Mountain Wild (Harlequin Historical Series)

by Stacey Kayne

  The disdain in her voice sprang a new crop of questions in Garret’s mind. Not that she’d answer a single one. His gaze moved over the fabric that had held her attention over the past couple of hours.

  “I suppose I’m interrupting your production.”

  “Yes, in fact. Because of you I’ve missed out on nearly a week of work.”

  “So thread me a needle.”

  Her blue eyes rounded. “You’re not serious.”

  He seriously enjoyed her reaction. He liked those big blue eyes looking up at him. “Why not? You labored over me. I’m not above doing needlework.”

  “Quit it,” she said, a smile breaking through her scowl.

  “I’m serious. I need something to keep my mind busy.”

  He stood and eased onto the mattress beside her, trapping her between her sewing basket and the headboard. Expecting her to take flight or reach for the knife at her hip, she surprised him by resuming her stitching. Though her hands were none too steady. He didn’t have to wonder why she preferred life without her man—he’d hurt her. Of that he had no doubt. Anger tensed his muscles at the thought of any man raising a hand against her tender body.

  “Let me help you, Grace.”

  “You’ll waste my thread,” she said, a quiver in her voice.

  “You think I’m just a clumsy cowpoke, don’t you?” he accused.

  Her heart skittering from the sudden closeness, Maggie risked a glance at the man sitting beside her. Garret Daines was far from clumsy—and neither was she, unless he was nearby. She’d never known anyone like him. Good-natured, hardworking, and charming as sin. “I don’t want—”

  “Have I told you that I have eight nieces?” he asked, delivering that bit of information as though it pained him. “They’ve taken great pride in teaching their uncle the finer points of tea parties and needlepoint. I’ll have you know I can knit a fine scarf—while under proper guidance.”

  She could just picture him surrounded by eight little Morgan girls, the image widening her smile.

  “I’ve never stitched flowers,” he said, leaning over, his shoulder brushing hers as he looked at her design. “But I’m not afraid to try somethin’ new.”

  Maggie swallowed hard. She doubted Garret feared much of anything. And yet he wasn’t a hard man. She wasn’t afraid of him, that admission alone was enough to terrify her. She knew more about Garret than she wanted to admit to herself.

  “I want to help you out,” he said. “It’s the least I can do when you saved my life.”

  After the way his big hands had moved so gently over her body, she didn’t doubt those callused fingers could likely handle a needle.

  “Okay.”

  Stunned by her quick acceptance, Garret watched her scamper off the bed and over to her trunk.

  Well, hell.

  He likely couldn’t stitch anything resembling a flower—he’d just enjoyed sitting by her. She shocked him again by reclaiming her spot on the bed, her eyes bright with a smile. Lingering on her blue eyes conjured images he had no right remembering.

  He watched as she placed a small hoop beneath a fresh white dish towel and clamped another hoop over the top of the fabric, trapping the towel between the two, the circular portion of cloth stretched tight and ready for stitching.

  “Any particular design you’d like to sew?”

  The clear amusement in her sweet expression made him smile. She didn’t truly expect him to sew a decent flower any more than he did. But, hell, to keep her smiling, he’d give it a shot.

  “You choose.”

  She plucked a pencil from her sewing basket and began drawing at the center of the tight circle.

  “You don’t draw your designs.”

  “I do if I’m trying something new or if it’s a large pattern. There you go,” she said, passing his project over.

  Garret held up the circle and frowned. The faint crisscrossed lines at the center didn’t resemble any flower he’d ever seen.

  “What is it?”

  Grace looked up from her basket, a needle protruding from her lips, and his smile was back.

  “You’re holding it upside down. It’s your brand.”

  He turned the hoop and gooseflesh prickled across his skin. Sure enough, the lines across the circle created an off-kilter L leaning over a slanted J. His gaze strayed back to the woman busily pulling brown thread through a needle.

