“I will. Thanks.”
Then he mounted up, reined his buckskin in a half circle, and headed west, setting his sights on the sprawling pastureland that linked the Lazy J to Brokenstraw.
When he had finally faded from view, Maggie started back to the house, head down, already missing him. Would it always be this way? she wondered, crossing the wet grass. Would she want him every time he looked at her, every time he kissed her? Please, she prayed, let him be feeling some of these things, too. I don’t want to be in love all by myself.
A noise from inside the house—a pan’s lid clattering to the floor perhaps—made her look up. Maggie stilled when she saw her father standing in the screened doorway. His troubled expression said he’d been there for some time.
Tom Bristol walked outside onto the small back porch, closing the door softly behind him. “Looks like the Fourth of July isn’t the only thing I missed,” he said quietly.
With her lips still moist from Ross’s kisses, Maggie ascended the painted gray steps to face her father.
“I just don’t understand why you’re so upset.” Maggie tossed her towel over a wicker porch chair, then combed her fingers through her wet hair to smooth the tangles. At least she’d had a chance to shower and change to shorts and a knit top before her father insisted on speaking to her alone. She settled on the front porch swing beside him and softened her voice. “I’m twenty-eight years old, Dad. In a few months, I’ll be twenty-nine. I know what I’m doing.”
“You make love with a man in a cave and you tell me you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“Maggie, you know how I feel about physical intimacy outside the sanctity of marriage. It’s wrong, and it makes me doubt myself as a parent that you can’t see the wrongfulness of it. Did I fail you that badly?”
Maggie’s spirits sank, not because she’d made love with Ross, but because of the disillusionment she heard in her father’s voice. Suddenly she was that little girl again—the one who always surfaced whenever her dad was around. The one who would do almost anything for his approval. “Daddy, I love him. When have you ever preached that expressing love is wrong?”
“Never. But there are more appropriate ways of expressing it until there’s a wedding ring on your finger. Your mother, God rest her soul, was the most beautiful, desirable woman I’ve ever known. But we kept our relationship chaste until we took our vows.” He paused, his face lining. “I just can’t support this, Maggie.”
Swallowing, she picked up the damp blue towel and worked it through her hands. “I’m not asking you to support it. I’m just asking you to understand.” Which was probably asking a lot, since she didn’t understand it herself. Love had happened so quickly, without any fanfare, without any warning. She was truly in love for the first time in her life...and it was the most amazing thing. She knew now that she’d never really loved Todd, her feelings for him paled dramatically compared to the warmth, and joy, and deep, abiding tenderness she felt for Ross.
“Does he love you, too?”
Maggie kept twisting the towel. “I...I don’t know.”
The reverend sank back against the swing and, with a shoe to the floor, started it moving. “I see.”
“He does care about me, Dad,” Maggie persisted. “A man who didn’t care wouldn’t have come out in the middle of a raging storm to make sure I was all right. Especially since there was no assurance he would even find me. I could have gone back to Clearcut—or I could have caught a ride into town with a passing motorist.” Although, she thought, that would’ve been an extremely remote possibility, considering that few people travelled the Clearcut road.
“He does care,” she repeated. Then an uncharacteristically mutinous streak reared its head. “And I am going to see him again.”
For a moment, her father didn’t say anything, then he nodded and met Maggie’s eyes. His wounded look nearly broke her heart. “Then I don’t think I can stay, sweetheart.”
For a moment, she couldn’t say a word. Then tears welled in her eyes and she murmured, “Blackmail? You’re making me choose?”
“No, I would never make you choose. I told you a long time ago that when temptations arise, you either have to deny them, or decide if you can live with the guilt of embracing them. If this is your decision, there’s nothing I can do about it. But you’re my only child, Maggie, and I can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt and disappoint me.”
Maggie choked out her reply. “But we have sparklers to light, and Aunt Lila and I have been planning a picnic.” She stopped. Composed herself. Moistened her lips. “Will... will you stay if I promise not to see him while you’re here?”
