Christmas Male

by Jillian Hart

  "Yes, I did notice the pantry is on the empty side," she agreed, eager to get to town. She set down her cup and reached to grab John's dirty plate, stacking it neatly on top of hers.

  "Yes, that's right," John agreed. "Maybe if Maggie has time before her train arrives, she could help you out."

  "I know what you're doing, Pops." Miles called over his shoulder as he rose from his chair and towered over the table, over her. "It's not going to work."

  "Yes, John, I'm afraid there's no way trying to match me with Miles is going to work," Maggie couldn’t help joking. "Like I said before, he's not my type."

  She went to scoot back her chair. Before she could get far, Miles was there, hand on the back of the chair, helping her.

  Oh, he smelled good. Like fresh soap and wood smoke and something pleasantly male. She breathed it in (she couldn’t help herself) and it hit her blood like aged scotch. Her veins burned, her equilibrium shattered and when she bopped out of her chair she swayed just a little. Whew. She had to grab the edge of the table for support.

  Get control of yourself, she ordered sternly, but it didn't seem to help.

  "Look at Pops, he's disappointed." Miles arched one dark brow as he moved away to fetch his plate. "He and Pa want me to find a woman and settle down. They don't seem to care what woman."

  "Well, I'd like to think quality matters." She chuckled as she gathered Winston's plate. "I like to think I'm not just any old woman."

  "No, that's not what I meant." Miles blew out a sigh, looking contrite as he added his plate to the stack. "I—"

  A loud knock on the front door interrupted him. Whatever he was going to say shone in his eyes, though—an apology and an appreciation of her. It was a soft thing, and it surprised her, considering what he'd said to her last night.

  "Who could that be?" Sounding frustrated and bothered, Miles stormed powerfully away, his gait long and predatory, his hands fisted at his sides, his brawny shoulders tensed. "It's seven o'clock in the morning."

  No one answered him as he marched away. A lock of dark hair stuck up at the top of his head, rocking with his gait. He had a cowlick, she thought, having no idea why that melted her a tad more.

  You are in trouble, she told herself as she took the stack of plates into the kitchen. She ignored the faint sound of the door opening, the male voices rising and falling at the other end of the huge house, and set the plates on the counter. She liked Miles, and her body really liked Miles. It seemed to have a mind of its own when she was around him. Worse, so did her heart.

  Yes, it was a good thing she was leaving, she thought, grabbing a wash basin and hauling it over to the big cook stove.

  "Maggie!" Miles's voice boomed through the house, carrying a definitely surly note. "It's someone for you."

  "For me?" Startled, she nearly dropped the basin. She set it on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Curious, she tapped his way, wondering who on earth would want to see her—and at this hour when most folks would be preparing to go to work.

  "You have an admirer." Miles tossed her a bitter smile from the sunny foyer. His hazel gaze shuttered, giving no sense of his true feelings about the man standing on the porch, hat in hand. Disapproval twisted Miles's mouth as he stepped back, gesturing with his hand toward the door. "Maggie, meet Rick."

  "But—" She started to protest, not understanding why he'd suddenly turned angry. Miles stepped back, glowering. She felt knotted up, tight with confusion and alone with a stranger.

  "Hello, Miss Maggie." The stranger—Rick—gave a courteous bow. "Let me introduce myself. My grandfather is Bill Burdett, he works at the train station. You met him yesterday?"

  "Yes, I remember." She warmed, instantly liking this man. He looked a few years older than she was, with Bill's kind brown eyes. She smiled. "You look like your grandfather. Without the mustache, of course."

  "And you're every bit as pretty as Grandfather said." Rick looked down bashfully at the toes of his boots. He blushed, his cheeks and nose turning pink. He was handsome in his own way with a comely face and a nicely angled jaw. "I was hoping you might do me the honor of going on a sleigh ride this afternoon."

  "Well, I—" she started speaking, but nothing else came out. She was unprepared for this. A man wanted to come courting? "Sorry, I'm leaving town today."

  "Oh, I didn't know." Rick said, looking mortified. "I thought you were staying here for a while."