  How the hell did she know his brand? Had her man been a rancher? Knowing she wouldn’t answer his questions, he held his tongue—and nearly swallowed it as she scooted up beside him, taking the cloth from his hands.

  “You want to start at the bottom,” she said, placing his hand on the hoop as she drove the needle up from underneath. “Up, then back,” she said.

  Garret tried not to notice the gentle brush of her breast against his arm as he breathed in her intoxicating floral scent.

  “Each stitch should be the same size. See?” She smiled and held the needle out to him.

  He didn’t see much beyond the sparkling blue eyes of a mighty sweet woman. “Thank you, Grace.”

  She stiffened, as though just realizing she was practically on his lap. “Just…follow the lines,” she said, sliding back against the headboard. She shifted her basket into the space between them.

  He studied the few stitches she’d done for him. He’d already violated her, and here she was starting to trust him and all he could think about during her lesson were the perfect breasts he’d had no right touching, or kissing.

  Oh hell.

  Forcing himself to focus on the cloth, he gauged the length of stitches she’d started and he poked the needle through to the backside. Trying to get the tip to come back up at the base of the stitch took a dozen attempts. Beside him, Grace’s needle moved in and out in a steady rhythm.

  “Do you really think anyone will want to buy a dish towel with my brand on it?”

  “Well, no. But I’m hoping it will keep you quiet for a while.”

  Laughter leaped from his chest and echoed off the surrounding walls. How a woman could speak her mind with such quick honesty yet manage to hold so many secrets truly amazed him.

  His finger knocked the needle through before lining up the next stitch. “Damn.”

  “Problem?”

  “How do I fix this?” he asked, turning the cloth to show her the thread hanging a half-inch from its target.

  She plucked the towel from his hand and expertly guided the needle back through, freeing the thread. “There.”

  “Once again, my saving Grace.”

  He enjoyed the soft pink in her cheeks as she went back to her own stitching. He managed a few more passes, pleased to find he’d nearly completed the first leg in the L. He didn’t mind the easy silence between them, but his curiosity was like a coal burning in his mind.

  “Why haven’t we met before?”

  “We likely have, and you just didn’t pay me any notice.”

  “Not possible,” he said. “I would have noticed you, Grace.”

  She stiffened, her hand pausing midstitch. “Well, you didn’t.”

  “We’ve met?” he asked, his shock apparent.

  “I’ve seen you, is all. Why don’t you have a wife?”

  The question stunned him as much as her admission. It was the first question she’d asked about him, and likely the only question he’d rather not answer.

  “I did for a short time.”

  She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  She obviously misunderstood, and he was tempted to let it go at that. Wasn’t easy for a man to admit his wife had left him after the worst eight months of his life—and likely the worst eight months of hers.

  “She’s not dead. She’s just…gone.”

  Slender black eyebrows pinched inward. “Gone where?”

  “Back to Texas.”

  “She left you?”

  Her shocked expression nearly made up for the pinch in his pride. “She did.”

/>   “Were you…mean to her?”

  “Do I strike you as man who’d mistreat his wife?”

  “Well…no. But people aren’t always what they seem.”

  He couldn’t argue that. Amanda Billings certainly seemed to embody everything he’d imagined a perfect wife would be, and not the sort of woman a man bedded before he married. Problem was, outside of the bedroom they hadn’t had a whole lot to say to one another. Didn’t help that her lady attendant had run off with one of his ranch hands a few weeks after they’d married, leaving her on a ranch full of men with only her cook and housekeeper for company during the day. Good God, but he didn’t know a woman could shed so many tears. He’d flat run out of ways to console her.

  “Maybe it was cruel to expect Amanda to find happiness with me on a ranch in the middle of Wyoming wilderness. I sure couldn’t keep her happy and she hated living in Wyoming.”

  “Then why did she marry a Wyoming rancher?”

  “Same reason I married a Southern belle from Texas. We didn’t know any better.” His experience with fancy women likely matched Amanda’s experience with dusty cowpokes. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his sister cry—one of those times being the day he had announced his engagement. Her disapproval of his marriage had been like salt on a festering wound. He still hadn’t told her about the divorce—he hadn’t told anyone.

