Again, a head shake was all she could manage.
“Your respect for yourself. You have a good heart, Maggie. All I ask is that when temptations arise, you ask yourself two questions: Will my actions hurt anyone else? And, can I live with my decision without guilt if I go ahead with this?”
“That’s all?” she’d whispered through her tears.
“That’s all. Now give your old dad a big hug, and try to get some sleep.”
But after all her tears and all his words, when her father left her room that night, Maggie still thought about Ross...and the frightening but bone-melting feeling of being in his arms.
The spitting sizzle of the steaks on the grill snapped Maggie out of her thoughts, and she quickly grabbed the long-handled fork and flipped them over. But before she’d laid the fork aside again, an empty feeling that was residue from her daydream came stealing back. Turning to the east, Maggie looked out at the fertile grasslands that rolled from the Lazy J all the way to Brokenstraw.
Why did it seem that, in some way, shape or form, everything in her life was tied to Ross Dalton?
Chapter 8
Lila Jackson sighed and pulled two denim jackets from their hangers in the hall closet. “Moe, I still think we should have rented a wheelchair. You’d be a lot more comfortable.”
“Lila Marie, there is no damn way I’m gonna show up for this shindig in a wheelchair. Maggie!” he bellowed. “You ready?”
Suppressing a smile, Maggie came downstairs carrying a lap quilt and her purse. Like Moe and Lila, she was dressed in jeans. But instead of the plaid shirts they wore, Maggie had chosen a white, lightweight cotton sweater with a scooped neckline. The cross and gold chain that her father had bought her years ago at Belle Crawford’s jewelry store circled her neck. Her black hair fell in long, loose waves over her shoulders.
“You look lovely, honey,” Lila said.
“Thanks. You two look nice, too.”
“Did you put them three foldin’ chairs in the back of the truck?”
“No, Uncle Worrywart, I put two of them in there. I don’t need one.” Maggie glanced teasingly at Lila before she added, “You probably won’t need one, either. I saw the volunteer firefighters setting up a huge tent earlier today, and it’s full of picnic tables and benches. You might like sitting in there better.”
With a scowl, Moe moved toward the front porch, thumping his walker over the runner on the dark hardwood and hobbling along behind. “Oh, the two of you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Plunkin’ me down in the middle of all them bingo-playin’ biddies.” He snorted. “Well, it ain’t gonna happen.” Then Maggie’s heart warmed as he turned, grinned, and winked at her. “The only biddie I want to spend time with tonight is your pretty aunt, here.”
Maggie was still smiling as she followed Moe and Lila toward town. There hadn’t been room for all three of them in the cab of the truck, with Moe’s leg still in a cast, but that was fine with Maggie. After seeing her aunt’s beaming smile at Moe’s proclamation, she was glad to give them some time alone. Moe Jackson was a tight-lipped western man through and through, and he didn’t often say endearing things. But he loved Lila, and Lila loved him. A man and woman couldn’t get much luckier than that.
It was nearly seven-thirty when they arrived at the crowded parking lot at the base of Frontier Street, and every available space was taken. Deputy Mike Halston was there, though, directing latecomers to a grassy overflow lot. After joking that Maggie should be handling his job—and Maggie telling him that this was one time she was glad he was still the deputy—Mike flagged them into the lot. They parked near a grove of trees bordering the skinny creek at the edge of town.
Maggie got out of her car, and retrieved Moe’s walker and the two folding chairs from the back of the truck. Then, together the three of them made the slow trek up restored Frontier Street, where motorized vehicles were forbidden and flags waved from the vintage 1890 storefronts.
In a town of fewer than six hundred, everyone knew everyone. For a while, they chatted with friends, sampled funnel cakes and sarsaparilla, and visited booths and crafts displays. Then, when dusk settled in and Moe tired, they found a spot midway up the street where they could park their chairs, listen to the music the first band was playing, and wait for the fireworks display.
