by Jo Goodman
Connor was too surprised to say anything immediately. Then he was too intrigued. He stood in the doorway and watched, waiting for Maggie to notice him. Steam from the boiling water had flushed her face and created a rosy sheen across her cheeks and brow. Tendrils of hair curled damply at the nape of her neck and her temples. Her skin was glowing. She was humming softly to herself, a lullaby, he thought, and her mouth was curved in a tender smile. He wondered if she was thinking about the baby, then decided she couldn't be. She wouldn't have been prepared to lift another kettle filled with hot water if that were the case.
Maggie wrapped a towel around the handle of the kettle and got ready to swing it toward the hipbath.
"Don't you dare," Connor said.
Maggie nearly scalded herself as she dropped the towel and bumped the stove with her hip. She placed the back of one hand against her forehead and offered Connor a faint smile. "You scared me," she said. "I saw you headed this way but I didn't hear you come in."
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.
Maggie's smile faltered, reflecting her embarrassment. "I thought it was obvious. I'm preparing a bath."
"That much is obvious," he said dryly. "What I want to know is why you're doing it alone."
"Then that's what you should have asked," she said primly. She picked up the towel and wrapped it around the handle again. Before she could lift the kettle Connor was beside her and taking it from her hands.
"For God's sake, let me do that. You'll hurt yourself." He poured the water in the bath. "You should be more careful with the baby."
Maggie was tempted to drown him. Instead she took the empty kettle and placed it in the sink. "I'm fine," she said, rounding on him, hands on her hips. "And the baby's fine. A little hard work hasn't hurt either one of us." She brushed past him. "I'm going to bed."
"What about your bath?" he asked.
"My bath?" she asked, pausing in the doorway. "I drew that for you."
Connor recognized a parting shot when he heard one. He didn't attempt to call her back or follow her. He was managing, with disturbing frequency, to rile Maggie. It was not entirely intended.
Shaking his head ruefully, Connor stripped off his clothes and tossed them on the floor. He sank into the tub slowly, drawing his knees toward his chest. Water lapped against the sides. He scooped a few handfuls of hot water and sluiced his shoulders, then he dipped his head in the water, thoroughly wetting his dark hair and shook off the excess with the natural abandon of a soaked puppy.
From the doorway, Maggie laughed.
"I thought you were going to bed," Connor said, looking up in surprise. He raked his wet hair with his fingers and gave her a sheepish grin.
"I was, then I remembered you didn't have any towels." She placed two on the table where Connor could reach them and started to go. She stopped when she felt Connor grab a handful of her dress and tug. Maggie looked over her shoulder. "Yes?"
"Are you still mad at me?" he asked.
"Irritated," she said. "Annoyed. Frustrated."
"But mad?" His tone was hopeful.
"No," she said after a moment, sighing slightly. "Not mad." As far as Maggie was concerned it wasn't a good sign. In the space of a single evening, indeed, in the span of a few hours, she had gone from concluding that she could love him, to the realization that she probably did love him.
Connor's fist opened. He dropped the skirt of Maggie's gown. "I don't suppose you might consider scrubbing my back?"
"I might," she said, "if you don't think it will hurt the baby."
Connor winced, understanding at last what he'd done to arch her back. "I'm sorry," he offered belatedly.
Maggie shrugged. She knelt beside the tub and took the brush and soap he handed her.
"I really am sorry," he repeated.
She began to lather his back as he leaned forward. "I wouldn't do anything to harm my baby," she said softly. "I didn't think I would have to say that to you. I thought you would know that now."
"I'm not used to it yet," he said. "The idea of you having this baby... it's still new to me. You've had a lot of time to become accustomed to it. I've only known since yesterday."
Perhaps it was asking a lot, she thought, for Connor to accept that she meant to be a mother and that she had always meant to be one. She had done quite a bit to make him think differently, and she quietly admitted as much to him.
"Why?" he asked.
Maggie's scrubbing slowed. "I didn't know you," she said. "And I didn't know what you would do. You might have wanted to marry me for all the wrong reasons."