The swing’s chains creaked rhythmically as her father lapsed into a long, thoughtful silence, and the insect ring of cicadas punctuated the growing heat of the afternoon. From inside, twangy music from her uncle’s old radio joined the ringing and the creaking.
“You’ll have no contact at all with him?” he finally asked.
Maggie swallowed. “None at all, I promise.”
Tom drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, then sent Maggie a sad smile. “All right, honey, I’ll stay. Maybe after a few days apart, your head will clear and you’ll realize that I’m right about this.”
That night, as Maggie lay in bed thinking about their conversation, she came to realize a lot of things. The first was that this afternoon her dad had been more of a father than a reverend. He’d manipulated her, pushed her buttons, used her love for her mother and her respect for him to get what he wanted. He’d claimed his threat to leave hadn’t been blackmail, but in Maggie’s mind there was no other word for it.
Suddenly she understood why she’d dropped everything and come back to Comfort. Certainly, she’d wanted to help her uncle and aunt at a time when they needed it. But even more than that, she’d needed to put space between herself and a father who couldn’t help being controlling. She loved him dearly, but she had returned to Montana because she’d wanted the opportunity to make her own choices without fear of recrimination. And she had.
Maggie stared at the moonlight-streaked ceiling, wishing with all her heart that she was looking up at granite, not plaster... wishing that her mattress was Buck’s saddle blanket, and that Ross was here beside her, turning her limbs to silk with his kisses and his hands.
She thought back to her Uncle Moe’s saying that Ross was a good man—and her heart warmed because she believed it, too. Ross had changed in the month she’d known him, for the better. Or maybe...maybe there hadn’t been a change. Perhaps he’d been the man he was now for a long time, but had seen no reason to show that side of himself to anyone because no one expected any better from him.
Life would be so much easier right now if she had just lied when her father asked if she and Ross were lovers. But she’d never been able to do that, just as she’d never been able to back out on a promise to him.
Out of respect for her father, she would keep her distance from Ross until Tuesday; she’d given her word. But as soon as her dad was gone, she would find Ross and make him realize a few things, too. Like how much he needed her in his life.
Chapter 11
Ross dumped a scoop of grain into the feed bin in Buck’s stall, tossed the scoop aside for the moment, then slipped the leather strap of the currycomb over his hand and started it in a circular motion over the horse’s withers and shoulder.
The buckskin nosed into the bin and started eating. In the next stall, Jess’s big bay sent Ross an affronted look to protest his sleep being disturbed, then swung his head forward again and closed his eyes.
It was 11:00 p.m., and most of Montana had already retired for the night, probably relieved that the storm, with its high winds and dangerous lightning, had run its course. Ross still had too much energy to sleep. Even after a full day of turning four downed trees into thick, chunky logs, he wasn’t tired.
“Probably too much coffee, huh, boy?” he murmured to the horse.
Or maybe sleep
wouldn’t come because of the emotional high he’d been feeling ever since Moe Jackson shook his hand this morning. After three years of Moe’s loathing, a truce had been called. On the heels of Maggie’s announcement that she didn’t care what anyone else thought about their...what? friendship?...that handshake had been the proverbial icing on the cake. He couldn’t recall ever feeling more at peace and more strung out at the same time—the strung-out part being Maggie’s fault.
Moving to Buck’s right side, Ross repeated the currying process. The smell of horse mingled with the lingering dampness in the air, and the odors of hay and dust in the stall. Through the open window, a slice of moon hovered over the steep ridges above Clearcut, pulling Ross’s thoughts back to last night. Maggie’s straightforward approach to lovemaking had surprised him. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but confidence and full, earthy participation hadn’t been it.
Frowning suddenly, Ross backed up his thoughts. Lovemaking? He had never thought about sex that way before. Certainly never with Brenda or any of the other women with whom he’d slept. But his old cavalier expressions didn’t work when he thought about Maggie. She was different, special... And suddenly he felt bad for not telling her so. The physical side of sex had always been good for him. But that deeply contented feeling afterward was something new...and nice.
