by Grace Walton
The next morning the sounds of lorries rumbling down the narrow street in front of her flat woke her. She squinted her eyes to look at the time on her cell phone. It was still dark outside. The knocking of the pipes in the shared bathroom down the hall told her that her neighbors were early risers. With a heavy sigh, Maggie flopped back onto the hard cot.
Her passion for working at the mission was unabated. But the reality of her new situation was not lost on her. Maggie was not a snob. She’d been raised to honor the value of all people. And she was anxious to get to know those who lived in her rickety old building. Neighbors were neighbors no matter the circumstances. It was true the violence of the boys in the street last evening and the condition of her neighborhood were unsettling.
But Gage had raised her to be careful. And Hollister had taught her how to fend off any type of aggression against her. She should be fine, she told herself with a confidence she didn’t feel. She should be just fine. If she paid attention to her surroundings and was smart about not putting herself at risk, she should be just fine. Somehow, no matter how many times she told herself this truth, she failed to completely believe it. But faith was about believing without seeing, right?
It took her less than fifteen minutes to dress for her first day at work. She had her drab dress and sensible flat shoes on. She’d ruthlessly pulled her thick mane of hair back into a tight bun. There was not a smidgen of make-up on her smooth-skinned face. She was ready. And she was sure no one would bother a woman of her stern demeanor. She was wrong.
Stepping down the four stairs that led to the bustling street, Maggie was immediately set upon. A few of the more polite working men merely doffed their caps and walked by her. Not all were so kindly.
“Give us a kiss, luv,” called one of the men loitering on the corner.
His compatriots snickered. One by one, they offered their own rowdy greetings.
“New to the lane, dearie?”
“I’d like to see what’s under that auld rag she’s wearin’.”
“Need a lift to work, ducks?”
Maggie kept her head down. She hurried by them as quickly as she could. But it wasn’t quite quick enough.
One of the rough men reached out and snagged her elbow. He hauled her around to face the rest of them. She started to use a move Hollister had taught when the men, as one, stepped back. Maggie looked up at them curiously. They all had varying degrees of horror on their dirty faces. She felt the uneasy sensation of someone or something behind her. Then she heard his voice.
“Sod off,” Hollister said with more than a little menace.
If she’d not been so surprised, she might have noticed his aristocratic British accent. But she was more than surprised. She was stunned. So she did what she always did around him, she fell into the attraction between them. That kept her from noticing the manner in which the street thugs bowed and scraped to Hollister.
Sketching awkward bows, they all began explaining at once.
“Sorry. yer worship.”
“Aye, we didn’t know she was one of yers.”
“Didn’t know you was back in town, guv’nor.”
“Nothin’ happened. She’s as bright and clean as a new tuppence, she is, Milord.”
“Sod. Off.” Hollister growled once more.
They must have known him well, or at least known of his reputation, for they all immediately scattered. Even the sounds on the busy lane hushed. People stopped what they were doing to watch. It was as if time stood still. And Maggie’s vision narrowed until her whole world was Hollister and Hollister alone.
“What… what are you doing here?” she asked when she finally was able to compose herself.
One of his arrogant eyebrows flew up. She knew why he was here and they both knew that she did. A lop-sided grin settled on his face. Maggie admired it at the same time understanding that it was empty of any real emotion.
“Really Hollister, what are you doing here? I thought this was all settled.”
“What was all settled,” he inquired as he came closer.
She spread her hands out. “This…this time I would be taking here in London.”
He shook his head slowly back and forth as the grin deepened on his lips.
Maggie frowned. “I told you I wasn’t going to let you drag me back to the ranch.”
“And I told you I wasn’t going to drag you anywhere.”
“Then why are you here? I don’t need a watchdog. I’m an adult, Hollister. I’m not that infatuated little girl who dogged your every step.”
“Oh, I know you’re a woman, Magnolia,” he said deep and low. He came within a hairsbreadth of her heaving chest. “And I’m not anyone’s watchdog.”
Maggie was finding it very hard to breathe. The spicy scent of his cologne was intoxicating. The warmth of his towering body was tempting. She couldn’t make her mind settle into rationality. She couldn’t stop loving him.
“Pay attention, Blackbird.” His voice poured over her like whiskey sauce on a steaming plum pudding. Maggie had no choice but to be held captive. “There’s no way I’ll ever let you come to harm. No way. It has nothing to do with your age. It has nothing to do with how you try so hard to disguise your femininity. It has nothing to do with your brother and our business. It is all about you, Magnolia.”
“You can’t just up and move to England. You live in Montana. Go home. I don’t need you,” she uttered the lie before she could stop herself. And she knew, she knew full well, she’d be repenting for telling such an outrageous falsehood. She did need Hollister. She’d always, always needed him.
“This is not your home,” she said again looking up at the dingy fog that settled over the tall ramshackle buildings lining the lane.
“It was, a long time ago,” he said his accent deepening.
And finally, finally the girl realized he sounded very foreign. This was not the laconic cowboy she’d known since she was fourteen. No, this man was just as dangerous but much more urbane.