  "Sorry," she said consolingly. She felt sorry for Rick standing there, with Miles glaring at him like a bear about to attack.

  "Shouldn't you be heading to work?" Miles barked out.

  "Yes, but I wanted to swing by here first," Rick explained, his blush deepening to a deep crimson. He straightened his spine, not a man to back down. "Word has gotten out that there's a new lady in town, and I didn't want to miss my chance. It's too bad you're leaving, Miss."

  "Yes, it is," Maggie answered politely. "Thank you so much for coming by. Have a good day."

  "You too, Miss Maggie." Rick smiled, and he looked very nice indeed. Kind, strong, good. Just what a man ought to be. Plus, it was nice to see someone who actually wanted to like her. "Goodbye."

  He plopped his hat on his head, crossed the porch and hopped down the steps where his horse and sled were waiting. Maggie let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. That just wasn't what she'd expected at all.

  Miles shut the door. His eyes were accusing, his mouth stern and hard with judgment. "I'm surprised you didn't go after him. He's a supervisor. He makes pretty good money."

  "That's not fair, Miles." She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, studying him—really studying him. He'd been terribly wounded. It shadowed his eyes, stole the light from him. When he fell in love, it had to have been the deep, all-the-way kind of love. Hurting for him, she reached out, her hand landing on the solid, granite span of his chest. "Not every woman judges a man by his financial worth. I certainly don't."

  "You just say you don't." Miles caught her hand in his, physically yanking it from his chest as if angry, but the bitterness digging in deep around his mouth was a sign that it wasn't anger that drove him. It was the remnants of a wound that had never healed.

  Wounds to the heart were the worst, and cut the deepest. He gripped her hand in his roughly, as if he were ready to thrust her away, but he didn't. "You're looking for a husband like every woman does. A man is just someone to pay the bills and provide for you. Admit it. You came all this way to marry a stranger because he promised you security."

  "This is an unsecure world for a woman," Maggie said evenly, refusing to let his hard words hurt her. She saw the pain crinkled in the corners of his eyes, felt it surge through her as if his blood beat in her veins, as if by holding her hand he joined them in a way she didn't understand but was essential, primal. "I make pennies in wages compared to what men earn. The only jobs available to me are childcare, housework, cooking and it pays terribly. I've worked sixty hours a week scrubbing laundry on a washboard day in and day out since I got out of the orphanage at sixteen. That's six whole years, and if my sisters weren't working demanding jobs too, then we wouldn’t be able to have the basics we need. We're lucky, but we've worked hard for it. And I have never aspired to a more comfortable lifestyle than what I've had. It's happiness I want. It's love."

  "And you think you can find that with Rick?" Miles arched a brow, pain in his eyes. Sheer, raw pain.

  Was he remembering his own heartache, she wondered as she extricated her hand from his hot, heady grip. Miniature tingles raced through her blood, her breathing hitched from his touch. Her body began to melt deep inside—stomach, pelvis region, even the inside of her bones. She stepped back when she wanted to be closer to him, to brush away his pain.

  "I don't know what I can find with anyone," she told him as softly as she could. "It might be too late for me, and you have to know I'm not interested in Rick. It was just nice of him to stop by. I wish it hadn't upset you so."

  She laid the flat o
f her hand against the hot, solid curve of his jaw. The scratchy, coarse texture of his whiskers abraded her palm—a wholly masculine feel that made her stomach cinch tight, that made her warm in places she didn't want to mention.

  No, it wasn't love she felt, she thought in stubborn denial, seeing Miles's pain. She left her hand there for just a moment, gazing into his eyes, willing some comfort into her touch. When she stepped away, the palm of her hand throbbed like a wound. What if this was love?

  Another knock on the door broke the silence. Miles reached past her to open it, revealing a young hopeful man standing there wearing a patched wool coat and an endearing smile.

  "Are you Miss Maggie?" he asked, his blue eyes going wide. "I heard you was pretty, but the rumors don't do you justice. You're about the prettiest lady I've ever seen."

  "Not another one," Miles growled out behind her, gave a huff and stormed down the hallway, leaving her alone with her next suitor.

