Closing her eyes to the memories, she continued, “I thought I was going to die. I felt a big rock on the ground next to me and I swung it at his head. All of a sudden he stopped and blood poured from his temple.”
He moved to stand in front of her, reminded once again by her small size, how fragile she was. He lifted her chin with his hand, and her eyes opened to look into his. Her skin was soft and warm, not cold anymore. In fact, his fingertips were singed by the mere contact.
“Yes, he had a huge gash on the side of his head. After you jumped in the creek, he must have passed out and fell into the water. He drowned.”
Her eyes closed once again, and he couldn’t tell what she felt from that news.
He left her in order to retrieve food from his saddle bag. “You must be starving. Eat this.”
Greedily, she ate the bread and cheese. He handed her his canteen and she drank deeply. “How did you find me?”
She’d switched topics, and he was glad. “It wasn’t easy.” Thinking about all she’d put him through, he continued, his voice heated, “Woman, I should—”
She threw his canteen at him, turned and started walking away, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Maggie, wait!” He reached out for her, grabbing onto nothing but air. She collapsed in a heap at his feet. Rushing to her, he knelt and pulled her into his arms, stroking her damp hair back from her face. Her complexion was ghostly pale and that scared him.
“Maggie! Wake up now!” He shook her a little, not much, afraid she might break like a wounded bird. As he planted kisses across her cool brow, she started to stir.
Her eyes fluttered open and recognition quickly flickered in her eyes. “What—”
“Shh, don’t talk, sweetheart.” His heart began to slow, and he finally exhaled. “You've been through enough. I've got you. You can give your fears to me.”
They sat together, he held her close and watched the sun creep higher in the sky. With it came the warmth, and he could feel it seeping into her chilled bones. As she warmed, she began to move, her body in perfect alignment with his, taunting him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wasn’t sure it was from the sun.
He’d come close to losing her. Too close. It hurt deep down, in a space cold and empty near his heart. The marks on her were hideous. Her fingers were scraped and nicked, and her neck was red and purple from the bastard’s death grasp. His hand caressed the marred skin.
Looking up at him, her head resting against his shoulder, Maggie asked, “Why?” Her voice wavered as if she was going to cry.
He understood the question and knew it had deeper meaning. There were many ‘why’s’ he had to answer for. Taking a deep breath, it was time to come clean. With himself, with her.
“I was mad.”
“You found me because you were mad?” She looked confused.
He shook his head. “No, I was mad you went to Tom for help, not me.”
“But—”
He held up his hand to stop her. “I was mad Hunt hit you and I didn’t protect you. I was mad at myself for not being there for you. And when you went to Tom, it only confirmed my failure. What kind of husband could I be if I let my wife get hurt?”
She lifted her hand to touch his cheek. Was his vulnerability that visible on his face? He held her wrist, his thumb stroking her pulse point. “Because of my foolishness, I put you in greater danger.” His hand moved to her cheek. She leaned into the curve of his palm and closed her eyes.
“What did he do to you?” He asked desperately, frantically, as if he would die if she said what was ultimately possible. He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “You can tell me...if you're ready.”
“All right,” she said quietly. “On the way home. I’d really like to go home now. With you.”
The words sounded wonderful to him. Home. She’d somehow forgiven him—even with everything that had happened to her in the past two days—and accepted him as her husband. Relief flooded him. He wanted to pull her into his arms and never let go, to kiss her and....
“We'll go to the ranch and tell Tom you’re all right, then go home.”
***
Grant spent the long ride back listening to Maggie detail what the man had done with her. He tried to remain calm, keeping his horse to a canter, but it was difficult. He knew the man was dead, but he wanted to kill him all over again. The bump on her head was not too big, and she said it didn’t hurt, however he figured it had to pain her something fierce. Her wrists were raw once again, but overall, she appeared fine. Considering she was almost killed. Twice.
He released a breath. Once finished, she fell quiet for the remainder of the ride, allowing his thoughts to shift to Maggie instead of her dead kidnapper.
She appeared fine after her brush with the cold water. Her pants, once soaking wet, were now molded to her trim legs. The motion of the horse rocked her hips in a sensuous motion against his rock-hard erection. He tried thinking of the cow branding that would be starting soon, but he found his mind veering dangerously back to Maggie’s curves.
***
They rode up to Tom's stables several hours later. Grant took Margaret’s reins from her and led the animals inside. The air was still, cool and dark. Only the daylight streaming in from the open door lit the cavernous space. It smelled of dark earth, hay and horses.
“I’m not sure where Tom is. Why don't you go inside, get cleaned up then lie down for a bit. I'll tend to the horses.”
“I am tired, but I don't think I can sleep. I'm afraid I'll just see that man's face again.” She shuddered at the vision in her head. The man, seething with anger, squeezing her throat.
He ran a knuckle down her cheek in a soft caress.
“I'll hold you when it's time to sleep. No one will harm you then, not even in your dreams.”
His tender words made her throat clog with unshed tears. Grant was an enigma. One minute gruff, the next tender.
“You want to stay busy. You must be starved, if I'm hungry. Think you can make breakfast for us while I get the horses brushed down?”
