by Jan Freed
If only she’d thought to buy a kitchen timer! Grant had said the oven’s hadn’t worked in years.
As she headed back to the sink, her foot skidded on something slick. Her knee slammed into the metal handle of a lower cabinet. She inspected the throbbing scrape, then searched for the culprit. An oozing eggshell. The floor was littered with several. Gaping, she noted the kitchen’s condition as if seeing it for the first time. Dirty bowls, spoons and measuring cups cluttered the countertop, along with shreds of grated carrot, spatters of oil and dollops of batter.
She hadn’t even begun marinating the meat. Cleanup would have to wait.
Piling everything into the sink to wash later, she transferred what she needed from the table to the countertop. Once turned, the tenderloin revealed a lot of hidden fat. Trimming it off took valuable time. Cutting the beef into cubes took longer. She checked the clock. Another five minutes until the cake was done. Why, oh why, had she picked such a complicated meal to prepare? She should have learned by now not to overestimate her abilities.
The marinade itself was a complex recipe. After combining the final ingredients, her eyes and brain felt strained to the limit. “Pour over beef and marinate in refrigerator for at least four hours,” she read aloud.
Four hours? Her gaze flew to the clock. She only had two and a half hours left. Oh, God, in two and a half hours, Grant would expect the gourmet meal she’d foolishly promised. He’d been so nice to her, never pointing out her weaknesses, always praising her strengths. She’d wanted so much to show him her appreciation. To show Scott she could bring one of the finer offerings of city living to this very kitchen.
What a loser she was. What a pitiful, miserable failure. At this rate, all she’d be serving for dinner was…the cake!
Spinning around, she gasped at the smoke curling from the seams of the closed oven door. She grabbed a dish towel and yanked it open.
“My ca-a-ake,” Margaret wailed.
Fanning the air, she pulled out the aluminum pan and set it on the rim of a glass bowl in the sink. Metal sizzled. Charred cake steamed. The new smoke alarm kicked into a shrill buzz.
And Scott walked in the back door.
CHAPTER NINE
SCOTT SWEPT off his hat and waved smoke aside, frantically searching the kitchen for flames. He took in the open oven door, the steaming cake pan and Maggie’s devastated expression at a glance, then dragged a chair to the far wall. Damn, that smoke alarm was harder on his nerves than a cattle prod.
He climbed onto the chair and shut off the angry buzz. His heartbeat instantly calmed. Better. At least he could think now. He’d been cleaning the hayloft with Pete and his dad when the urge for a Coke had hit strong. Good thing he’d given in.
Turning, Scott tossed his hat onto the table and slowly scanned the mess. Unbelievable. It looked like a garbage-disposal unit had exploded in the sink. His gaze moved to Maggie.
She stood unnaturally still, staring at her hands clasped in front of her white shorts. Strands of baby fine hair escaped her ponytail and straggled about her ears. A finger pad of flour stamped her nose. Orange stains smeared her T-shirt. Her cheeks were flushed and dewy, her bare legs pale and skinned on one knee.
She reminded him of a little girl caught playing in her mama’s kitchen. He started to smile, but some instinct made him stop and inspect her more closely.
Her white-knuckled hands trembled. Her stained T-shirt rose and fell in quick, staccato movements. Her bare legs were locked at the knees.
He walked forward as if approaching a wounded doe. “Maggie?”
“I burned the cake,” she said in a small, fearful voice.
Did she think he’d get mad like the time she’d ruined the frying pan? Shame heated his face. He’d done a lot of thinking since his father had accused him of punishing Maggie. He could begin making amends right now.
“You torched it,” he agreed. “But hey, it’s no big deal. Nothing to get upset about.”
She shook her head, her eyes still lowered. “It was Grant’s birthday cake, and I ruined it. I should’ve known I would. I always ruin everything.”
He stopped in front of her, puzzled at the depth of her distress. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She jerked her head up with a bitter laugh. “Don’t be stupid, isn’t that what you mean? It’s a more accurate description, or so I’ve been told…and told.”
He felt a tweak of conscience. “C’mon, Maggie. Nobody thinks you’re stupid.”
“Oh, no? What did you think when I fed Lady Love an apple?” Her challenging look dared him to lie.
“I thought you didn’t know anything about cattle. And that you handled yourself well in a cris—“
“What did you think when I forced Matt to take a joyride in your old car? Did you think I was smart?” Her voice held the shrill edge of hysteria.
She was hurting, yet handing him a weapon sure to inflict fresh wounds. He had no stomach for it anymore.
“I thought…no, I think, you made a mistake, Maggie. A mistake with cruel consequences, but a mistake just the same. Like the one I made warning your father you were about to elope.” An immediate calm filled him, as if he’d been waiting a long time to say the words.
“No, I was stupid,” she said with conviction. “But when I saw Daddy pull up, something inside me…snapped. I knew if I let him take me, I’d never be strong enough to defy him again. If I hadn’t panicked…” Her haunted gray eyes shimmered with misery.