Turning his head a little, Connor gave Maggie a dry, skeptical look. "Do you think we married for all the right ones?"
She tapped him lightly on the back with the scrub brush, just hard enough to let him know what she thought of his comment. "You know what I mean," she said. "The marriage would have been because of the baby and there would have been no agreement to end it." She didn't mention that he hadn't sent the divorce papers to her.
He didn't mention that she hadn't signed the papers he'd sent.
Maggie began scrubbing again. "You were right when you called me selfish," she said. "I didn't want anyone to stand in the way of me becoming a doctor. That included my family and my baby and, most especially, you."
"And now?"
It was a moment before she answered. "Now I'm here. I still don't know what it means."
Connor reached behind him and took the brush from her hands. He twisted in the tub so he could see her better. "What do you want it to mean?"
Show some courage, she told herself. Tell him that you're thinking you might want to be his wife, that your insides are all fluttery with the possibility of loving him. Maggie's eyes dropped away from his and she shrugged. She called herself a coward.
Connor let the silence stretch between them. Finally he said, "It's all right, Maggie. I don't know what it should mean either."
Not sparing him a glance, she nodded.
He touched the back of her hand that was resting on the tub rim. "Go on to bed," he said. "I'll only be a few minutes."
Maggie felt awkward as she got to her feet. She dropped the soap back in the water.
"Thank you for the bath," he said as she turned to go.
"I thought you might be sore from your fall."
"I was."
She hesitated. "I made a liniment." She pointed to a brown bottle on the table. "I gave some to Buck and Patrick but I saved enough for you. It would be better if you put it on while you're still warm from your bath."
"Thank you. I will." He watched her go, then leaned back in the tub, stretching as much as he was able. For a moment, he thought, Maggie looked as if she might offer to put the liniment on him herself. Connor closed his eyes, smiling. It was a notion worth pursuing.
Once she was in the bedroom, Maggie quickly changed into her nightshift. She turned back the bedside oil lamp until only a flicker remained, then climbed in bed and pulled the quilt and comforter up to her neck.
"I know you're not asleep," Connor said as he came into the room. He was carrying the liniment and had one towel hitched around his waist. The other was rolled and hanging from his neck to catch water dripping from his hair. When Maggie didn't open her eyes he approached the bed more quietly. She didn't stir. "Maggie?" he inquired softly. There was no response. "I'll be damned." She really had fallen asleep.
His smile rueful, Connor sat on the edge of the bed and uncorked the bottle of liniment. Expecting an odor strong enough to make him flinch, he was pleasantly surprised by Maggie's concoction. He rubbed it on his arms and shoulders, then his legs. It burned pleasantly into his skin. He rubbed a little into the back of his neck, taking his time in the hopes that Maggie would wake and offer to help. Thinking about her hands on his naked flesh made it a difficult idea to abandon. He kept glancing over his shoulder to see if he could catch her playing possum.
Sighing, Connor stoppered the bottle and set it aside. He dried his hair more
thoroughly, then lifted the covers and slid into bed beside Maggie. Yanking at the towel around his waist, he pitched it in the direction of a chair, and then extinguished the oil lamp. Connor gave Maggie a small nudge and she obligingly turned in her sleep, presenting him with her back. He curved his body against hers, spoon fashion, and groaned softly as she snuggled into him.
He fell asleep even while he was thinking it was going to be a long, torturous night.
* * *
In the course of any given day over the next four weeks, Maggie found herself watching Connor. Her eyes welcomed him as he approached the house at meal times and followed him when he left to do chores. She was discovering that she liked the way he walked, liked the confidence in his long-legged stride and the manner in which he sprinted up the porch steps to be the first one in the door for dinner.
He was a leaner, too, she noticed. He leaned against the corral rails, as if he were indifferent to what was going on. He leaned in doorways, the whipcord, muscular strength of him postured casually in a frame of light. He leaned against the kitchen table, one hip resting on the edge, his legs stretched out before him, while he nursed the last mug of coffee after breakfast. At night, when everyone had gathered on the front porch to trade stories or listen to Ben play his harmonica, Connor leaned against the rough-hewn supporting columns and tapped his foot lightly against the floor.