She bit her lip. She had no idea how to cook. She'd gone into her kitchen at home often to visit with Lucy, the cook, but never had any interest to learn. What would he say if he found out he had a wife with no wifely skills?
“All right, I guess,” she stammered, and turned her indecision into a smile. She didn't feel reassured and debated what was she going to make, and how was she going to somehow make it, as she walked to the house.
***
Grant brushed down the horses with vigor, working out some of the frustration with the man who'd tried to kill her. He ran through everything she'd told him, everything the bastard had done to her. Like Maggie, his wayward thoughts were not doing him any good. He felt like punching his fist through a wall in frustration and unvented anger. Trying to turn his brain away from how close she had come to death, he forced his thoughts in a more carnal direction, to the night they'd spent together in the line shack.
Sometime in the darker hours of that morning, she had worked her way from the far reaches of the bed to curl her taut body against his. In the throes of deep sleep she'd nestled into his side, her leg thrown carelessly over him. He’d tempted himself with touching her, caressing her soft skin. After what seemed like hours of indecision, he'd given in. He brushed a hand over her silky thigh, sliding smoothly up and down, discovering the shirt she’d donned had crept up in her movements. He'd tracked up her leg and all but groaned aloud. Her hip had been bare, rounding perfectly to her pert behind. The shirt offering her the decency and modesty she wanted had turned into a flimsy piece of fabric.
Beads of sweat had risen on his forehead and he willed himself to move his hand from her warm flesh. He hadn't been sure if his willpower was strong enough not to roll her onto her back. He'd wanted to plunge deep inside of her. When she'd awakened and was stunned, embarrassed, and aroused by their position, he'd given in and kissed her. Felt her passion firsthand. Saw it in her flushed ski
n. Heard it in her little gasps of pleasure.
He'd stopped himself from having her, but now, even three days later, he felt the discomfort of his actions hard and aching between his legs. Now, she was his wife, and he vowed to make her his once and for all. He'd almost lost her. He wouldn't again.
Working up a sweat, he put the animals into their stalls and headed toward the house for breakfast. Enough time had passed to bring down the evidence of his erotic thoughts. He met Tom, who was coming from the corral, on the way. They both stopped in their tracks as they saw smoke coming from the open doorway of the kitchen. They yelled, frantic for Maggie as they dashed toward the house. Had she survived attempted murder only to be killed in a house fire?
They’d gotten to the steps when she came running out of the doorway holding a pan with a dishcloth. Its contents were black and smoking. She threw the burnt object off the porch and it landed in the grass with a soft thud.
Grant ran past her into the kitchen but returned moments later, discovering only thick black smoke belching from the oven. No fire. He looked at the burned breakfast strewn across the grass. Tom started to laugh, but Grant sent him a look that squelched it immediately.
Maggie was mussed and flour-dusted. She was quite a sight, beside herself with frustration. She’d ruined breakfast and practically burned the house down.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to burn breakfast. I really didn’t.” Maggie took a step back from Grant, looked down at her pants.
“What were you doing, trying to burn the house down?” Grant shouted, running his hands through his hair.
“No, of course not,” she replied, as she tried to brush flour off the material. She sounded hurt by his admonishing, but he didn’t care.
“Can you even cook?” he asked. It was impossible to keep the frustration out of his voice. Did she have any idea how much she'd scared him?
She could only shake her head. “I’m sure you’re hungry, so I’ll try something else.”
“Oh, no you won't!” Grant said gruffly.
She shrunk back away from him and covered her hands over her face. “Please, I said I was sorry,” she pleaded. “Please don’t hit me!”
Grant froze in place. A sickness churned in his gut at the realization Maggie was desperately afraid of him.
Afraid he would hit her.
“Oh, God.” He stepped back away from her hoping some distance would help. “Maggie, look at me.” He hoped his voice sounded calmer than he felt.
He waited for her to lift her head. When she did, his eyes met hers, misty with unshed tears.
“I’m not going to hit you. Only bastards like Hunt hit women.”
“He would never hurt you, Margaret,” Tom added, his voice soft gentle.
“Yes, yes you're right,” she replied, a tear sliding down her pale cheek. She was stating it as if it was fact. Her actions made him believe it.
Hunt—and the bastard who tried to kill her—had done this to her, to make her cower away from people. He was going to kill Hunt. Badge or not.
He stepped toward her this time, held his hands out in front, palms out. “No one’s going to hurt you anymore. You’re safe.”
Maggie must have believed him. She nodded her head but didn’t retreat. Like a skittish colt, he approached her slowly. Finally, he pulled her into his arms then placed her head on his shoulder.
He'd been so blinded by the fact she might have been hurt, he hadn't realized he’d yelled at her. Now, the urge to protect her, to keep her safe was stronger than ever.
“Tom, any eggs from the hens today?” Grant asked, looking to his brother over the top of her head.
Tom nodded and left them out on the porch.
After a few minutes, Grant pulled back and looked into Maggie’s eyes. He wiped the remnants of her tears from her cheeks. “I might sound like a bear poked with a stick most of the time, but you should know I would never hurt you.”