Now, as Maggie sat on the raised wooden boardwalk beside her uncle’s chair, a bright slice of moon crowned the midnight blue sky, and faux kerosene lanterns began to glow. Up and down the street, they lit weathered clapboard buildings and quaint specialty stores, reminding Comfort of its not-so-distant history. Maggie’s attention was caught by the billowing canvas tent at the end of the bricked street. One hundred years ago, it might have housed a revivalist preacher set on bringing the Lord’s word to a town fraught with sin and corruption.
A new band took over, and they were primed to party. The tempo picked up, the music got louder and, suddenly, laughing couples were breaking away from friends and joining others on the cordoned-off “dance floor.” The band was on its third number when Maggie noticed Moe tapping his good foot.
“Having fun?”
“Sure am,” he answered. “He’s no Willie Nelson, but that young fella singin’ knows this stuff. How ’bout it, Lila?”
“Yes, he does.”
A familiar voice intruded. “Dance, Maggie? You did promise me one.”
Glancing up, Maggie met Trent Campion’s eager gaze and toothpaste-ad smile. Tonight, he wore a red, white and blue plaid shirt and white neckerchief with his jeans and boots. But as Maggie detected Ben Campion’s calculating looks at his son, she wondered if Trent had chosen his clothes, or if they’d been handpicked by his father. Was Trent’s wardrobe a reflection of honest patriotism? Or a fledgling politician’s eagerness to project the right image?
From everything Maggie had heard—and overheard—since she’d been back, Ben Campion was packaging an all-American product to sell to the people of Montana in the next election. His son was a good-looking, churchgoing, hard-riding rodeo star, and a charismatic lobbyist and supporter of the environment. That was a hard-to-beat combination for any man running against him, let alone an aging incumbent.
Smiling at Trent, and lifting her voice over her uncle’s invitation to join them, Maggie stood and made her apologies. “I’d love to dance, but we just sat down a few minutes ago. Maybe a little later?”
Her refusal didn’t seem to faze him. In fact, it was almost as though he were going through his paces, marking things off an invisible checklist—and dancing with her had been one of his assignments. “Later’s fine.” He dug into his breast pocket. “I still have some lapel pins to hand out, anyway.” Trent gave one to Moe, and Moe smiled broadly.
“Well, thank you,” he said through an enthusiastic chuckle. “I’ll put it right on.”
“You’re very welcome, sir. I did have some red, white and blue carnations for the ladies—” he shrugged and sent Lila a grin that begged her forgiveness “—but I’m afraid they went pretty fast. Sorry.”
Lila assured him that that was perfectly all right, and Trent turned again to Maggie. “I’ll be back in a little while, okay?”
“Sure.” Again, Maggie felt a twinge of sympathy for Trent. Because the real Trent—whoever he was—couldn’t be himself for a moment while there were potential constituents around.
Moe cleared his gravelly voice as he pinned the tiny American flag to his shirt. “You know, Maggie—”
“I know, Uncle Moe,” she sighed. “He’d be a great catch.”
Maggie remained standing, enjoying the performance of the line dancers as they went through their practiced “vines” and “stomps.” When the song was over, the bandleader grabbed the microphone.
“Okay, ladies,” he called. “Here’s your chance. Everybody knows that Sadie Hawkins Day falls in November. But you’d have to be loco to come to a street dance then, right?”
There were noisy shouts of agreement.
“Right. That’s why we’r
e havin’ our own Sadie Hawkins dance right now—for one song, anyway. So you ladies grab the cowboy you’ve been moonin’ over all night before some other filly nabs him. You’ve got about—” he turned to the drummer “—how long is this song, Boone?”
“Four minutes.”
“You heard him. You got four minutes to convince him you’re the gal he should watch the fireworks with, ‘cause they’re startin’ soon as we finish this pretty tune.” Then he counted down the song, and the band eased into John Michael Montgomery’s pretty country ballad “I Swear.”
As the pattern of the crowd shifted and changed, Maggie watched through a space of onlookers as brave smiling women—and a few shy ones—coaxed their chosen men onto the brick dance floor.