  “Did you like being married to a Southern belle from Texas?”

  “I didn’t mind it, but we weren’t well suited. She’d been raised to shine in polite society, schooled in proper etiquette and polite conversation. Her skills were wasted on me and I couldn’t give her the amount of attention she needed. When most of my stock was dead or dying I was too busy to think of much else—and Amanda was too busy packing her bags to care.”

  “Eighty-seven was a hard winter and an even harder spring.”

  It had been sheer hell, which Amanda hadn’t wanted any part of. He couldn’t say he blamed her.

  “Seems like that would be a time when having a wife around would be useful,” Grace said, turning back to her task.

  “I’ll be honest with you. When she told me she was going home, I was mostly relieved.” It had been a wonder to him that he could share his bed with a woman and feel so utterly alone. “It’s a hard thing to be responsible for a woman’s unhappiness.”

  “I don’t know that most men worry about their wives’ happiness.”

  Considering Grace’s situation, he could understand why she’d think as much. “Those men must not have had sisters.”

  Maggie glanced up, ready to protest that comment. She knew for certain having a sister didn’t stoke a man’s compassion toward women. The sheer misery in Garret’s expression stalled her words. Sister or not, he’d been hurt by his wife’s displeasure.

  “Your wife wasn’t the only one spooked by such a harsh winter,” she said. “Plenty of folks packed up and moved on after the thaw. Maybe she’ll come back now that grasses have returned.”

  His slanted grin surprised her, and had her hoping his Southern belle of a wife had gotten lost in Texas.

  “You want to know a secret?” he asked, leaning toward her.

  “No.” Just sitting beside him was far more personal than anything she’d experienced in a good long while—other than the kisses he hadn’t meant to give her.

  The reminder stung.

  “I suppose it’s not really a secret,” he said. “I figure most folks know she’s not coming back. But the truth of it is, Amanda and I were divorced last spring.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We were legally unmarried.”

  Unmarried? What woman in her right man would want to unmarry Garret? The man was capable, clean, dreadfully good-looking and his kisses weren’t something a woman would dread.

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing,” she admitted.

  “Me, neither. Guess there isn’t anything left in this world a lawyer can’t undo. I don’t suppose you want to tell me what happened to your husband?”

  “You’d be correct on that account.” She couldn’t rightly call Ira her husband, but she knew most folks assumed he had been. Not that she minded. Ira had been a good man. On the rare days he had bathed, she wouldn’t have minded if he’d been her man. She’d even asked him on more than one occasion. Close to seventeen years of age, she’d started noticing the babies with their mothers when they’d traded with a local tribe. Over the next few years she’d been consumed by a powerful longing for a child, a little life all of her own to care for and keep her company.

  Ira had been furious the first night she’d asked him to give her a baby. She couldn’t see why he shouldn’t give her one, unless he was too old. That question had set off his temper right quick. He’d stormed off swearing a blue streak and shouting that he wouldn’t be back.

  But he’d come back weeks later with piles of hides for tanning and supplies he knew she’d need. She hadn’t given up on her request, but his answer was always the same, that she didn’t know what she asked of him, and there should be something more than friendship between a woman and a man to be making babies. The moment he started suggesting she search out a brave or a white man she stopped listening. Wasn’t anyone she’d trust to be near her and he knew it. She’d been mad that he’d deny her the one thing she’d truly wanted. Not until his death did she know he shared her disappointment.

  She’d skinned out the bear that mauled him. She’d heard the skirmish. By the time she’d reached Ira he’d killed the bear and was covered in rivers of red. She’d never seen so much blood. She’d been frantic to stop the bleeding and all the man could talk about was her. He’d likely spoken more words to her in those horrifying moments than in the seven years they’d been together. But it was his last words that haunted her.

  I’m sorry, Maggie. You’d have been a good mother.

