by Jillian Hart
"I know the feeling." Maggie's hand, so small compared to his own, squeezed his, and it was his undoing. He clamped his jaw shut, hauled her through the storm, unable to keep hold of his bitterness. Not when it came to her. She'd been hurt too—it wasn't women who had a monopoly on harming people. He thought of the Collins brothers and gritted his teeth. Anger burned. It wasn't right how she'd been mocked and tricked.
"We'll get you headed home tonight," he promised. "Back to your family."
"Not so fast," Pa called out, reaching out to take Maggie's other hand. "You might get on the eastbound train, it could make it here before nightfall with the crews already working to keep the tracks clear, but you won't get much farther."
"I won't?" Maggie's heart-shaped face crinkled with concern. "Well, I would be on the train. I'd be warm and comfortable. I'd have supper in the dining car. I'll be okay."
"No, no, I can't have that." Pa had a glimmer of mischief in his dark eyes. His mouth quirked up in the corners, full of trouble. "I won't be able to sleep a wink tonight worrying about you trapped on a snowbound train. No, you're under the McClintock men's protection now."
"I am?" She arched a brow. "I didn’t see that happen. There was no sign, no notice, no announcement made."
"It happened the minute Miles stepped in to help you." Pa grinned, looking pleased with himself. "McClintock men don't walk away from a lady in distress."
"But I'm not in distress," she pointed out practically. "I slept on the train on my trip here. I can do it again on the way back."
"But not in a storm, with a train stalled on the tracks." Pa wasn't going to give up apparently. "You would be a target for bears, mountain lions, even wolves."
"I doubt the wildlife will be able to open the car doors, Pa." Miles frowned. He saw exactly where this was going. "She'll be fine. I'll get her a first-class ticket."
But Pa didn't pay him any heed. He was determined to prove his point. "A first-class ticket doesn't mean she'll be perfectly safe. There are outlaws, robbers and kidnappers to consider."
"My sister Callie was robbed and kidnapped from a train last August." Maggie blew out a sigh. She was nothing but a swatch of white, a shadow in the worsening storm, but a note of resignation rang in her soft voice. "It was a horrifying experience for her. That's something to consider. Maybe I should stay, but I'm not sure I should go with two strange men either, even if one of them stood up for me."
"Don't worry, you'll be perfectly safe with us. Ask anyone." Pa turned around, searching the span of boardwalk. There was no one around, but that didn't stop him. "Come into the feed store with us. Ask the owners and see what they have to say about us. How about that?"
Miles squeezed his eyes shut, knowing it was the right solution. She was safest with them in this town full of bachelors, most of them rough men who worked for the railroad. But that didn't mean he liked it.
* * *
Damn. Looked like that rich bastard was taking her home. The man pulled the curtain back farther, peering out the saloon's only window. Fury beat in his gut. He hated Miles with a passion. Men like him had everything and thought they had the right to push everyone else around. Well, not this time. Resolved, he crooked his neck, keeping the pretty little miss in sight as she sashayed up the steps, smiling at old man McClintock.
She had a stunning smile. Look at the way she walked, back straight, dainty shoulders back, her neck a long, graceful column. That was all easy to tell even with her layers of winter clothing. The man bit his bottom lip, pondering his options. A single lady on her own, naive to the world. An innocent—you just had to look at her prim, wide-eyed manner to know no man had ever taken his pleasure between her thighs. He felt his crotch twitch in response—clear proof he wouldn't mind being the man to breach her virgin flesh.
A smile stretched his face, put a little beat in his heart. He wanted her. Bad. He watched her skirts sway as she swirled to a stop next to old man McClintock as he opened the door for her. Beautiful little thing with that slope of a nose, big blue eyes and blond curls. Why, she'd go for a hell of a lot of money. He had friends who owned saloons in other small towns up and down the rail line who were always looking for fresh whores. After he was done with her, of course. A woman all alone, desperate for marriage, without a man to protect her. She was easy prey. Since she hadn't taken him up on his offer, he'd have to get her away from the McClintocks first.
