,” he said with faint smile.
“What soul?” A shudder traveled her body as she clutched her arms to her waist like a barrier, nose wrinkled in distaste. “Anyone who can scare the breath out of me like that has no soul. I despise worms,” she announced with another shiver, gaze as thin as the line on her rod. “Especially the human kind.”
“Ah, ah, ah, those worms have put you ahead of me in this competition, Miss Mullaney. But … not for long.” He ambled over to the wagon and exchanged his fishing pole for his sure-fire fly-fishing rod rigged with the special lure he’d made himself out of feathers.
“What are you doing?” Maggie asked, a hint of alarm in her voice when he reached for his net.
“Teaching you another lesson.” Strolling to the water’s edge, he plopped down on a flat boulder and laid his rod and net aside to yank off his boots, brow arched as he delivered a challenge. “Sportsmanship. So, I suggest you get movin’, darlin’, ’cause you are not a gracious loser, and once I start, I’ll be leaving you high and dry.”
“What do you mean I’m not a gracious loser?!” she said, casting her line into the water with a little too much force. “I’m gracious about everything.”
“No, you’re not.” He took his time to carefully roll his jeans with a wayward grin. “At least not losing. Although I will admit I’ve never seen a prettier pout than when I best you at checkers, and don’t even get me started if I finish a book before you. There’s no question that when it comes to manners and kindness, you are one of the sweetest gals I know, Maggie.
His gaze sharpened. “But let’s face it, darlin’—if we’re talking winning or losing, you’re a regular Nurse Jekyll and Miss Hyde,” he quipped, proud of himself for referencing the new Robert Louis Stevenson book they were both dying to read. “As well as a cocky winner, especially when you’re ‘on fire.’” He winked as he stood and hooked his net to his belt, finally wading into the water in his bare feet with fishing rod in hand. “But that’s okay, because I’m gonna douse you like a wet blanket, woman.”
Which wasn’t far off. Because within minutes, Blaze had several nice-sized trout to add to the stringer while Maggie worked her line as furiously as she worked her bottom lip, her mood—and her chatter—clearly taking a dive. Reeling in and recasting, she glanced at the sky. “The sun has disappeared over the tree line, so maybe we should go,” she said when he’d netted his fourth fish, the tiny crimp of worry above her nose almost making him feel bad.
But not quite.
“Oh, no you don’t.” He hooked his fourth trout on the stringer, the droop in her shoulders inflicting a wee bit of guilt, especially when he knew the best time to catch trout was in the evening. He grinned.
Right before dusk.
He rinsed his hands in the stream, then stood, tempering his smile while he wiped his palms on his pants. “Come on, Maggie, we’ve got at least thirty minutes of daylight left and we’re nose to nose, so don’t you want to know who wins? Besides,” he said with a fluid cast of his line, unable to restrain his own cocky grin, “I’m all out of peppermint drops.”
“I hate peppermint,” she said in a mope, that lush lower lip pushed into a pout that made him chuckle. Especially when he knew she didn’t. She huffed out a noisy sigh. “Almost as much as worms.”
&n
bsp; Mood obviously subdued, she focused on her line, mouth clamped as tight as her grip on the pole. Her prior chatter gave way to the soothing sounds of dusk—the faint roar of rapids upstream, the burble of the brook as it rippled over boulders and stones, the occasional squeal or splash when one of the boys caught a fish.
Somewhere a whip-poor-will sang its summer song accompanied by the boy’s distant laughter and the crooning of crickets coming alive for the night. Maggie’s silence was rare, but not uncomfortable. In fact, nothing about being with Maggie was uncomfortable. He glanced over, gaze tracing every generous curve down her body before he could stop himself, then scanning right back up to settle on the face of an angel framed by chestnut curls now tousled and free. He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry.
Well, almost nothing.
There was still the jump of his pulse whenever she smiled his way.
The slow thud of his heart whenever laughter lit in her eyes.
The way she invaded his sleep with a longing that didn’t belong to a friend.
He turned away and flicked his line with a taut hand, thinking he was long overdue for some kissin’ on Rachel. He’d spent the entire week with Maggie in the evenings, teaching her to drive the rig or ride the Shetland, horseshoes with the family, or group games in the parlour. He was usually at the Ponderosa two or three nights a week, but this week he hadn’t been even once. His fingers suddenly itched for a pool cue and the crack of ivory, where secret smiles promised far more than words.
With an absentminded back cast, he snapped the line forward, settling the fly upstream from a flash of silver. The fish took the bait—like Maggie whenever Blaze offered a challenge—and he set the hook hard, reeling the catch in. “Well, well,” he said with a wide grin as he scooped a nice-sized trout up in his net, “looks like I’m in for some peppermint candy.”
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