by Stacey Kayne
He headed for the stairs. His boots clapped on the wood floor, each step echoing through the silence of the empty house, an emptiness that choked him. Spending most of his life on a cattle trail or at his sister’s house, he lived in constant noise and commotion. It wasn’t a wonder Amanda had run and not looked back.
Just enough sunlight spilled into his kitchen to reveal weeks of neglect. Lighting the overhead lamps would only draw attention to a layer of dust, an array of dirty coffee mugs stacked beside the basin he never got around to filling with dishwater. Hard to make much progress in a place he tended to avoid. Now that the spring crew had been hired meals were served in the bunkhouse.
He stepped up to the stove, missing the scent of bacon and coffee, the buzz of conversation—life. A few months back every man on the ranch would have piled into his kitchen for Duce’s mean flapjacks. Early mornings were the only time Duce stood at the stove, a cheroot clamped in his teeth, spatula in hand. The cast-iron monstrosity was big enough to grill ten flapjacks at once. His two-pound hotcakes would weigh down a man’s gut clear till nightfall.
Garret lifted the coffee kettle from the cold range and gave the contents a swish. A quarter pot. After lighting the stove he scoured the side table for his shaving supplies. Didn’t make sense to haul water up to his room when no one cared if he shaved at the kitchen pump.
By the time the back door squeaked open, Garret stood beside the stove with a cup of the lukewarm coffee in his hand, his toothbrush stuck in his mouth.
Kuhana stepped inside. A sleek black feather tucked under the band of his high-domed hat gleamed against the morning brightness. The satiny texture reminded Garret of Grace’s ebony hair. Kuhana’s tawny face creased with a scowl as he glanced around the darkened room before spotting him at the stove.
“You are late,” he said, stepping inside.
Garret gave his teeth another pass with the toothbrush before spitting into the basin. “Last I checked I owned this place. I’d say you’re early.”
His Indian friend eyed him warily. “Then you pay us to wait.”
Everett stomped in behind him. “Hey, boss. We helping the crew on the south side today?”
Not ready to kill his youthful eagerness by announcing the roofing task, he avoided the question and reached for his coat draped over the back of a kitchen chair. “Everyone in a hurry this morning?”
“This place is a mess,” Everett said, his gaze raking across the dirty floor and cluttered tables. “You ought to get your sister to come for a visit.”
The last thing he needed was his older sister picking up after him and meddling in his business. “I’ll get to it later tonight.”
Kuhana grunted. “You need wife.”
“I’ve got all the complications I can handle.”
Sweat dripping in his eyes, Garret sat back on his heels and swiped his arm across his brow as Everett continued to hammer nails. He shifted his hat over his damp hair and blinked up at the midday sun. A rooftop was not the best place to be at high noon on a hot spring day. Fresh, sweet scents of spring permeated the air as busy birds chattered around them. His gaze was drawn back to the mountain.
He couldn’t take a breath without thinking about the scent of her skin, the taste of her kiss, the sting of her deception.
I’m not going to wait much longer.
He stood, his gaze skating across miles of green hills spotted by splashes of gold and blue. A herd in the distance darkened the land like a shadow over the thick grasses. Having been raised in the saddle, he’d seen just about all the terrain the States had to offer, and none of them compared to this rich expanse of wilderness and blue sky—a beauty that used to soothe his restless spirit.
“You worried that trapper ain’t bringin’ Boots back?”
Garret looked over at Everett watching him from a few feet away. He hadn’t told his crew more than the basics. A trapper had helped him out and was keeping Boots until the spring thaw.
“Last few weeks you’re always lookin’ at that western range,” he said.
“Boots will turn up.” He wouldn’t drive stock without his dog. “We’re making good time,” he said, nodding at the section of roof they’d finished. Everett hadn’t put up the fuss he’d expected and had set to the task with a skill that surprised him. “We’ll be done by this evening. You’ve had some experience with roofing.”
“Yeah.” The corners of his mouth turned down. The instant sadness in his expression added a childlike quality to his brown eyes. “My pa and me roofed our barn just weeks before it burned.”
Garret felt for him. The boy’s family was another victim of the panic following the freeze, rancher turning against rancher. Their neighbor saw fit to torch the homestead. After fighting each other, both ranchers had lost their land to new money moving into the area, those who sought to capitalize off the tragedy of longtime residents. He’d hired Everett as a favor to his folks. At fourteen he was a decent ranch hand and a hard worker, but he was still a boy who missed his family.
“You’ll get to see your folks in another month, once we reach the stockyard.”
Fighting moisture from his eyes, Everett gave a nod as he looked away.
“Why don’t you head on into the bunkhouse and find us something to eat.”
He didn’t hesitate. His boots tapped rapidly across the steep slope to the top rung of the ladder. “Bacon and toast all right?” he asked as he descended.
“Sounds good.”
He hoped he’d done the right thing by bringing the kid out here. Barns were still being burned and ranchers lynched or run off their land. Two years since the freeze and tensions continued to rise. Everett’s father now worked a mining job to support his five younger children, and spent his days deep underground.