Down the boardwalk, she swept out of sight into one of the shops. His crotch gave another twitch. He'd go after her tonight. He'd break in quietly, into the McClintock's mansion and snatch her away. His breath caught with anticipation. Already excitement charged through his veins. He'd take her, he'd break her, and he'd love every minute of it.
* * *
Whatever reservations Maggie had spending the night in a stranger's home vanished on the ride away from town. The storm began raging with such ferocity, the trees on either side of the snowy road roared and cracked, like monsters fighting in the dark.
She'd spent most of her growing up years on the plains, where blizzards howled across the land in desolate, howling gusts. But here, in the mountains, it was different. Almost terrifying. Any minute a tree or a huge limb could come crashing down on top of them, but Winston McClintock's team of horses didn't seem troubled as they hurried along, following the dark road around a corner.
The thick trees gave way to a clearing, but the storm made it impossible to see anything. Only a glimpse of flickering light that grew larger and steadier as they neared. Maggie blinked ice and snow off her lashes at the sight of a grand log home, dark except for a large bay window glowing lemony with lamplight. The glow revealed a shadowed covered porch in front, which would be lovely come warmer weather.
"Go on in, hurry." Winston pulled down his scarf, his smile encouraging. "Don't even bother with knocking. My father likely won't hear it over the storm. Just run straight up the steps and let yourself into the house."
"Okay." So, there were three generations of McClintock men residing in the house. Since she didn't want the horses to stand too long in these frigid winds, she slipped out quickly from beneath the warm buffalo robe, gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering and plunged into the snow. The sleigh skidded away, and behind it she saw Big Jack (pulling Miles's sled). The horse (not the man) offered her a friendly nod of hello as he paraded by. Maggie caught sight of a hulking man's shadow holding the reins—Miles—but then the darkness and storm claimed him and he was gone.
That man unsettled her and she didn't know why. The arctic winds blew away her body heat, driving ice clear to her bones. She quaked so hard, she could hardly climb the snowy steps. She stumbled across the porch, grateful to have someplace safe for the night. If she'd learned anything in the feed store from the owner, the owner's wife, his five kids and his mother-in-law, it was that the McClintock men were upstanding, the best sort. And it was only for a night or two, right? Just until the train was running again. How bad could that be? She stomped snow off her boots and grabbed the doorknob.
One turn and she tumbled into the house. Warmth immediately wrapped about her. Wonderful, delicious warmth. She soaked it in and closed the door behind her, leaning against it, breathless. Think of how cold the train would be (if it reached the Pine Haven depot). Even with the stove at one end of the car going full blast, it wouldn't be as comfortable as this. Yes, it was a good decision to stay here for the night.
"Chester Collins, that had better not be you," a man's voice rang out, thundering from down the hallway. The unmistakable ratchet of a rifle echoed above the drum of footsteps. "You keep your dirty paws off my scotch—Oh!"
A tall man with thick silver hair, a short tidy silver beard and a shotgun marched into sight, standing in the light from a wall sconce. He had Miles's hazel eyes and strong facial bones—sharp, high cheekbones, powerful, angular jaw, straight, perfect nose. The old man spotted her and lowered his gun, befuddled.
"Well, now, you're not Chester Collins, are you?" He seem
ed friendly and nice, like a good man who'd lived life the right way. A man you could trust. "Where did you come from, missy?"
"Your son and grandson came to my rescue." She unwound the scarf from her face, felt the ice and snow crumble away, sifting to the floor. "I was stuck in town."
"With nowhere to stay." The tall man leaned his rifle against the wall. "Sure, Pine Haven needs a hotel or something, that's for sure, but I have to say, this is a first. Come on in, dear. Take that coat off and we'll get you warmed up in no time. I'm John McClintock, by the way. Follow me."
He had a nice, warm smile, open and friendly. She felt at ease with him instantly. He was so like her own grandfather had been, easy-going and amiable, someone who wouldn't hurt a fly if he didn't have to. She crossed the spacious foyer, trying not to gawk at the grandness of the entryway. It had a high ceiling and to her right, a wide staircase rose up in a curve to a spacious looking second floor. She glimpsed several doors to numerous rooms wherever she looked. This was a very prosperous family. She felt out of place and a little shabby in her handed down coat.