  She'd never been so popular.

  * * *

  I'm not jealous, Miles tried to reassure himself as he sought refuge in his east wing den. The fire was already crackling, chasing the chill from the room as he drew the door closed, trying to shut out any hint of sound coming from the front of the house. He did not want to hear Maggie talking to another man wanting to court her.

  He wasn't jealous, he was irritated. Not because he cared (because he didn't), but because it reminded him of his own failed courting attempts. With teeth gritted and with every muscle in his body tensed to the point of pain, he charged across the room to his desk. Work was waiting. He'd been fleshing out ideas for a new book while he'd been finishing the last one. No time like the present to get started on it. At least that would give him something worthwhile to think about instead of wondering who would be banging on the door next, eager for a date with Maggie. The bastard.

  Miles scowled, seeing red. That was harder to explain away—he could only lie to himself so much. But admitting he was jealous would have to mean admitting that he cared, and he didn't want to. He didn't have to. He was in control of his feelings damn it, and that was the way it was going to stay. His heart would bend to his will and not the other way around.

  He pulled out his chair and dropped into it. Since his molars were aching, he tried unclenching his jaw a bit. It did no good, as his jaw went right back to clamping tight. Determined not to give one more thought to the woman, he rolled into place at his desk, uncapped his well of ink and adjusted the small stack of paper waiting for him on the desktop.

  Montana Peril, he wrote across the top of the sheet. Page One.

  Augusta Brown endured the close confinement of the stagecoach, gripping the edge of the seat with both hands. Dust rolled in through the open window like a brown cloud, obscuring the rugged Montana landscape. She hadn't come here to sightsee. She'd come to save her father's life—

  A loud rap on the den door interrupted Miles's thoughts. He pulled out of his story, blinked to find himself at his desk and the door opening before he could call come in. Only one person in this house felt he had that kind of authority.

  "Pa." He set down his pen and rolled his chair a quarter turn to get a view of his father parading in, coffeepot in hand. Pa had that harmless look to him, the one that he always used when he was trying to cover up one of his plans meant to better Miles's life.

  Miles frowned. "I'm trying to work here."

  "I know," Pa said amicably, moseying across the large sunny room, crossing the imported Turkish carpet with a smile and a calculating eye squint. "Just thought you might need more coffee with that hangover of yours. I asked Maggie to make it fresh."

  "That was thoughtful of you." He gave his cup a push. He loved his father, but that didn't mean he intended to let down his guard. He knew what his old man was up to. "Seems like the door has been busy, opening up to so many men coming calling on her."

  "Oh, I don't think she's serious about any of them." Pa easily waved the concern off as he came to a stop, hovering over the desk. He upturned the coffeepot and filled Miles' cup to the brim. "She wouldn't want to settle for men like that. They all just work for the railroad, except for Howie who works for his father's little dairy."

  Oh, yeah, he knew exactly where his father was going with this. Miles leaned back in his chair, smiling. "I don't know, Pa. Maggie was willing to settle for Chester Collins."

  "When he went on and on about what a good man he was. Now that she's met you, surely her standards have changed." Pa stepped back, coffee pot in hand, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "And look at you. It's been a long while since you've taken a scotch bottle to bed."

  "Don't remind me." It was how he'd coped with his decimated heart after Bethleigh had made a fool of him, breaking him to the core, rendering him shattered. And before that when Sylvia had told him she was carrying his child—oops, not his child after all but the wealthy senator's son who'd reconsidered and wanted to marry her. Miles never wanted another woman to have that kind of power over him again. "Last night was nothing to worry about. I won't do it again."

  "I should hope not." Pa's mouth twitched upward as he backed a few steps toward the door. "A man your age ought to be taking a woman to bed, not a bottle of scotch. Honestly. I raised you better than that, son."

  "Funny. I prefer the scotch." Not really, he thought, but his father didn't need to know that.

  "I don't believe you for a minute." Winston winked, turning around, crossing the room. "You're here instead of hitching up Big Jack to take Maggie to town."