Garret shuddered at the thought.
They’d have to bury me first. He lived for ranching, driving herd. His livelihood was his life.
He walked to the next bundle of cut planks. He released the rope and began spacing out the shingles. Over the clatter of wood and chirping birds, he swore he heard a faint bark.
About to drop another board, he paused.
A series of faint barks carried back on the southern breeze.
It’s about time!
Straightening, he turned, looking toward miles of open range in the lowlands. She was trying to sneak him in through the south end. His gaze honed in on the line of dark foliage marking the nearest river, the only real coverage to be found in those open hills. She had to be following the river.
He wasn’t about to let her slip through his land without talking to him.
He was down the ladder and mounting his saddled horse in seconds.
“Hey, Everett,” he called out as he rode the brown and white mare past the bunkhouse. “I’ll be right back.”
A half mile out he reined in, easing his horse into a slow, silent trot, the mare’s hoofbeats drowned out by the steady rush of the swollen river. He rode along the outside edge of the trees and scrub, peering through the low, dense branches. He wanted to call his dog, to flush them from the brush, but he knew if he did that she’d take flight. They couldn’t be far.
A sharp bark from just ahead confirmed that notion.
Garret dismounted, leaving his horse as he pushed past the thick brush, stepping into the blend of light and shadows.
“Damn it, Boots.”
Her low voice grated over him, prickling his skin, heightening his anticipation.
“Stop following me. You know your way home from here.”
He eased past another veil of low branches. The sight of her kneeling in a patch of sunlight to pet his dog slammed his heart against his chest.
“I took off the muzzle so you could go home, not chase after me,” she said, her voice strained with frustration. And affection, he thought, watching her set her rifle aside to embrace his dog. He recognized the well-worn Smith & Wesson, the gun she’d held to Strafford’s chest. Something else she’d hidden from him.
Mad Mag.
She’s not crazy, his mind shot back. She’s sneaky as hell and sharp as a tack.
“Don’t make me be mean,” she said, pushing Boots away. “Just go on,” she urged, pointing in his direction. “Go home!”
His dog turned and ran right to him. She looked up, her glistening blue eyes popping wide at the sight of him. She lunged up, but the weight of her pack dragged her back down and she fell to her knees.
Boots pounced up, his front paws landed against his thigh.
“Hey, boy,” he greeted, petting his dog as he stared into the startled blue eyes looking back at him. She didn’t so much as blink. Slowly she picked up her rifle and subtly shifted the shoulder straps of her large backpack as she stood. She took a step back, her delicate features tense, her posture defensive.
Didn’t matter that he knew her name was Maggie or that she wore the garb of Mad Mag…all he could see was Grace.
A married woman, he had to remind himself.
“Afternoon,” he offered.
“Garret.” She lifted her chin a few notches, standing her ground. But she wanted to run. He could tell by her quick side-glance.
Lucky for him, her pack appeared to double her weight, keeping her grounded. Fear darkened her eyes. The fear of a woman caught in a lie.
I don’t expect you to lie to your family.
And yet she couldn’t be troubled to tell him the truth. She’d sent him off, knowing he’d look a fool in front of the two men who’d never see him as a grown man.
Not trusting his tongue, he turned his gaze on his dog.
“Looks like she took good care of you.” He’d make sure Boots got some extra scraps from the table for giving him the chance to sneak up on their mistress.
A twig snapped, drawing his gaze back to Grace. “Leaving so soon?”
She stared at him as though waiting for him to explode, to demand answers he damn well deserved. But he was a patient man. He’d let her stew on her curiosity just as he’d stewed for more than two months.
“You look good, Grace.”
Surprise showed in her eyes and he had to fight a grin.
“Are you back to being your silent self, or do you not have anything to say to me?”
“I didn’t expect to see you.”
She had an odd habit of stating the obvious and leaving the rest to his imagination. “I have your shotgun. My horse is just beyond the trees.” He turned away, wondering if she’d follow him or run. She wouldn’t get far.
“Come on, Boots.”
Maggie watched him duck beneath the low braches and step out into the open sunlight. Uncertainty kept her rooted in place when she likely should have run. She’d seen anger in his eyes when he’d first looked at her.
He whistled and Maggie spotted the moving patches of brown and white, his horse walking along the other side of the trees and scrub. She couldn’t just stand here in the brush like a frightened rabbit. Facing his anger couldn’t be worse than the past weeks of heartache and worry.
As she stepped into the open he pulled her gun from a scabbard beside his saddle. His ivory shirt and the pale hair beneath his hat made him stand out like a beacon in the afternoon sun. He looked back and smiled at her, and Maggie’s heart skipped a few beats. He strode toward her, all stealth and brawn, far more handsome than she remembered. His clean-shaven jaw was no less appealing than his short beard had been. She couldn’t close her eyes during the past two months without seeing those rugged features. His voice haunted her dreams.
“Here you go,” he said, handing her the long gun.
