by Jo Goodman
She lost her confidence momentarily. "You have something to say?"
He nodded. The change in Maggie's expression let him know that she had been preparing her speech while he was eating dinner. "Quite a few things, actually, but you go ahead. I think you've given it more thought and there's no telling what I'm liable to blurt out."
"Very well, then," she said, feigning composure if not precisely recovering it. "I think we should make some different arrangements in our living situation. I'm not prepared to share this bed or this bedroom another night, and since I can't live in the bunk house with the others, and neither of us wants to put Dancer out of his bed, then you'll have to go."
"I see," he said slowly. "And this new arrangement would be because..." He let his voice trail off as he lifted one dark eyebrow in question. When she didn't answer, but only looked away, he asked, "Because of the baby?"
Her head jerked around and she looked at him sharply. "The baby? Why do you think everything has to do with the baby?"
He opened his mouth to answer but she cut him off.
"You don't see me at all anymore, do you? Just me." She pointed to herself. "Separate from this baby. You're afraid if I work too hard or walk too far or sleep too much or sleep too little, I'll hurt the baby. It's never just about me." Tears sparkled in her eyes and she brushed them away impatiently, angry with herself for not being able to keep them back. "I am selfish," she said, swallowing a sob. "Sometimes I want it to be just about me."
"It's always about you," he said quietly.
Not certain she had heard him right, she stilled in the middle of wiping away her tears. "What?"
"It's always about you," he repeated. "I just didn't know any other way to say it." He dropped his feet off the iron bed rails and leaned forward in his chair. "Do you really think I don't see you except for the child you're carrying?" He shook his head, not really believing it. "I watch you all the time. I know how many brush strokes you give your hair at night. I know that when you're thinking or anxious or uncertain, you pull in your lower lip and worry it between your teeth. I see the smile you have for Luke in the morning when you serve up his eggs and the patience you have for Dancer when he's being clumsy on his crutch. You're gentle with Buck when he's not quick to get the joke.
"Sometimes I just like to watch your hands when you're talking," he said, smiling faintly. In his mind's eye he could see the graceful turn of her palm as she gestured. "Sometimes I just like to listen to your voice." He shrugged. "I know the arch of your eyebrows, the way your chin comes up when you're angry, and the set of your jaw when you're determined. I know every curve of your body—and I remember the ones that were there before this baby. Whatever you think, it's not true that I don't notice you."
The words spilled out of her before she knew she was going to say them. "But you don't want me anymore."
Connor's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Where do you get that idea?" His voice was husky. "Every night since I brought you to this ranch I've slept with you against me. I have to leave our bed in the middle of the night because sometimes I wake up wanting you so bad I'm shaking with it."
Outside the wind was whistling through the valley, bending the aspen and bowing the pines. The windows rattled in their frames as shards of snow pelted the house. In contrast to nature's sounds, Maggie's tone was hushed. "Then why don't you reach for me?" she asked, struggling to hold his glance. "I would let you. I did at Dancer's."
"I know," he said quietly, partly on a sigh. "But I don't want it to be about need any longer."
"What are you saying? I don't understand."
"Don't you know?" he asked. "The next time I reach for you I want it to be about love."
Chapter 13
"Love?" Maggie asked.
"You don't need me to explain that, do you?"
She shook her head. "You need to know whether or not you can love me," she said softly.
Connor's head tilted to one side, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered her. "You have the oddest way of looking at things sometimes," he said. His observation was casual, not critical. "I wasn't talking about my feelings at all," he went on. "I was referring to yours. I don't know what to make of you, Maggie. When you didn't sign the divorce papers I—"
"Didn't sign?" she asked, bewildered. "How could I? You didn't send them to Dancer's."
It was like a fist closing over his heart, an icy fist. "I sent them," he said tersely.
"Oh." There was a hollowness in the center of her that kept expanding, as if she were filling up with emptiness. "I thought perhaps you had changed your mind."
"We had an agreement," he said, getting to his feet. "I thought perhaps you had changed yours." Connor crossed the room to the chest of drawers and rooted through two of the middle ones. He pulled out the divorce documents and brought them over to the bed. He handed them to Maggie. "I suppose Dancer has something to answer for," he said. "I found them in a trunk in Dancer's loft when I was looking for blankets. I thought you'd put them there. Seems I was wrong. Looks like he decided to keep them from you."
Maggie glanced over the papers, her emotions numb. The handwriting blurred in front of her as she blinked back tears. The only other time she had seen Connor's signature was on their marriage certificate. That seemed painfully ironic now. "It's all in order, isn't it?"
"Appears that way."
"You never mentioned that you had these," she said.
"You never mentioned that you missed them."
Maggie smoothed the papers in her lap. The movement helped to hide her trembling hands. "I told Dancer once that you'd honor our agreement. He was probably hiding these from me even then."
"I suppose he has his own ideas about how things should be."
She forced a smile, though the edges of it were sad. "I suppose he does," she said. "It's a good thing we can think for ourselves."
Connor nodded. He watched Maggie finger the edges of the papers, her head bowed. "Maggie?"