"I'm Maggie Carpenter." She followed him into the front room, where a big fire raged in an impressive-sized hearth. The chimney dominated one wall, a tall column of gray river rock. Expensive, comfortable sofas and overstuffed chairs were placed throughout the room, situated for conversation in front of the fire or perhaps reading at either the large picture window or the bay nook. The glass had gone white with snow, but when the storm was done she had no doubt there would be amazing views. The only thing missing was any sign of Christmas. There were no decorations, no garland or ribbons and no tree. That seemed a little lonely, somehow.
"I hope you like roast beef, Maggie Carpenter." John gestured for her to sit in the chair closest to the hearth. "That's what's for dinner. I'd best get back and check on the potatoes. If they overcook, I won't hear the end of it. Miles doesn't like mushy spuds."
"You're cooking?" She set her satchel on the corner of the ornate tapestry rug, shrugging off her coat.
"Sure, what's wrong with that?" The older man's smile lit up, creating distinguished and copious wrinkles around his eyes. "You've got something against a man cooking?"
"Oh no, I think there should be more of that in the world." She tilted her head to one side, smiling right back at him. "You don't sound as if you like cooking at all."
"I don't, but I'm a good sight better at it than Winston or Miles. Those are two men best kept away from a stove. In fact, there ought to be a law." John's hazel eyes twinkled—the exact shade of Miles's eyes, she realized with a start.
"Is it just the three of you here? In this big house?" She looked around and spotted a wall hook near the hearth and hung her coat there to thaw. Snow had driven so far into the wool, the garment was nearly frozen through. "You don't even have a maid? The house is awfully tidy for three men living here. Do you do the housework too?"
"No, Tildy did that, before she up and got married." John shook his head, backed up a few steps, perhaps aware of his kitchen duties. "That's the problem with hiring a woman in these parts. There are fifty bachelors for every available woman, so the housekeepers tend to get married real quick. But no fears, I've already got an advertisement placed. I won't have to be doing the cooking for much longer. Oh, hello, there, Miles. Come in and keep this pretty lady company, would you?"
"Sure, Pops, as long as you get that twinkle out of your eye." Miles's baritone dipped low with a friendly warning. His boots struck the floorboards with measured, confident blows as he approached the doorway, but didn't step inside the room. "Miss Carpenter is a guest here. Just a guest."
John muttered something, something Maggie couldn’t quite hear. Clearly, the two men had some issues and it wasn't her business. She turned to the fire, spreading her numb hands to warm them and drank in the fabulous heat, fighting to keep her emotions buried. She couldn't get the image of Chester drunk and disheveled, first mocking her and then lusting at her in the saloon out of her mind.
Revolted, an involuntary shiver raced through her. Good riddance, she thought, but a hard lesson. One that made her sad and disillusioned. She'd traveled here with such great hopes. Not to mention Chester felt like her only chance to marry, her only opportunity to be a wife and a mother.
Well, maybe it was folly to marry a perfect stranger. She stared down at her reticule, still hanging from around her wrist. She loosened the strings, felt the clutch of pain in her chest, deep in her heart. So much for dreams, she thought, pulling out Chester's letters.
My deerst Maggie,
I so wont a wif. I will treesur ya, I promiss. Delberts got a wif now, seein him happy makes me want it to.
She hung her head, overwhelmed. How could he have tricked her like that? He'd made a joke of love and her wish for it every time he wrote one of these letters. Humiliated, she tossed her reticule on the edge of the nearby chair and held the thick stack of letters in her hands. She'd built her dreams on this, words on paper.
They had been a lie. She tossed the letters, every one, into the fire. Watched the parchment curl and smoke in the heat, watched the flames catch, devouring paper and ink until there was nothing left but ashes.
"Are you warming up?" Miles strode in, changing the room with his presence. The air seemed denser, harder to breathe, the air chillier. Goosebumps spread across her arms as he stalked closer.
"Yes." She didn't like how he affected her. "You have a lovely home."
"Thanks. We built it ourselves." He sidled up, hands out to the flames, warming up too. He towered above her, a big, muscular man, at least six feet tall. "We came out here last summer. Pops had bought up a bunch of land out here, he's smart when it comes to real estate. I don't know what the locals thought of three men from New York State attempting to build a log house. They probably figured we were off our rockers."