She flushed and tried to step away. He loosened his hold and let her.
“Let's get this kitchen aired out,” he said, hoping to let the seriousness pass.
She returned to brushing her pants. Grant could tell she was trying not to cry. He tilted her head up with his fingers, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“Why didn't you tell me you couldn't cook?” The harsh tone was gone from his voice, replaced by concern.
“I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid you’d leave me again if you found out.”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” His thumb moved back and forth along her cheek.
“Yes.”
“Well, to be fair, I should probably tell you some of my faults, being your husband and all.”
A smile hinted at the corner of her mouth.
“I’m not very good at tempering my anger, and it seems my social skills need a bit of work,” he offered.
“I’ll agree with that,” Maggie said timidly.
“Maggie, I don't care if you don't know how to cook. I do care if you burn Tom's house down. I'm sorry I yelled, but when we saw the smoke, I was afraid you were hurt.”
Her mouth dropped open so he could see a straight row of white teeth tucked behind her full lower lip. She was clearly surprised by his admission. “I'm sorry I ruined breakfast. It won't happen again.”
“That’s right, because I'm hiring a cook. I’ll promise you something. No one will ever lay a hand on you again.”
She smiled, apparently believing him.
“Except for me,” he added as his thumb grazed her cheek. “And I promise you won't want me to stop once I start.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Grant kept his promise, holding her as they rested in his childhood bed, like two spoons tucked together. He did nothing more than kiss her nape, holding her safely and securely. She slept dreamlessly until he woke her to get ready for the town's Fourth of July picnic. When he left her to get ready, he'd said, “Later.” Just that one word, but it held a night full of promise.
Margaret, Grant and Tom rode into town after six, by then the festivities already in full swing. This was her first social event, the first one married to Grant. A bit nervous, she touched her mottled skin at her neck, hidden beneath the high collar. With her hair flowing down her back and tied loosely with a ribbon, she felt confident the damage was hidden.
Even though she’d met several of the townspeople already, Mr. Hodges, Mrs. Daley and Miss Lorena, it was a bit daunting, not sure what they and the others knew of her or how Grant had come to find her. If the ladies of Cranston knew she had walked the halls of Croft’s as a working girl, even if just for a few hours, they would probably steer their children around her with a wide berth. And what about the men? What if they recognized her?
Long tables had been set up and were covered with meats of all kind as well as fresh breads, potato salad and watermelon. The events were behind the large white church where Grant and Maggie were married. Its tall spire could be seen from all directions and was a beacon to those lost on the prairie.
In the building’s shadow stretched an expansive grassland as far as the eye could see. A large creek ran nearby, with aged and weathered cottonwood trees dotting the water’s edge. A warm early evening breeze rustled the green leaves. People relaxed on handmade quilts in the open grass and others found comfort in the shade.
Squeals of delight could be heard from children splashing in the cool water. Although it held no interest to her after her harrowing whitewater dip, she was pleased they were enjoying themselves. She wasn’t sure if water would ever look appealing again after her escape from the kidnapper down the cold rapids.
Meandering toward the shaded area, Grant and Margaret were stopped every few feet for congratulations and well wishes on their marriage. Since she was new to town, he made introductions while inventing a plausible love story. By the time they reached their blanket, their love-at-first-sight tale was known by everyone in town.
She sat down with To
m, their picnic dinner spread out and waiting. She tidied her skirts—one of the ready-made ones Mrs. Daley had provided—about her and sighed, smiling to herself. She reveled in a moment of peace and quiet from the throng of good tidings. The townspeople were warm and welcoming, much to her relief. Her earlier hesitations had been girlish fears. Grant had been kind and attentive, keeping her close to his side as he introduced her to her new neighbors. It was clear Grant was a pillar of the community, and she was accepted so generously because he was her husband. Basking in their reassurance, she was now even more pleased than ever to be married to Grant.
She belonged here. It was a new feeling and one she savored.
It was much cooler in the shade, so she placed her straw hat on the blanket beside her. She'd been glad to see in the mirror earlier that the sunburn on her face had faded to a golden tan, bringing out new freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Her pale, creamy complexion was a lost cause, making her sigh once again.
Grant lowered next to her on the blanket and dug into Tom's cooking with relish. “’Bout time we ate. I’m starved.”
As the sun lowered in the sky, the trio relaxed and talked with their neighbors until the dancing started.
Mothers put their weary children, worn out from an afternoon of play and food, to sleep on their blankets.
Darkness descended and the lively music started, the sounds of a fiddle and an accordion drifting across the warm breeze.
Grant stood and held out his hand to Margaret. She looked up into his eyes. Did they always have little flecks of gold? He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, even more so as the days passed. His skin had browned from spending time in the saddle, hunting for her. He’d rescued her twice now, proving a man could—would—be there for her. To help her, to protect her.
What had she been thinking all this time? Of course he wanted her, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone after her and saved her from that lunatic. He wanted her in his bed, that too was now obvious from the passionate way he’d held and kissed her in the line shack. Then there were the tender touches during their nap. His eyes sparkled and his mouth crinkled at the corners with happiness as he waited to take her hand.
The Lady and the Lawman Page 17