"Hmm?" She didn't look at him.
"What are you going to do?"
She stared at his signature. He had intended to divorce her, just as she'd asked. He hadn't had any second thoughts, never reconsidered it as she'd begun to believe he had. "I guess I need a pen," she whispered.
Connor hesitated a moment, then he turned on his heel and left the room, returning a minute later. He handed her the pen and placed the inkwell on the bedside table.
"I should have something to write on."
There was a book on the dresser. Connor got it for her and slid it on her lap and under the papers.
Maggie twisted the pen in her fingers. She reached for the inkwell, pulled the glass stopper, and dipped her pen. "Signing this right now doesn't mean we're divorced," she said. It was difficult to push the words past the lump in her throat.
"No, it doesn't."
She looked out. Night had turned the window into a black mirror. Her own reflection was all she saw, but beyond her shimmering shape, she knew nature was drawing a white curtain over the valley. "It's not as if we can take them to Queen's Point tomorrow."
"Probably not until spring."
"And you said it would take another six months after these were returned to the lawyer."
"That's right." Connor sat down on the edge of the bed. He reached for Maggie's chin, cupping it gently in his thumb and forefinger, and lifted. "So what are you saying?"
What was she saying, she wondered. She stared at him mutely, trying to read the expression in his reflective eyes.
"If I took back those papers now," he said, "you would always wonder if it was because of the baby."
"Wouldn't it be?"
He shook his head. "It would be because my signature on those documents represents the only promise I ever made that I regret." His hand dropped away from her chin, but he held her eyes. "And I regretted it before I knew you were still carrying my... our child. I regretted it when it was just about you."
"But you're giving me these papers now."
"I thought you'd already made your choice about what to do with them. You hadn't. This has to be your decision, Maggie. The terms were yours."
A droplet of ink splattered on the signature page, a dark blue exploding star. Maggie stared at it for a long time before she lowered the pen to the paper.
Connor watched her hand, a certain tightness in his chest. He was not aware he was holding his breath.
Maggie's focus moved from the line where she was supposed to sign to the place where Connor had put his name. "I don't think I knew your middle name was Hart," she said. Then she very deliberately used her pen to obliterate all evidence of his signature. She looked up at him. "I've made my decision."
He took the papers from her, crumpled them in his hands, and pitched them into the far corner of the room. "And I've made mine."
Maggie put the pen and inkwell aside. Her tentative, shyly offered smile brightened her face.
Connor leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. Her breath was soft, sweet. His face was very close to her when he said, "I figure this means I can keep my bed."
The dark centers of her eyes widened. Her lips parted. "I figure it does," she said softly.
"Anything else you want to say to me?" he asked. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Before I kiss you within an inch of your life?"
She liked the sound of that. One of his hands was already at her throat, fingering the buttons of her white overblouse. His fingers slipped inside and touched her skin, skimming the neckline of her chemise. Her flesh tingled with the light passing of his hands. "I love you?" she asked. "Is that what you want to hear?"
"Is that what you want to say?"
Her breath caught as the damp edge of Connor's tongue touched her ear. "It's what I want to say," she said. His mouth pressed gently against her neck. "I love you."
He felt her words vibrate against his lips. She said it again, louder this time, and he pressed his mouth tightly to her skin as if he could absorb the words and the feeling. After a moment he raised his head. He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. "I didn't want to leave you at Dancer's," he said.
"I know."
He shook his head. "Not because I didn't think you'd survive it," he told her. "Because I loved you then."
Maggie's hands slid up his chest and slipped around his neck. She drew him closer, and this time it was her mouth that closed over his.
Their lips pressed, clung. Maggie's fingers threaded in the hair at Connor's nape. She tugged gently, lightly scraping the back of his head with her nails, and absorbed the shudder of his body as he leaned into her. The pillow was removed from the small of her back and flung aside as Maggie was pressed to the mattress. Connor stretched out beside her and pulled at the buttons on her blouse. It parted over her breasts and belly.
He raised his head, breaking the kiss. His mouth touched her again, this time on her jaw, then below it, then along the vulnerable line of her throat. She arched her neck. He placed a kiss in the hollow and felt the vibration of her satisfaction. His mouth went lower, tracing a damp line down her breastbone. The faint stirring of her heart increased. His teeth captured the lace edging of her chemise. He tugged. His fingers pushed at the straps and eased them over her shoulders. He stopped short of revealing her breasts.
His lips wandered over the thin cotton fabric. The material was taut over her hardened nipples. His tongue dampened one. He worried it between his lips. Maggie moaned softly.
Then he heard the breath catch at the back of her throat. It wasn't the sound of pleasure; it was the sound of pain. He lifted his head and swore softly. "I hurt you."
She shook her head, but she was biting her lower lip.
Connor raised himself on one elbow. "Don't lie to me," he said. "Not about this."
Maggie touched his face. "No," she said, willing him to believe her. "You really didn't." Her slight smile was self-mocking. "The baby moved. She's sitting on my spine." The smile vanished as she winced. "And taking my breath away."