“You’re British?” Her unbelieving voice cracked on the last word. It came out more accusation than question.
“I am.” He was giving nothing away.
“Wait,” she said as she cocked her head up at him. “That man, a few minutes ago, he called you Milord.”
Maggie mind was racing. And she was more than horrified at the conclusions she was making. Hollister, apparently, was not who she’d thought him to be.
“It’s a courtesy title,” he told her trying to stop the panic he saw rising in her expressive dark eyes.
“A… a courtesy title,” Maggie whispered.
“My father was an earl.”
“Your father was an earl?” She slowly blinked. It was as if the man was speaking an alien language. Maggie couldn’t process what she’d just learned. “You’re not American? You don’t work for Gage?”
“I have dual citizenship.” That was surely the truth. All those covert agencies he’d labored for, once upon a time, would have given him just about anything he’d asked for as long as he kept doing their dirty work.
“But, you and Gage…” her words trailed off.
“You know your brother and I own Montana Miracles together.”
She smiled sadly up into his piercing eyes. “I thought I knew lot of things. But apparently I don’t know much.”
Hollister didn’t like the direction of the conversation. So he set out to change it. He drew her closer still. As she settled against his body, he felt the thumping of her heart as it raced. She was afraid of him. He couldn’t stand the wave of remorse that lapped over him. Once, he’d thought to make her hate him. And maybe he’d succeeded. But he’d never wanted her fear. Maggie Ferguson had already been prey to too much fear.
No, he only wanted to keep her safe. That was it, he wanted to keep her safe. And he wanted, no needed to keep his polluted hands off her. But he never, never wanted her afraid of him.
“You know everything, Blackbird,” he uttered the low, soothing words
into the tangle of her fragrant hair.
“Do I, Hollister?” she asked still watching him like a frightened doe. “Is that even your real name?”
He tightened his arms around her. She was his captive. Yet, he was also hers. How was he to answer her bleak question? Was he to risk everything he’d worked for his entire life and tell her the truth? It would be worth it. It would be the only clean and good thing he’d done since he’d become a man.
“My surname is Hollister,” he answered.
“Lord Hollister?”
The gust of his breath stirred the loosened tendrils of her hair. “Yes, Lord Hollister.”
“Earl of what exactly?”
“Earl of bloody Hollister,” he bit out.
“Your father is dead?”
He knew he’d have to tell her. And he would. He just hadn’t been this honest with anyone in, well, forever. And it seemed strange to say who and what he was. It felt like he was naked. And he didn’t like it. It felt too vulnerable. And he knew from past experience vulnerabilities were dangerous.
“He is,” Hollister said.
“What is your name?” she asked.
His scowl was fierce. It was a good thing, at the moment, that she could not see his face. For if she could see him, she’d surely be terrified. His was the look of death and retribution.
“I just told you. It’s Hollister.”
“No that is your title and your surname. What is your given name?”
He held his breath and looked far off into the distance seeing nothing. That thousand yard stare spoke to the depth of his unease. It was the way an assassin looked right before he eased back the trigger on his weapon.
“My given name is John.”
“So you are John Hollister”
“Yes.”
The name sounded strange to him. No one but his father had ever used it. And then he only called his son, John, when he was beating him. The old man had done that with drunken and savage regularity. His sisters called him ‘J’, his colleagues called him Hollister. He’d not been styled as John in decades. The sound of that name on this woman’s tender lips almost unmanned him.
“John, why are you here?” she asked.
And since he’d embarked upon this new enterprise of truth telling, he decided to be honest with her.
“I’m here because I couldn’t stay away.”
Maggie didn’t quite know what to make of that bald statement. She refused to spin castles in the air. She knew she’d never have what she truly wanted with this man. If he knew what kind of woman she was, he’d turn away in disgust. And, she sternly reminded herself, no matter how much she wanted him, he was most likely here because he saw it as his duty.
“I’m sorry you felt like you had to come all this way to… to… honestly I don’t know why you felt compelled to follow me. It’s not like we… “
“It’s not like we what?”
Although everything within him screamed that he should guard himself. That he should not ask her probing questions that would reveal even more uncomfortable truths, he couldn’t stop himself.
Maggie took a deep breath. She would do what was right. She would speak the truth. She would honor her God. She would not hope to see a spark of something more than brotherly affection in the beautiful eyes of this tall forbidding man. She would not.
“It’s not like we mean anything to each other,” she managed to say.
Hollister felt the burning spear of those simple words all the way through his blackened soul.
“Is that what you believe?” he asked, still unable to curb his rampant tongue.
“I have to believe it, John,” she answered.
Hollister knew what he was doing led to madness. But he couldn’t stop. And for once in his life, he’d do as he pleased and not count the costs.
“I want you, Blackbird” he rasped out.
There was so much more to it than that. But at the moment he could articulate none of it. He could only feel the trembling surrender in the young woman’s body. He could only savor the sweetness of her breath. He could only feel the sensual drag of his desire and adoration for Maggie Ferguson.
