by Jillian Hart
Next time he wouldn't make that mistake.
Movement flashed in front of the lamplight shining in the kitchen window. Someone was coming. Adrenaline spiked through him and he raised the revolver he held in one hand, thumbing back the hammer and aiming it at the back door—just in case. If Miles knew his secret, then it would die with him. He stood waiting, heart pounding as the lean-to door opened and a shadow slipped outside. For a brief moment, Miles was silhouetted by the light in the kitchen behind him, pulling on his gloves as he closed the door. Then all went dark.
This was the moment of truth. But Miles wasn't searching for any tracks in the snow. No. He strode straight to the barn. A few minutes later he emerged on the back of his big bay gelding, riding hard, taking the road north and away from town. He was racing off in a mad fury to the Collinses, he thought with surprised satisfaction. That meant Miles and the girl hadn't recognized him.
Excellent. He smiled, lowering his gun. He'd come back tomorrow morning and try again, only next time he wouldn’t be so impatient to get his hands on that pretty little Maggie—all soft skin and feminine delight. He patted the bottle of chloroform in his coat pocket before winding his way through the trees to where he'd left his horse.
* * *
Miles was so angry, he didn't feel the brutal sting of the snow or the pounding of the wind beating against the front of him as he rode Big Jack down the narrow lane through the forest. Snow scoured his face, the brutal wind nearly knocked him off the gelding's back three times. It was stupid to be out, and no one but the Collins brothers would do it. Anyone else had too much common sense.
Not sure what that says about me, Miles thought, as he scrubbed icy snow from his lashes, struggling to see the neighbor's shack through the dark and the gale. It ought to be around here somewhere. Blizzards were deadly, but then again so was his mood right now. It was surprising the snow didn't melt the instant it landed on him. He felt as hot as Hades, as powerful as an erupting volcano. He clenched his hands, aching to teach Chester Collins a lesson on how you treat a lady, especially one as fine as Maggie. But that would have to wait. He had to find the cabin first.
There it is. He felt the wind easing—he had to be in the wind shadow of the Collins' home. He dismounted, groped around until he found something to tie Big Jack to (a sturdy shrub).
"I won't be long," he promised his horse, who didn't complain, standing stoically with his head up and ears pricked, as if he understood the importance of the mission.
No, this wouldn’t take long, Miles thought as he stomped around the structure, kicked open the front door and burst into the little front room of the two room house.
In the glow of a single lantern, the three Collins men (including Pa Collins) looked up at him in stunned, drunken surprise. Delbert, the youngest of the group, lounged in a dilapidated chair, scratched the top of his head and belched. Lester, slumped on the floor with his head propped on a flour sack, blinked, too inebriated to form any words, although he gave it a good try. He opened his mouth, tried several different shapes and movements with his lips and tongue before giving up. He laid his head back on flour sack and sank into a drunken snooze, snoring loudly.
"What's the trouble, Miles?" Pa Collins asked as he took a pull from a nearly empty whiskey bottle. Looked like he hadn't shaved in at least a week, or combed his rat's nest of graying hair. Judging by the smell of things, he hadn't bathed in at least twice, maybe three times as long. Pa Collins slunk back tonelessly in his rocking chair.
"Where's Chester?" Miles demanded, out for blood.
"Don't know," the old man answered, tipping his head back and the bottle up. He drained it in four long pulls, the sharp ridges of his Adam's apple working beneath loose skin.
"Here I am." A man crossed the threshold. Chester was coated with snow, his muffler iced to his face. He reached up to try and pull it loose, but he didn't get that far.
"You piece of shit." Miles struck without thinking. His hand fisted of its own accord, his arm jabbed, and the power behind the punch was automatic. Fierce, but just. His gloved knuckles slammed into Chester's nose, snapping his head back with a thud against the wall. Chester stumbled, hands flying up to his nose. Blood was everywhere.
"What the hell!" Chester stared at him with confused, bloodshot eyes. "What was that for?"