"Maybe, but you managed it." She couldn't take her eyes off the man. Perhaps it was the way the red-orange light from the flames tossed over him, made him so handsome her pulse gave a flutter. "You had to cut down a lot of trees to make a house this big."
"We logged for six weeks solid." Humor hooked the corners of his mouth, a ghost of a smile. "It's my guess the Collins brothers made a bet on how long it would take before we got hit by a falling tree, but we survived logging without even one injury."
"That's pretty good for city men." For some reason, her gaze traveled downward, over his dark blue flannel shirt, noticing the hard, washboard muscles there. She felt a little breathy. "What do you and your family do for a living?"
"Pops is retired but still buys and sells property. He's good at it." Miles turned around to warm his back, the lamplight glowing almost blue in his thick, black hair. It fell long, past his collar, giving him an even more rugged, untamed look. "Pa retired a few years before we moved out here. He was a lawyer. I used to be one, too."
"You? An attorney?" That she couldn't see. Not one bit. Perhaps it was the rough, mountain man look of him, the granite muscles and iron strength. "I can't imagine you have many clients out here."
"No, but then I quit years ago." He shrugged like it was no big deal, water under the bridge. He arched a dark brow at her. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Just trying to picture you in a suit and tie, all solemn and somber for court." She shook her head, scattering golden blond hair. "No, I can't do it. I don't believe you."
"That's smart. Don't believe anything a man says. That's the best course." Miles winked, causing tiny, attractive crinkles around his hazel eyes. "I'm done with all that. I'm a different man now."
"What made you change?" she asked, really wanting to know. Goosebumps prickled her skin, spilling into her blood. Now she felt prickly all over and it was hard to tell if it was because of him or how cold she still felt, even in front of the fire.
"There's no need to talk about me. I'm not interesting." He shrugged, frowning, evading her question.
"Strange, because most men usually want to talk about themsel
ves non-stop." She studied him through her lashes. "You're a puzzle, Miles McClintock."
"So I've been told." He cast a sideways glance at her, knowing he was going to regret asking this. He didn't want things to get personal. She'd gotten under his skin too much already. "What do you do for a living?"
"I work in a laundry." She stared down at the tips of her worn shoes showing beneath the pretty ruffle of her red calico dress. Her gold hair cascaded forward, hiding most of her face. "At least, I did before I quit coming here. I’ve worked there since I was sixteen. Six whole years. I turned down the chance to buy the business to come here."
"That would have been a good opportunity." He wasn't sure why he was so interested in her. He didn't want to be. "You would have been working for yourself. That's always good."
"True. It would have been a smart decision if I'd wanted to turn out like my older sister." Maggie sighed, bobbing away from the fireplace and from him. Her cheeks were pink from the fire's heat. She swirled over to the chair and plunked down on it, adjusting her skirts, as pretty as a picture. "Emma is, well, she's gotten hard as the years have gone by. She's had to be. She was fifteen when our grandparents died and we were put into the orphanage."
"What about your parents?" Curious, he stalked closer, leaning in. It wasn't concern clutching in his chest, he told himself. No, it was the writer in him. He was always interested in a good story.
"They died first, then we went to live with Gramps and MeMe." Her heart-shaped face crumpled faintly, bearing the marks of an old sorrow. That sorrow lived in her eyes, so blue and poignant it drew him in.
"I'm sorry. That's a lot of loss to go through." He shrugged, thinking of his mother and grandmother. They were both gone too, and their losses were just more wounds that would never quite heal. "There was no one else to take you and your sisters in?"
"No, and there are five of us. So we're a lot to take in." Maggie folded her hands in her lap, prim and proper, as regal as a princess—a princess in patched shoes. "As soon as Emma turned sixteen, she got a full-time job. She worked hard, struggling to save every penny she could to get us out of the orphanage. She worked herself near to the bone managing two jobs, and I fear having to endure rather harsh treatment at one of those jobs. It took her most of a year to save up enough money, but she got me out. I'm the second oldest."