Maybe that’s what he should have said when they were parting at her uncle’s fence today. Although...could he admit that and not expect her to place too much importance on it?
Nodding, Ross exchanged the currycomb for a stiff grooming brush. Sure he could. It wasn’t like she’d expect him to put a ring on her finger and announce their engagement or anything, right? He’d told her that he couldn’t make any promises, and she’d said that she wasn’t asking for any.
With renewed vigor, he brushed the dirt and loose hair out of Buck’s coat. He’d give Maggie all day tomorrow with her dad, but she’d probably go back to work on Monday. He’d stop in to see her around noon at the sheriffs office and ask her to lunch at the café. She’d never turn down his aunt Ruby’s chicken and biscuits.
“Okay, fella,” Ross said to the horse as he reached for the mane comb. “Now that we’ve got that settled, let’s see what we can do about getting the knots out of your tail.”
Maggie was on the radio relaying a message when Ross walked into the sheriff’s office at 11:45 Monday morning. Something warm curled in his gut when she glanced up, saw him, and smiled all the way up to her brown eyes.
That smile disappeared a second later as her father and Trent Campion walked in behind him.
“Hello, Ross,” Reverend Bristol said cordially. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Sure is, Reverend.” Ross ignored Trent’s smug look. “I hope you’re enjoying your visit.”
“Very much. I’ve been making my rounds this morning, and seeing as many of my old congregation as time permits.” He clapped a hand on Trent’s shoulder and smiled, still speaking to Ross. “In fact, I bumped into your next state representative, here, when I was over at the church talking to Reverend Fremont.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, sir,” Trent chuckled.
Ross tried to hide his revulsion as Campion ambled farther into the room to address him. “I was just over at the parsonage to make a donation. Yesterday at services, Reverend Fremont mentioned that now that the new roof is on, we need to start thinking about replacing the worn concrete steps and patching some inside plaster. You recall him saying that, don’t you, Ross?”
Ross stared coldly. Trent knew that he didn’t remember; Ross hadn’t gone to church yesterday. Considering the small size of the congregation, Reverend Bristol knew it, too.
Maggie signed off and stood, her eyes troubled as she took in the three of them. “Hi, Dad...Ross...Trent.”
Tom Bristol walked to his daughter with open arms, and Maggie rounded her desk for his hug, still battling her obvious uneasiness. “Hi, sweetheart, how’s your day going?”
“Okay. Yours?”
“Good, good,” he said exuberantly, and released her. “You go ahead and take care of Ross, honey. We’re not in a hurry.” Bristol’s affable gaze came back to Ross. “I assume you had a police matter to discuss?”
A police matter? Ross’s confused gaze moved from Maggie to her father. Then he saw Maggie’s face redden as the reverend sent her a pleasant look which seemed to have something heavier behind it.
“No,” Ross said belatedly. “I just came by to see if Maggie would like to have lunch.”
“Maggie?” Bristol prodded, that pleasant-but-something smile still in place.
“I...I can’t,” she said to Ross. “I’m having lunch with Dad.”
Ross felt a twinge of disappointment, but he understood; they would only have one more day together, then her dad would be heading back to Colorado. He hesitated for a moment, half hoping they’d invite him to join them—but they didn’t. Which was also okay with him. Now that he thought about it, maybe it wouldn’t be such a great idea to spend that much time with Maggie’s dad. He was smiling, he was friendly... but Ross hadn’t missed the silent communication that had passed between him and his daughter. Something was up.
“Well, maybe another ti—”
“Excuse me,” Maggie said quickly as she turned to buzz Farrell’s office. “I have to let Cy know I’m leaving so he can answer the phones.”