Suddenly the recurring loneliness of the last few days was upon her again. The music was lovely, night was falling, and her heart longed to swell with the same dreamy emotion she saw on the faces of those women.
Against her will and all good sense, Maggie thought of Ross, and knew that even on the bricks, even in cowboy boots, he would move languidly against his partner as they danced. There was a lithe, male grace about him. It was in his walk, in the way he’d brought her close that night at the hot spring and melted into her.
Suddenly Maggie stopped breathing, and chills ran the length of her body.
He was here.
Ten yards away, Ross and his partner danced into Maggie’s field of vision. For an instant, she almost thought she’d conjured him up.
The woman flattened against him was as long-legged and slim-hipped as a Barbie doll, with enormous breasts that she was currently trying to shove through Ross’s chest to his backbone. Her arms were looped high around his neck, and a wild tangle of red hair framed her face and spilled in gypsy ringlets over her shoulders.
Maggie watched his hands grip her waist, saw the tight press of their hips.
And something that was half hurt, half anger—and all jealousy—splintered through her and left her without a sane thought. Maggie tore her eyes away at the exact moment Trent reappeared, passing out more lapel pins. Impulsively, she left her aunt and uncle, and strode to his side.
“I’m ready for that dance now, if you are,” she said brightly.
If his smile was any indication, he was delighted. Trent pocketed his pins and took her hand. “I’ve been ready for weeks,” he said. In a moment, they were turning slowly to the music with the other couples on the dance floor, and Maggie was surreptitiously scanning the crowd for a long, lean cowboy with a redheaded succubus attached.
“What brought this on?” Trent asked, smiling down into her eyes. “Not that I mind.”
Maggie’s head began to clear. This was wrong. He didn’t deserve to be used like this. No man did. “Actually,” she said after a moment, “I should have said ‘yes’ before. My uncle’s getting tired, and we’ll probably leave after the fireworks. If they’re starting right after this song, I wouldn’t have had a chance to make good on my promise.” The reason she gave was true—if recently thought out.
“Then you didn’t suddenly fall head-over-heels in love with me?”
Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but he grinned and let her off the hook. “Never mind. I don’t want to hear your answer.”
Now thoroughly ashamed of herself because he was being so decent, Maggie just wanted the song to be over so that she could say good-night and leave. As for Ross...Ross was certainly free to dance with whomever he wanted. She’d made it clear to him that she wasn’t interested in continuing whatever strange kind of relationship they had, so—
So why did you come completely unglued when you saw him dancing with that woman?
Maggie closed her eyes and told herself that she didn’t know. But she did. It defied all logic, but she surely did.
He had a criminal record; she was a law enforcement officer.
He was a hell-raiser; she was a preacher’s daughter.
He’d associated with the dangerous men who’d shot at her uncle and stolen his cattle; she loved and respected Moe Jackson as much as she did her own father.
Three excellent reasons why she absolutely could not be falling in love with Ross Dalton.
But she feared that she was.
When she opened her eyes, Ross was staring straight at her—and he wasn’t happy.
Maggie made herself nod politely. Grimly, he nodded back.
It was then that she realized Ross wasn’t a willing participant in the snuggle-and-press business that was going on. He was doing everything in his power to keep the woman’s thigh from insinuating itself between his legs, moving her hips away while she laughed up into his eyes and sent messages not even a blind man could misinterpret.
When the song finally ended, and Trent walked Maggie back to her aunt and uncle, she was relieved that he didn’t stay to watch the fireworks with them. She was too shaken from seeing Ross to be much of a companion.
Thirty minutes later, when the fireworks ended, Maggie supposed they’d been impressive. She really couldn’t say for sure because her attention had been elsewhere. Whenever a spray of color lit the night sky, she’d searched the crowd for Ross, her stomach clenching as she wondered if his dance partner had eventually convinced him to take what she was offering. She’d spotted Casey, Jess, Ruby and the baby. But Ross was nowhere in sight.