“Thank you.” She lifted the straps from her shoulders and let her pack hit the ground at her heels. She shoved the gun into the sleeve sewn into the side, beside the brown fur coat she’d strapped to the outside. Garret watched her, the brim of his hat shading his eyes, his expression uncommonly vague.
He had to know.
“You sure took your sweet time in coming off that mountain. I was starting to think you’d decided to keep Boots for your own.”
“I was tempted,” she said, wondering where his anger had gone. “He’s a good dog.”
“The best, and a vital part of my crew. Boots does the work of two riders. A few more days and I’d have come for him.”
“We’ve been slow moving and we took a longer route.”
“I noticed. When did you start down?”
“Four days ago,” she said, taking another step back, anxious to be on her way. “The south side has more coverage.”
“Also made it real easy to avoid me,” he said.
“Well…I tried,” she said, figuring there was no point in lying to him.
“Why?”
The question was more of a demand.
The sound of an approaching horse stole her attention. She stepped back into the shadows of the shrubs behind her. Garret followed her gaze.
“It’s Everett,” he said as the horse and rider topped a nearby hillside. “One of my ranch hands.”
Didn’t make any difference to her who the man worked for—she didn’t know him. She wasn’t in the habit of allowing anyone to be near her. Plenty of men had tried to catch her, even before there was a bounty on her head.
“Everett’s a good kid,” Garret said, moving in beside her. “He’s no threat to you.”
She didn’t look away from the rider closing in on them. His eyes widened when he spotted her near the trees. His gaze shifted between her, Garret and the dog standing between them as he reined in.
“I, uh…thought I heard Boots barking.”
“You did. Everett Perish, this is Mrs. Danvers.”
Her gaze whipped toward Garret. Mrs. Danvers? No one had ever addressed her by Ira’s last name.
“Ain’t you Mad Mag?”
“Everett.”
The young man stiffened at the harsh tone of Garret’s voice.
“Apologize to Mrs. Danvers.”
“I apologize,” Everett obediently replied. His twisted expression showed he wasn’t rightly sure what he was apologizing for. “I didn’t mean no offense.”
“None taken,” she said, though she didn’t attempt a hospitable expression.
“I left your supper on the stove,” he said to Garret.
“I appreciate it. If you’ve eaten go ahead and get started on the next section of roofing.”
“Yes, sir.” He briefly met her gaze as he tugged on the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.” He turned his horse and made a fast retreat.
“That wasn’t necessary,” she said to Garret. “He didn’t say anything that’s not true.”
“Your name isn’t Mad Mag. It’s Mrs. Maggie Danvers.”
“As with most gossip, you’re only half right.”
“You’re married,” he said with bold accusation.
“I’ve never married. I was kept. Hell of a difference if you ask me.” A difference he’d shown her in such a short time.
His expression softened. “Are you still?”
“Am I still what?”
“Are you still kept?”
Caution pricked at her skin. Only one person on this earth knew the truth about Ira. It appeared Chance Morgan had kept his word.
“Well, are you?” Garret demanded.
She couldn’t lie to him. “Ira’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, though his expression showed clear relief. “When did he die?”
“Seven years back.”
His eyes flared. “You’ve lived alone up there for seven years?”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“Why wouldn’t it? You had to be so young. How old are you?”
“Same age as you, I suppose.”
A single blond eyebrow quirked up.
“Old enough.”
His lips hinted at a smile. “I swear, if you ever gave me a direct answer I’d likely have heart failure.”
“I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?”
“You can’t be the one with all the secrets. How did Ira die?”
“Bear. Caught him by surprise. Ira was strong, but he wasn’t a young man.”
“You weren’t much more than a child. How did you end up with him?”
“I was…in trouble. He helped me.”
“Where’s your family.”
“Dead,” she said, knowing her father had been the only person who’d ever truly cared about her, and the only one she considered family.
“You must have a last name.”
“I don’t.” She gave up her last name when she’d been given away.
“I don’t even know what to call you,” he said, his hushed tone jabbing at her conscience.
“I didn’t lie to you, not really. My name is Margaret Grace. Most call me Maggie. Or Mag. Mad Mag to some,” she said with a shrug. “I suppose Maggie would do. Or Grace. Hell, I don’t care.”
“I think I’ll call you Magpie.”
“A bird?”
“It’s a compliment,” he assured her, the smile she’d come to love making her weak in the knees. “Why don’t you come on up to the bunkhouse and have dinner with me?”
Maggie stared at him in disbelief. She’d just admitted to being Mad Mag and he was inviting her to his ranch?
“You walked a long way to get here. You’ve got to be hungry.”
She was, but not hungry enough to be lured up to his ranch.
“Thank you, but, no.”
“Why not? The rest of my men won’t be back on the ranch until nightfall. You already met Everett.”
“I can’t. I’ve got—”
“I’d appreciate the company. It’s been too long since I had anything to look forward to.”
“Dinner with me is hardly something to look forward to.”
“Can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more.”