Ross stared at her in complete bewilderment. Why was she so rattled? Then he intercepted another smug look from Trent, who remained standing companionably beside Reverend Bristol—and suddenly Ross knew what was going on. Maggie’s head had finally cleared. When there was no one else around, she welcomed him with her eyes and her body. But as soon as her father showed up, Ross was persona non grata again. Apparently, Reverend Bristol didn’t approve of him, but had a high opinion of Ben Campion’s rich, spineless son. They were all going out for lunch together.
“Fine,” Ross drawled, forcing a detached tone and adjusting his Stetson as he walked to the door. “Didn’t mean to take up your time.”
Battling a mixture of anger and indifference—he was not hurt—he stalked over to Ruby’s and took a seat at the lunch counter. The place was already filling up, already buzzing. “Chicken and biscuits, Sharon,” he said to the pretty blonde who hurried over to set a glass of ice water in front of him.
“Anything to drink?”
“Just the water, thanks.”
Right on time—and right when he didn’t need the aggravation of being reminded again—Ruby and her red high-tops squeaked up behind him. “Didn’t see you in church yesterday.”
“I know,” he answered as patiently as he could. “I was cutting up some trees. We lost a few during the storm. You didn’t run into any trouble here, did you?”
“Lost the power fer a few minutes, and the basement took on some water, but that was all. Sump pump took care of it.”
“Good. Need me to do anything for you while I’m here?”
Soft laughter rustled behind him, and Ruby scowled as Brenda Larson rose from a nearby table and carried the remains of her salad and soft drink to the counter. She slid onto the stool beside Ross. “Might be a few things you can do for me.”
Glaring over her spectacles, Ruby spoke point-blank to the flashy redhead. “I don’t need him fer nothin’ and neither do you.”
The bell above the door jangled as more patrons entered, and a spattering of “Afternoon, Reverend”s and a few “Nice to see you, Tom”s interrupted the steady clank and scrape of silverware on china. Maggie’s arrival yanked Ross’s attention away for only a moment, then he forced his focus back on the two women staring each other down.
“Ruby Cayhill, why are you being so mean to me?” Brenda pouted.
“’Cause sometimes you need it. Yer a nice girl, Brenda, but all you think about is wavin’ that caboose of yers around and makin’ the men crazy.”
“Aunt Ruby?” Ross said through a sigh.
“What?”
“Brenda’s my friend, and I’d appreciate it if you’d cut her some slack.”
“I just thought she oughtta know you got yerself a girl, and you’re through with all that old foolishness.”
Was he? Not if he read correctly the actions of the reverend and his prissy off-limits daughter. “Don’t sell foolishness short,” he answered easily, and took a swig of his water. “Everybody in town knows that’s what I’m all about.”
Ruby eyed him sharply. “Since when?”
“Since that,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
She glanced across the room—Brenda’s gaze following—and apparently spotted the table he was referring to. Ruby harrumphed Trent’s importance aside. “He ain’t nothin’ to worry about. Fact is, Tom Bristol better count his fingers afterwards if that young scalawag shakes his hand today.” She started away, then stopped abruptly to eye Ross again. “And you just concentrate on eatin’ your lunch and behavin’ yerself.”
When she was gone, Ross turned to Brenda. “Things busy over at the insurance office, Bren?”
“Busy enough.” With a teasing smile, she picked up her soft drink, her twinkling cat-eyes locking on his as she drank deeply through her straw. “So that’s why you stomped in here lookin’ so mean and nasty,” she said. “You’re all worked up over the preacher’s daughter.”
“Not even a little bit,” Ross replied, irritated and wondering what was keeping his lunch.
“No?”
“I said no, didn’t I?”
Laughing outright now, Brenda picked up her salad fork and speared a black olive. “Then you’ve got bigger problems than I thought, cowboy. The only other people at that table are men.”
The high-pitched ringing of a chain saw rent the early evening air as Maggie slowed Lila’s chestnut mare to a walk and pointed her up the rutted driveway to Ross’s log home. Still high in the cloudless blue sky, the hot sun shone down on lush foliage, gleaming natural timbers... and a man’s tanned back.
Accidental Hero Page 16