His hard, gentle mouth settled upon her aching lips. She felt as if she was flying apart. The strength of his taut arms was a safe harbor. So many, many years she dreamed of this moment. She’d waited and begged the Lord to give her this closeness, this intimacy with Hollister. He was everything she’d ever wanted. He was everything she’d ever wished for. This one strong, tender man meant more to her than any other human on the planet. He was her anchor in the storm, her delicious guilty pleasure, her one and only love. But then, the incredible fulfillment of her greatest dream changed into something out of her worst nightmare.
Hollister deepened the kiss. He fell headlong into the sweet mystery of Magnolia Ferguson. No other woman had ever ignited more in him than lust. With Maggie he felt everything good and right and true. In that burning, clarifying moment every carnal experience of his life was erased. They were replaced by the reality of this woman. She became his touchstone.
It was glorious. And then it was soul shattering because on the very edges of his vanishing self-control, he realized she was fighting him. Maggie was whimpering and struggling to break free from his embrace.
“No…no, Chase, you’re hurting me. Stop, please, stop!”
Her frantic actions and balled fists told him all he needed to know.
“Hush love, you’re safe. Come back to me. You’re safe,” he crooned smoothing his hands up and down her shaking spine. “You’re safe. I’d never hurt you. You know me. I’m Hollister. I’m John Hollister. You know I’d never hurt you, Blackbird.”
The nickname seemed to snap her out of her terror. She stepped back. He allowed her to leave though he clenched his jaw to keep from drawing her back against him.
“Hollister?” she said weakly.
“You’re safe, Blackbird.”
“What… what happened?”
Maggie was horrified that she’d lost a bit of herself. It had overtaken her, once or twice before, since Chase Brown had beaten her so severely. She knew she should go and see a professional therapist to deal with the PTSD and the flashbacks. But she still couldn’t bring herself to talk about what had been done to her.
“Nothing happened,” he lied.
He watched her with the eyes of a stalking predator. He knew all about the debilitating effects of PTSD, because he suffered with it himself. The blackouts in one’s memory were the worst. But he could use her illness to help her. At least that was the falsehood he told himself.
“Nothing? Are you sure?”
“You were just telling me about somebody named Chase.”
Chapter Six
Maggie frowned. There was no way she’d be telling him anything about her awful date with Chase Brown. Maybe she didn’t remember everything that happened when she had the flashbacks. But she was sure she’d never have shared what had been done to her.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Hollister nodded. He didn’t say anything. He’d discovered over the years it was often much better to keep quiet. Most folks, or at least the nervous ones and the ones who had something to hide, seemed to hate his quiet stillness. Maybe it was his intense stare. Or the fact that he could be as still as any predatory beast. Either one of those things could be why people tended to tell him things. Things they’d be better off not revealing.
“I’m not comfortable speaking about…well, about that night,” the girl mumbled.
She looked up hopefully into his grim face. She wanted the blasted man to take the hint and not press her into revealing a whole raft of things she‘d not yet come to terms with. But he, being Hollister, did not look at all eager to follow her lead and forget the whole matter. No, in fact, he looked even more interested.
Maggie knew a good many harsh curse words. After all, she’d been raised on a ranch. And cowhands were notorious for not censoring their colorful speech. At
the moment, she’d like to use a few of those words. Couldn’t Hollister see how hard this was for her? Did he have no compassion?
A long, awkward silence fell between them. The sounds of the rowdy street did little to mitigate the disquiet that was building in Maggie. She would not tell him. She absolutely would not. And then he shrugged his wide shoulders.
“I thought that since I was willing to share some of my past, you, being my friend, would do the same. I guess I had you figured wrong.”
Gone were the brisk, clipped words of the aristocrat. They’d been replaced by the laconic western drawl she was so used to hearing from him. The familiarity of his accent along with his remarkable cowhand’s posture was all too appealing. If he’d been wearing his Stetson, she knew he’d have pushed it back with a careless thumb. He wasn’t wearing his hat, but his scuffed boots looked wildly at odds with the cobblestoned street beneath them. There was no mistaking the fact that he was a cowboy, even on a foggy, crowded London lane.
His words shamed her to her core. He had been transparent about some of his past. He had done as she’d asked and shared things that must have been private, his given name for instance. And Hollister laid no claim to being spiritual. As far as she knew, he was, at best, agnostic. Most likely he was an atheist.
How could she, who claimed to belong to Christ, not do as much? How could she not tell him? And yet, conversely, how could she tell him? Parts of what had happened; important parts were still unexamined by her. She couldn’t make herself relive the horror to fully comprehend what had been done to her.
“I can’t,” she mumbled once again.
“I understand,” he said as he nodded his head sagely. A sad, knowing smile played across his chiseled lips.
Of course, this too was a very practiced gesture. He’d used it countless times in the past. Make the mark think you were sympathetic. Make them lower their guard. Make sure they knew yours would be a compassionate ear. And it also served to plant a tiny seed of hope. It was the spark that screamed of his acceptance of more than a surface relationship. As if there was more between them than common acquaintance. Women were especially susceptible to this particular manipulation. They all wanted either a poet or a warrior. At the moment he was the wounded, misunderstood, rejected poet. But it was all for her own good, he lied to himself once more.