  "I will, when she's done with her suitors and is ready to go," he ground in a voice that made it unquestionably clear he wasn't happy with his father's topic of conversation. Miles winced, wishing his head didn't feel ready to explode. The good news was that he only had to endure being with her for just a little bit more. "Come tell me when she's ready to leave."

  "All right. I'm just saying this is your last chance to ask her to stay." Pa turned at the door, appraising him. "She could spend Christmas here."

  "We don't celebrate Christmas here," he pointed out, hoping his father didn't argue with that. "We don't need Christmas, and contrary to your opinion, I don't need a wife."

  "All right, just checking." Pa held up his hands, innocent, and ambled out into the hall. "I'll go check on Maggie, see when she wants to go."

  "I appreciate that." He glared down at his work, at the character who'd taken on Maggie's gold hair shining with red highlights when the light was right, her cornflower blue eyes and her wholesome beauty.

  Yes, taking her to town would be the best thing that could happen to him. He grabbed up his pen, setting it to the paper. As for being cooped up next to her in the sleigh on the ride to town, he wasn't looking forward to that, being alone with her beauty and sweetness and allure, but he'd survive. He was a disciplined man, his will iron-strong. But was it strong enough?

  He didn't know. He might feel sad that she was leaving, and that was a weakness he wasn't proud of. Miles sighed, grabbed hold of his coffee cup and stared at the page in front of him.

  The truth was, he didn't want her to go.

  Chapter Nine

  Maggie recognized Miles's glowering mood the instant she stepped foot through the lean-to door from the kitchen into the bitter cold morning. He'd hitched up Big Jack to Winston's sleek sleigh and was waiting for her beneath a pile of soft, warm-looking buffalo robes. When he caught sight of her, his jaw tensed in incremental bits as she scampered over the few feet of hard-packed snow toward him. Muscles bunched one by one along the length of that chiseled jawline.

  Poor Miles. Sympathy pinched in her chest, drawing up all sorts of warm feelings. She hardly noticed the biting cold or how her breath froze into instant white clouds as she approached the sleigh. He seemed to be dominating her senses, and she felt sorry for him. He really was having a hard time.

  "I appreciate your driving me," she said as he snapped up the edge of the buffalo robes, allowing her to slip beneath them and onto the seat. "I
know it wasn't your preference."

  "My preference doesn't seem to matter, even in my own house. Besides, it's true, I did drink up Pops' scotch. The least I can do is replace it." His voice held a bit of a growl, but his hazel eyes held something else. Something she didn't dare try to name, but it was sincere and real and it made her wonder if she wasn't the only one fighting feelings she didn't want.

  "I would have driven myself, but I've never driven a horse before." It was warm beneath the buffalo robes, thanks to the warming iron at her feet. Miles had apparently gone to the trouble to make the trip more bearable. She'd been upstairs packing, so she wouldn't have been able to hear him in the kitchen. It was such a big house.

  "You grew up in the country," he said, snapping the reins. Big Jack took off, eager to get moving. "How can you not know how to drive?"

  "We couldn't afford a horse." As they left the shadow of the grand house—an estate really, with dozens and dozens of windows glinting in the mid-morning sunlight—she took in one last view. She wanted to be able to tell her sisters everything about the impressive house where she'd stayed. There was a large stable tucked up near the tree line, penned in by tidy wooden fencing. A handful of stunning horses playing in the snow. It made a gorgeous picture.

  "We walk everywhere we need to go," she told him. "Which isn't too bad as Holbrook is a very small town. The nearest larger town is a two hour drive one way. That's where I had to go to catch the train. It's not often we have to make that trip, but when we do Emma rents a horse and wagon from a local farmer."

  "So your sister can drive, but not you?" He didn't look at her as he guided the horse around a large wave of a snowdrift taking up one part of the driveway.

  "Oh, that's Emma. She has to be in charge of everyone and everything. We used to really need that when we were young." Her breath caught in her chest. At least she'd be with them soon. "Emma was there for us when our parents died and we moved in with our grandparents in Nebraska. And again helping us to adjust when we went to live in the orphanage."