Now as she, Moe and Lila walked to the overflow lot, leaving most of Comfort still partying, Ross’s absence bothered her like nothing else had these past few days—Farrell’s strange behavior included. Where was Ross? And who was he there with?
Maggie loaded the chairs and her uncle’s walker into the truck’s bed, then closed the door when Moe had settled in the passenger’s seat. “Comfy?” she asked.
“Close enough,” Moe answered.
“Good. You two lead the way.” Lila started the truck and pulled on the headlights. Maggie stepped back. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She watched for a moment while the truck rolled slowly out of the lot and onto the road. Then frowning, she pulled her keys from her jeans pocket and strolled closer to the tree-sheltered creek where her car waited. The unnatural swishing of the long grass nearby made her jerk around.
Maggie drew a startled breath as a man’s shadowy form stepped out from the trees and walked unerringly toward her. “Don’t say anything,” he murmured, tossing his Stetson on the hood of her car. “And please don’t pull away. I just need this.” In one smooth motion, Ross drew her into his arms and kissed her, and Maggie filled her hungry arms with him.
His mouth was warm and coaxing, his tongue tender and seeking. Maggie inhaled deeply, pulling the tangy smell of his aftershave straight into her belly. She stroked his back, slid her fingers into the soft, shaggy hair at his nape, buried all her reservations in his scent, his taste, his strength...until she heard the low, guttural sound of his passion in his throat.
Maggie trembled as one of his hands slid down the slope of her bottom and brought her close, making her as aware of his growing arousal as she was of her own. He was denim, she was silk, and the seductive friction along her nerve endings was too powerful a force to refuse. She’d wanted this for hours...days...weeks. She began to move against him.
Ross broke the seal of their lips and pressed his forehead to hers, his breathing hard and labored as he struggled for control. He relaxed his hold on her bottom, slid his hand up to a more respectful position at the base of her spine.
The breezy rustle of the cottonwoods managed to register, despite the roaring in Maggie’s ears and the bouncy tune the band was playing a short block away. Such an inappropriate song for this time...this place...this moment, she thought.
“I wanted it to be you tonight,” he whispered. “Not her.”
Maggie’s mind spun. This was madness: they hadn’t even spoken since the church roofing. She searched his eyes, and her voice came out a tattered whisper. “Ross, what are we doing?”
“Damned if I know,” he breathed. He hesitated for
a moment, his eyes still on hers. Then he released a reluctant sigh. “You’d better go. Your folks’ll get nervous if they don’t see your headlights behind them soon.” He kissed her again, softly this time. “Be careful driving home.” Then he slid a hand over her hair, picked up his hat, and walked back toward the lighted street and the still-celebrating crowd.
Maggie shivered in the warm night air. Her nerves were buzzing and her blood was racing through her veins like a flash flood through a dry wash. Ross was right: she had to leave soon or Lila would worry. But how could she when she was trembling so hard that keeping her car on the road would be a major feat? Drawing a shaky breath, she got in and closed the door.
She sat there for a full minute before she fumbled the key into the ignition and started away.
Two days later, as Ross flopped his saddle over a low partition in the stuffy tack room, he was still browbeating himself for that kiss in the trees. He wiped a sleeve over the perspiration dotting his upper lip. She must have thought that he was insane, sneaking up on her like the reincarnation of Errol Flynn.
What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he get her out of his system? She was only a woman, and he’d kissed plenty of them in his time. But not one of them had ever gotten to him the way Maggie did. It had to be the heat. Or his hormones. Or the barometric pressure. Hell, it had to be something, didn’t it?
They were finally going to get the rain that the weather forecasters had been promising for days. Good thing, too. The humidity was so high that everything he owned was sticking to him. When he’d come in to straighten up and spread fresh hay around a while ago, the late-afternoon sky had already darkened, and the wind had begun to pick up.
The sound of hooves outside broke Ross’s thoughts. Jess led his bay horse and Ross’s buckskin past the tack room and into the barn. “We’ve got a bad one coming,” he called through the doorway, “and it’s coming quick.”
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