Maggie liked to watch him ride. Sometimes she would walk outside for no other reason than to catch a glimpse of Connor and Tempest weaving in and out of the trees on the mountainside. Sometimes horse and rider would tear across the valley with the wild unpredictability of the wind itself, Connor bending forward in the saddle, urging Tempest on, man and animal becoming a singular blur in the sunlight or as dusk fell.
He was a hard worker. Most mornings he was the first one up and often the last one in bed. He inspected the fences, counted the herd, rescued trapped cows, pitched hay, tended the late fall garden, and mucked out the stalls. There was nothing his hired hands did that he wasn't willing to do beside them. He had responsibility for everyone and everything and he took it all seriously, going over the accounts, seeing to the safety of his men, planning improvements for the ranch.
She learned he liked the smell of bacon frying but rarely ate more than a single strip, but he could put away half a dozen pancakes before the coffee was brewed. He liked his potatoes mashed, strawberry jam on his bread, and roast beef well done. He could eat two apple dumplings but passed on rhubarb pie. He seldom added salt at the table but Maggie could barely keep enough pepper ground to suit him.
At night he slept beside her, their bodies touching but never joined. Sometimes she'd wake in the middle of the night and discover he was gone. She would find him in the study, reading. He always invited her to join him, but she never did, respecting the peace he had been searching for.
His dark eyes, when they rested on her, were no longer entirely remote or completely unreadable. She began to know the flicker that signaled amusement, the warmth that meant humor. She knew when he was suspicious, when he was worried, and when he had his temper on a short leash. She loved to hear him laugh.
And she wished he would kiss her.
Maggie was sitting at the table, arms raised and elbows on the edge, supporting her chin on the back of her hands. Flour dotted her fingers and cheeks and dusted her hair where she had pushed it back at the temples. The piecrust in the pan in front of her was fluted on only one side, forgotten as she stared off into space.
She didn't so much as blink as the back door opened and closed and Connor stepped into the kitchen.
"Maggie?"
At the sound of her name, her elbows slipped off the table's edge, her head jerked, and her chin fell. Her cheeks filled with color at having been caught daydreaming. The deeper hue was the result of what she had been dreaming. "I wish you wouldn't sneak up on me, Connor."
His eyes widened a bit and one side of his mouth rose in a quirky grin. "I said your name three times."
"Oh," she said, deflated. "Well, what did you want?"
"Luke says there's a storm heading this way. He's not usually wrong about these things."
Maggie nodded. She appreciated the warning, though she wished she'd been able to keep her fear of thunderstorms a secret. "I'll be fine," she said. "You can go back to whatever you were doing." When he didn't move, she asked, "Is there something else? Are you afraid the stream's going to flood?"
Connor rested one hip on the edge of the table and brushed a dusting of flour from Maggie's hair with his fingertips. "It's not that kind of storm," he said. "Snow's coming. Lots of it, according to Luke."
"Lots of it?" she asked hopefully. "You mean three or four inches?"
He found her eagerness amusing and naive. "I mean three or four feet."
Maggie's brows came together as her eyes darted to the window. The sky was solidly gray and the wind was picking up. She had been so wrapped in her own thoughts that she hadn't even noticed the change. "Feet?"
He laughed. "Yes," he said, tapping the end of her nose. "The miracle is that it's waited this long. Or did you think we were pulling your leg about winter starting in October?"
Since she'd been at the ranch for nearly a month and since the only snow she'd seen had been on the mountain peaks, Maggie had thought exactly that. "Tomorrow's November first," she said.
Connor pretended to wipe his brow. "Thank God we beat the deadline then." He had expected Maggie to smile. When she didn't, and continued to stare gravely out the window, he asked, "What's wrong? I can almost guarantee there won't be any thunder or lightning."
She tore her eyes away from the gathering clouds. "It isn't that," she said, shaking her head. "I supposed I've just finally realized that I'm going to have my baby here. Dancer's hobbling around so well these days that I thought we might leave soon."