Connor helped her sit up. He rolled off the bed, found the pillow and stuffed it behind Maggie's back again. "Better?" he asked.
She hardly knew how to answer. It was true she could breathe again. And the discomfort was gone. But she was miserably frustrated. She looked down at herself, her open blouse, the damp circle on her chemise where her nipple was outlined, then at the swell of her belly.
Connor sat beside her again. "Maggie?"
"There must be something wrong with me," she said.
He had to strain to hear her, she spoke so quietly.
His own fear rose and showed in the set of his jaw and the tiny muscle working in his taut cheek. Was she ill? Was it the baby? "What do you mean something's wrong with you?"
"Look at me," she said mournfully.
He was. He couldn't help himself. She drew his attention even when she didn't mean to. He was tantalized by her fragrance as she passed and intrigued when sunlight glinted in her hair. He knew she was approaching when she was still a room away and recognized by her sigh if she was frustrated or wistful. "I like looking at you," he said. "Is there something particular...?"
Her tone was distressed. "I'm pregnant."
Connor's instinct was to laugh but some good sense told him that it wouldn't have been appreciated. His response maintained the gravity he believed the situation required. "Yes, you are."
Maggie continued to stare down at her abdomen. "I'm so ripe I'm ready to burst and I've still got two months and it doesn't seem like I should want you so very much, but I do, so then I wonder if there's something wrong with me that I like it when you touch me, even now that I'm so... so..., well, you can see how I am, and then I wonder if there was something wrong with me then, at Mrs. Hall's, I mean, when I was sleeping next to you and dreaming that I was touching you and then finding out that I was and not stopping because I liked it." She took a deep breath and risked a glance at Connor.
He stared at her, fascinated.
She sighed. "So I'm very much afraid I might like it too much, that maybe I am a whore because no decent woman would have stayed in bed with you at that brothel and I did." Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "And I did it twice."
Connor touched Maggie under the chin. He leaned his forehead against hers. "We're going to sort this all out," he said softly. "But not right now."
"Not now?" she asked a little breathily.
He shook his head. "Right now we're going to make love."
"We are?"
"It's what we both want."
She nodded, the movement a trifle uncertain. "But—"
"There's nothing wrong with either of us for wanting it."
"There's not?"
He smiled. His lips brushed hers as he spoke. "I'll show you."
Maggie gave herself up to him. His mouth closed over hers and Maggie returned the kiss fully. She felt his fingers nudge the neckline of her chemise lower, then lower still, until her breasts were bared. His palms covered her, stroking gently, raising the flush of heat just beneath her skin. His thumbs spiraled toward her nipples and passed lightly across the hardened tips. This time her indrawn breath was pleasure's gasp.
Connor eased Maggie down on the bed, this time on her side. He reached for the bedside lamp and blew out the flame.
"Thank you," Maggie said quietly as Connor stretched out at her back, curving his body to her contours.
"I would have a hundred lamps in here," he said. "All of them lit." He brushed aside a lock of hair at Maggie's nape and kissed her warm skin. "You're beautiful." His mouth moved along her bare shoulder. "We have too many clothes on," he said softly.
"Mmm," she hummed her pleasure, pushing back against him so he cradled her bottom with his groin. She could feel the taut ridge of his fly against her. "Too many clothes."
Neither of them was moved to do anything about it right then. Connor continued to nuzzle Maggie's neck. His arm slipped under hers and curved beneath her bre
asts. He teased the nipples with his fingertips. The barrier of their clothes was deliciously frustrating.
Up to a point.
Without a word passing between them they knew when that point had been reached. Maggie pushed at her own clothing while Connor released the buttons on his fly. Her skirt was swept to the foot of the bed. His jeans caught the arm of the chair when they were tossed. His shirt and her chemise tangled as they were pitched in unison. Her drawers slipped over one side of the bed. His went to the other.
They came together, curved again on their sides, exertion and excitement making them breathe a little harder, racing their hearts.
Connor's hand slipped between her legs. The heat of her surrounded him. She was damp. His fingers stroked her intimately. She moved against him, her breath catching as his touch radiated fire that flushed her skin. Reaching behind her, she caressed his hip and thigh. She felt him shudder. His breath was warm against her skin.
He came into her from behind, torturing her with the slowness of his entry, stopping her even when she would have pushed against him and taken all of him quickly. She felt filled with him, his body flush to her, his chest against her back, the backs of her thighs soft in contrast to the hardness of his.
His first movements were cautious, a slow rocking rhythm that tested the limits of pleasure. The tiny sounds she made at the back of her throat hinted that it was too much and not yet enough. He whispered in her ear, low and husky, and asked her what she wanted. She didn't answer; she couldn't answer. Words failed her, but she showed him with her body, with movements that were bolder than his.
Excitement built in both of them. They moved in unison, opposing forces with a single goal. He encouraged her in raspy tones that vibrated his chest against her back. Blood rushed in her ears and made a roaring sound that accompanied the slamming of her own heart. She said his name in low, throaty tones that made him want to bury himself in her.