"You know why." Miles ground his molars together, red hazing his vision. He didn't like being this out of control. "Next time I see you anywhere near her, I'll do more than break your nose. Stay away from her."
"From who?" Chester had the nerve to ask innocently, as if he had no clue. As if he was the epitome of innocence.
The red hazing Miles's vision turned brighter crimson and a violent wave of fury blinded him. He had to storm out of the cabin and into the wintry refuge of the storm to keep from pummeling the sorry excuse for a man half to death. What kind of man snuck in to peep at a nice lady during her bath, breaking into a house where she believed she was safe? Miles was so mad, it felt like his head would explode. He stormed over to Big Jack and untied him.
It can't be a good sign that I'm madder now than I was before. That thought troubled him as he wheeled the horse around and sent him charging through the cruel storm. As dangerous as the blizzard was, Miles had to admit his reaction to Maggie was more dangerous still. It was something to ponder.
* * *
Maggie couldn't sleep. She punched the firm feather pillow and rolled on her side on the incredibly comfortable feather mattress, and sighed. Not more than an hour had passed since Miles had left her standing in the hallway. Just an hour ago she'd realized how attracted she was to him, needing him in a way she'd never felt. Not once in her twenty-two years. Why did it have to be Miles?
He was never going to be the marrying kind. He’d never trust a woman who'd agreed to be a mail-order bride. No, that was too much like his fiancée, who'd only seen him as a way to better her lifestyle. In her mind, she'd made Chester out to be a simple but good man, much like the two men who'd come calling back in Holbrook when she was younger. Much younger.
She smiled fondly, remembering. Both had been farmers, decent and hard-working men. One had tried to come calling when she was sixteen, just out of the orphanage. No way could she have left Emma, who'd worked so hard to afford a shanty to house her. So Maggie had regretfully turned him down. A year later, another farmer approached her, a widower with two small children. She would have liked to say yes, she felt a fondness for him and his kids, but Emma had fallen ill and couldn't work for a while. There were medical bills and two more sisters still in the orphanage. She'd chosen her sisters, and she didn't regret it—would never regret it.
Never. Her heart warmed as she thought of them. They would be sound asleep in their cozy little shanty, the bunk beds in frames against the wall. Longing filled her, squeezing painfully in her chest. She missed them so much, her bones ached with it. She just wanted to go home.
At a loss, Maggie sat up. The heavy layer of blankets and quilts fell away and she shivered. Yikes, it was freezing. The storm outside railed against the house, the wind howling like a wolf, much worse than it had been before. Which meant whoever had been lurking in the house wouldn't be coming back. Not tonight. That should be some comfort, but it wasn't. Too much troubled her.
There was no way she was going to sleep now, so she groped in the dark for her quilted housecoat. Teeth chattering, she slipped into it, pulled on her knitted slippers and crept across the room. Her toe bumped into something—an ottoman. She caught herself before she tumbled over it. John and Winston had moved her into a different bedroom—they had so many to choose from in this amazing house. This room was closer to them and not so isolated. As John had said, "We want to keep a good close eye on you."
More warmth filled her. Those kindly older men made her feel less alone. They were like family, kind and proper and gentlemanly. Exactly the kind of man she'd been hoping Chester's pa would be. Look how well that turned out. She rolled her eyes. Chester wasn'
t just a drunk and disrespectful to women, but he'd broken into the house and peeped at her. Honestly, she couldn’t have been more wrong about him.
It was time to tell her sisters she would be coming, she decided as she fumbled in the dark, her fingers searching along the little table next to the chair and ottoman. She caught her shadowed reflection in the mirror, deeply glad for the dark that hid the start of fine, tell-tale lines around her eyes—proof she was aging, proof she wasn't desirable, a fading rose. While she wasn't vain, it did hurt. Very much.
She walked her fingers along the tabletop until she found her reticule. She scooped it up, felt through the fabric to make sure her little ink well and pen were in there, and headed for the door. Since sleep eluded her, she would make this time productive. She tiptoed from the room and crept down the hall, careful not to wake anyone, especially Miles.