  It was the only time she’d known him to be wrong. Over the years she’d realized her yearning for a baby had been the selfish dreams of a child. It wasn’t that Ira hadn’t cared for her—she knew he had. He hadn’t wanted to tell her the plain truth; no child deserved to have Mad Mag as a mother.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Garret’s voice startled her from her thoughts.

  “No matter who he is, I won’t think any less of you, Grace.”

  Yes, he would. How could he not? It was the nature of folks to shun what wasn’t familiar to them.

  “Do you think he’s coming back?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Then you’ve got no reason to stay up here. Crafty as you are with a needle, you could find work in any town. I bet you’d be a real star at one of them lady sewing parties.”

  There wasn’t a lady within a hundred miles who’d sew with the likes of her.

  “You can’t be much over twenty. Hardly an old maid.”

  Was he blind? So she’d brushed her hair and put on a flowery shirt…she was still a wild woman in britches and well past the age of courting. There wasn’t a town that would accept her, old maid or otherwise. Which suited her fine. “I’m well beyond twenty and have been choosing my own way since long before you were dressing yourself.”

  His expression darkened. “That’s rot. You’re young enough that you could remarry and have a family.”

  He didn’t know the first thing about her or her failures as a woman. Her daddy had insisted she learn the delicate arts of a lady, but she’d since learned that it didn’t take a delicate lady to stitch pretty flowers. Her life before Ira had been a lie. He’d taught her to depend on no one but herself. She didn’t sit around and bellyache over her lot in life. She made an honest living. She worked hard.

  “I think you’d find—”

  “I think you should shut the hell up!” Her voice shouted back at her from the stone ceiling and startled Boots from his sleep. “What makes you think I give two wits about what you or anyone else thinks of me?”

  The caut
ion in his expression made her wish she could suck her defensive words back into her mouth. “You’re right. I was prying. I apologize.”

  Heat stung her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have sworn at you.” He couldn’t know how his foolish suggestions had hurt her. There wasn’t a man who’d want her and she’d long since let go of her yearning for a child.

  “You don’t have to tiptoe around me, Grace. Wasn’t my place to make assumptions about your life. If my yammering is wearing on you, you’re more than welcome to tell me to shut the hell up.”

  Good Lord, but he was sweet. Maggie couldn’t help but smile. “You don’t yammer. You may not believe it, but I was raised to be polite.”

  “I was raised by my shouting and swearing older sister,” he said with a grin. “I don’t offend easily, sweetheart. And you did save my life. I can’t think of anything more polite than that.”

  Maggie stared up at his gentle gaze, not having heard anything beyond sweetheart. It occurred to her that she may have been intrigued by Garret from a distance, but up close, he was devastating. The sincerity in his eyes made her yearn for things she shouldn’t. He made her want to be the woman he’d kissed and called beautiful. His lack of intent didn’t erase the memory of his kiss or the sweet ravaging of sensation she’d felt while in his arms.

  Boots scratched at the door.

  Garret cleared his throat and looked away. He drew a deep breath as though suddenly winded and set his stitching aside before pushing to his feet. “You ready for a walk?”

  Maggie expelled a hard breath, trying to release the wild stir of sensations as she watched him shrug into his coat.

  Tomorrow he’ll be gone and none of this will matter.

  She picked up his dish towel and was surprised to find he’d nearly completed the outline. Not the straightest or most even stitches, but decent. For a man.

  “Be damned,” Garret said, having pulled the door open to a bright night sky. “It finally stopped snowing.”

  She tucked the towel into her basket and joined him at the door. Her breath hit the crisp air in a puff of white. The storm had dissipated, but the cold hadn’t. She crossed her arms to block the chill as she watched Boots run beyond the clearing Garret had shoveled, all but disappearing into the deep bank. Moonlight glistened against snow, silhouetting the rim of mountains surrounding her cove. Her stomach clenched at the thought of Garret walking through the gap beyond the forest of trees.