"Leave?" Connor had straightened a little at Maggie's reference to the baby as hers, but her next sentence made him stiffen. "What are you talking about? Where did you get the idea that I'd let you leave?"
She started at that, her eyes glittering. "Where did you get the idea that you could stop me?"
The combatants were squared off as Dancer limped into the kitchen on his single crutch. "Never mind me," he said, "I can see there's a storm brewin' here, too." He turned to go back to the parlor.
"Don't go," Connor said. "I have to head back outside and help round up the cattle." He gave Maggie a significant look. "Our discussion isn't over."
* * *
Snow started falling just before noon. It came down in small, stinging flakes that swirled across the valley in powerful eddies and obscured the view of the corral from the house. After only two hours there were four inches on the ground and drifts that rose sharply toward the porch. Dancer watched the storm's raging from the parlor window. Maggie paced the length of the house from the kitchen to the front door, peeking out the windows in the bedrooms and study.
Luke and Ben were the first to return from securing strays in the northern end of the property. They were cold and wet with snow, their eyebrows and lashes white enough to make them look like old men, but they only stayed inside long enough to warm their hands around a mug of coffee. They ran rope lines from the ranch house to the bunkhouse and from there to the privy to keep anyone from straying too far. They equipped the stable and smoke house with a similar lifeline.
Buck and Patrick stumbled in later, clumps of snow dropping from their boots and pant legs as they stomped around the kitchen trying to get warm. A snowdrift had already reached the kitchen windowsill and they took turns sweeping off the porches and steps for Maggie's benefit.
Connor was the last to arrive at the house, only a short time before dinner and only minutes before Luke and Buck were preparing to leave in search of him. He brushed snow from the shoulders of his coat before he shrugged out of it. "Everyone in?" he asked Luke.
"You're the last," Luke said, taking off his own coat and hanging it on a peg beside Connor'
s. "We were getting worried."
Connor's eyes immediately searched out Maggie. She was taking a pie out of the oven. If Luke was including her among the worried, he had clearly mistaken the situation. "Tempest and I ran into a wolf pack," he said, taking off his hat. "They followed us for a while, trying to get at the stragglers I was bringing in."
Maggie set the apple pie on the windowsill to cool. "Ben, would you stir the bean soup?" she asked. "I'm going to lie down." She left the kitchen before anyone could ask about her health.
In her bedroom Maggie took off her shoes and curled in the middle of the bed. When Connor tiptoed in almost an hour later she was still lying in the same position, dry-eyed and wakeful, hugging a pillow to her middle.
Connor put his boots down inside the door and padded over to the bed. "Ben wants you to know that dinner's ready," he said. "He's pretty proud he didn't burn your soup."
"Tell everyone to go ahead without me," she said dully. "I'm not very hungry."
His eyes drifted over her, searching for the cause of her listlessness. "All right," he said finally. He left the room, ate his dinner in silence, and managed to make everyone feel unwelcome at the table. The hired hands retreated to the bunkhouse and Dancer cleared the dishes. Connor pushed away from the table sharply, his favorite dessert largely uneaten. "I'm going to have it out with Maggie," he said.
Dancer shrugged. "Ain't none of my business."
"In case it gets loud, see that it stays that way." He couldn't prove it but he thought the prospector was grinning.
* * *
Maggie was sitting up when Connor returned to the bedroom. The pillow she'd been hugging was now supporting the small of her back. She looked quite regal sitting in the center of the bed, her chin thrust forward, her dark red hair coiled smoothly at the back of her head. "You'd better shut the door," she said coolly. "I don't want the others to hear us."
At first Connor thought she had overheard his comment to Dancer about having it out, then he realized that she had come to the same decision independently. "Dancer's cleaning up in the kitchen," he said. "He can't hear us. The others all went back to the bunk house." He pushed the room's sole chair closer to the bed and sat down, propping his feet on the iron rail frame. "Do you want to start?" he asked. "Or shall I?"