Miles, she thought, shaking her head, he was a problem. She had to make it clear to her body that he was not an option. No way, no how. So she had better find a way to stop this hot, insistent attraction she felt for him. That man was a heartbreaker. She'd better be careful or he would break hers and not even know it. But as she crept past his closed bedroom door, heat fired in her veins. Frustrated, she hurried down the hall.
By the time she'd reached the bottom of the stairs, her pulse was back to normal. She padded quickly down the hallway, feeling her way through the house with a light touch on the walls and circled around the grandfather clock. The house felt calm in the dark, hushed and content, empty. Without one Christmas decoration anywhere, it felt impersonal too. Not that it was any of her business, but still. If she owned a grand house like this, she would fill it with warmth and beauty and cheer.
She wandered into the dark kitchen, searching for the lamp in the center of the table. Once she'd found it, she lit a match and sank into one of the chairs, watching the soft light chase back the darkness. She rummaged around in her reticule until she had everything she needed. An envelope with her name on it.
It was the letter they'd given her at the train depot, and she smiled deep inside, all the way to her soul. As she loosened the flap and pulled the single sheet of paper from the envelope, the terrible ache of missing them vanished.
Dear Maggie,
Now it's your turn to find love. Enjoy the adventure! (written in Abby's looping script).
May you find your one true love. Be happy. (Dee's block letters).
If you get into trouble, write and I'll send money (Emma's precise, tidy writing).
Love,
Your adoring sisters (Abby had written it, Emma was not that demonstrative).
Maggie blinked tears from her eyes. Oh, how she loved those sisters of hers. She traced her fingertips over the written letters, feeling the love there. One thing was for sure, distance could never diminish their bonds. She gave a little sniff, twisted the cap off her little ink bottle and picked up her pen.
Dear Abby, Dee and Emma,
Thanks for your note. It brought tears to my eyes and love to my heart when I really needed it. Chester turned out to be not what he claimed (Emma, you had that right) and so I'll be taking the train to Callie's house to spend a few days for Christmas (I don't have enough funds to make it all the way home to you). I shall see you soon, but in the meantime I'm safe and missing you all terribly.
Sending my love,
Maggie
She signed her name with a flourish when she heard a man clear his throat behind her.
Miles.
Chapter Seven
Miles couldn't believe his eyes. She was lovelier every time he looked at her. Her hair was unbraided and falling down her slender back like liquid gold, shimmering in the lamplight. Miles groaned, overwhelmed with the urge to wind his fingers through those silken strands, to hold her captive while he kissed her. And kissed her.
And kissed her until she melted beneath him.
Whoa, there. He fisted his hands and summoned up the strength to purge that image from his head. Unaware of his heated thoughts, sweet Maggie twisted around in the chair to force a smile.
"You couldn’t sleep either?" she asked, her voice scratchy, her face flushing pink.
Well, no wonder she was blushing. He'd seen her naked. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, that fantastic memory of her perfect breasts blazing into his brain. Hell, he was never going to be able to look at her without seeing them and that wasn't all. She'd been spellbinding—curving hips and slender thighs, the golden hair there, hiding her secrets.
Enough! He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, thankful for the bottle he'd swiped from Pop's liquor cabinet on his way past the den. When he opened his eyes, Maggie was on her feet, swishing toward him in a very proper quilted housecoat buttoned all the way up to her throat. Her face had turned bright pink—she was perhaps remembering her nudity too—and her sweet, heart-shaped face crinkled with genuine concern.
"What did you do to your hand?" She sounded alarmed, as if it mattered to her that he was hurt. "It's swollen and bruised. You'd better let me see it."
"I'm fine," he growled, taking a step back. Damned if he'd let her close. Not with the way his gaze kept sinking southward to the press of her bosom against her housecoat and the unmistakable sway of her unbound breasts. Hell, he was doomed if he didn't find a way to keep from thinking about that. He ground his teeth and reared back a few more steps. Act tough, that was the best way to deal with it, he thought, straightening his shoulders. "It's nothing. I just need a drink."
And a much bigger drink now, he thought, since she was standing in front of him with her big, gentle blue eyes staring up at him with feeling.
He'd had women stare up at him just like that before, as if they cared deeply, and it hadn't been real. Not one whit of it. Just pretend, that's all women did, he reminded himself, whether he really believed it or not. It made it easier to ignore the tantalizing scent of vanilla and warm woman as he marched past her and set the bottle of scotch on the table with a hard clunk. His blood thrummed hot in his veins. He felt ready to explode needing something he couldn't have (which was her). So he went in search of a glass because he couldn’t have Maggie, then he could have all the scotch he needed to forget her.
"An injury isn't nothing," she argued in her alluring, sweet-as-sin voice, the kind of voice a man liked to hear in the dark of night saying all kinds of naughty things.
He blew out a heavy, weary sigh and opened a cabinet. This is what a man got for going too long without a woman. He seized a short crystal glass—no, not big enough—and grabbed a coffee mug instead. He set it on the table, nearly bumping into Maggie, who'd closed in, unaware of the danger.
Or maybe she did know, he thought. Was there a chance she knew how he felt? Did she have a clue? He considered that as she gathered his hand in hers. The impact of her touch was like electricity telegraphing through him in one big shocking zing. His first instinct was to jerk his hand free to protect himself, but she had a surprisingly firm grip on him. Besides, he couldn't quite do it. Something inside held him back, kept him from pulling away.
"How did you get this?" She leaned in closer, her hair cascading forward now, brushing the curve of her face and tumbling over her slender shoulders. Those blond locks glinted faintly red in the light, falling over her breasts, and he swallowed hard, one big gulp.
Never, not once in his life, had he ever wanted anyone more.
He definitely needed a lot of scotch and he needed it now.
"Don't pull away." She protested as he wrestled out of her grasp. "Wait, you need to get some ice on that."
"I put ice on it, well, snow." On the ride back from the Collin's cabin, that is. Miles grabbed the bottle and twisted the cap, clenching his jaw as renewed pain shot through his injured hand. He must have hit Chester Collins harder than he'd thought. The bones in his knuckles throbbed painfully. Well, a little scotch would take care of that.
Or maybe a lot of scotch. He upended the bottle over the coffee mug and let the golden liquid pou
r.
"It's really swollen." Maggie's fingertips feathered across the back of his hand. "I can get more snow for it."
"No," he barked, because she was killing him. When she touched him like that, it was impossible not to imagine her fingers on him everywhere. He grimaced, focusing his attention on the scotch gushing into the mug. "I don't need anything."
"Stop being such a man. Honestly." She swept away from him and he didn't dare watch where she was going.
No, he was smart enough to keep his eyes firmly on the scotch level rising in the mug. That would be the only thing rising tonight, he told his body firmly, because he was not going to make the enormous and dangerous mistake of giving in to his growing desire for her. No way, no how.
When the mug was full, he set down the bottle and capped it, careful to keep his gaze from straying across the room, where her shapely bottom swayed beneath her housecoat.
Unbidden, the naked image of her in her bath slammed into his brain at full speed, there was no way to stop it. Tormented, he took a long pull of scotch, letting the alcohol burn down his throat. He drank until he felt it hit his bloodstream, grateful for the kick racing through his system. The back door opened, but he turned away, torn between stopping her from stepping outside for a bucket of snow for his hand and from the blinding need threatening to take him over.
What was it about the woman? He looked down at his mug and discovered it was empty. All that scotch and still it wasn't enough to stop the hot and achy desire. Desire for her.
"Don't go out there!" He called, the thunder of his voice echoing in the room. He could hear rustling—she must be putting on his old coat that was hanging in the lean-to. At least he'd stopped her before she'd gone out into that frigid cold. "I'm going upstairs."