Scott reached out and cupped her elbows, rubbing her forearms with his thumbs. “You made an error in judgment. Everybody in the world’s done that. You’re no different.”
“But I am. I’ve always been different! Look at the cake, Scott. I didn’t just burn it. The thing’s flat as a horseshoe. I must’ve left out something important from the recipe. And now we can’t light birthday candles.”
“Give yourself a break. Are you worried about disappointing Dad? Hell, I’ll run into town and buy another cake if it means that much to you.”
“Can you pick up some Burgundy Beef with Pars-leyed Fettuccini while you’re there? Because that’s the only way we’ll eat it for dinner. I certainly can’t f-follow the recipe.” Her lower lip began to quiver.
“Aw, sure you can, Maggie.”
“No, I c-can’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut, drawing a deep breath through flared nostrils. Her golden lashes fluttered, lifted and revealed a soul-deep sorrow that wasn’t about a recipe. “I wanted everything to be p-perfect, you know? It was supposed to b-be perfect. But I’m so stupid I can’t even bake a c-cake.”
Her choked voice and tear-brimmed eyes broke his heart. She looked utterly forlorn, so unlike the gutsy woman who’d saved his heifer, that a fierce surge of protectiveness swept through him.
“Don’t cry, Maggie darlin’. I’ll help you make that burgundy-beef stuff for dinner.”
To Scott’s dismay, her face crumpled. He stepped closer and gathered her into his arms, pressing her head to his chest.
“Okay, I won’t help you. How ‘bout I stop by the café and pick up something to go?”
She began weeping in earnest, and he decided to shut up.
He’d never seen a woman cry like this, with deep, shuddering sobs that racked her body and vibrated through his. There was nothing dainty or pretty about Maggie’s tears. She snuffled and shook and wadded his soaked shirt between curled fingers.
He felt her pain like a tangible thing. It buffeted him in waves. Uncertain what to do, he simply stroked her hair and waited out the storm, absorbing as much of her anguish as she would allow.
“It’ll be all right, Maggie. Whatever it is, it’ll be all right.” He murmured the chant over and over, noting with relief the decreasing intensity of her sobs.
When her crying finally stopped and all that remained was an occasional hiccup, he guided her like a sleepwalker to a chair. She stared at it dully and swayed on her feet. With a soft curse, Scott sat and pulled her onto his lap, draping her arm aro
und his neck. She curled against his body without protest, as boneless as a cat.
He anchored his hand behind the shapely legs he’d dreamed about and scarcely noticed their feel. Poor thing was completely wiped out. She fit perfectly beneath his chin. Her cheek and palm rested against his chest with trusting vulnerability. There was no trace of the haughty princess in the woman he held now. He wondered if there ever had been.
Smoothing her silky hair back from her face, he cleared his throat. “Are you ready to talk now, Maggie?”
She grew very still.
“C’mon, darlin’, what’s all this fuss about? Not a burned cake, that’s for damn sure.”
The whine of the screen door snared Scott’s attention. Maggie buried her face in his shoulder.
His father took one step into the kitchen and drew up short. Sweeping the room and the situation with a penetrating gaze, he turned around and walked back out the door, closing it gently behind him.
Maggie stirred. “Who was that?”
Her voice sounded muffled and embarrassed. Scott gently turned her head so she could breathe.
“It was Dad. He’ll keep anyone else from interrupting. You were about to tell me what’s wrong.”
She sighed heavily, as if resigned to the inevitable. “I’m what’s wrong, Scott. At least, the way my brain processes signals is wrong—different from everybody else.” Her muscles tensed. “I have dyslexia. It’s a learning disability.”
Snippets of information flashed in Scott’s mind. Problems with reading, confusion with numbers…His brain made a vital connection and called up relevant memories: a young princess staring at his napkin and refusing to write down her phone number; an elegant socialite rushing to the pharmacy, rather than writing down the name of an arthritis cream; a warm, generous woman reduced to tears by a simple recipe.
The puzzle pieces of her personality fell into place with sickening results. He closed his eyes. Oh, Maggie girl, what have I done?
“I’ve—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I’ve heard of it.”
Her body remained tense and expectant.
“I read an article on Olympic gold medalists,” Scott offered lamely. “Bruce Jenner talked about having dyslexia. He was pretty frank about his frustrations.”
She relaxed slightly. “Celebrities have done a lot to inform the public. Some of their stories are amazing.”
“This article said Bruce’s disability helped make him a decathlon champion.”
“That’s because when you can’t do things that are simple for most people, you make the most of what you can do.”
“Like your riding?”
She nodded. “It was the one thing I was good at, that my parents took pride in. So I worked hard to be a winner. I thought, if I could just become a champion, maybe they would love…” Her hand made a dismissive little movement against his chest. “Anyway, it wasn’t enough. Nothing I ever did was enough.”
Sliding his palm up and down her thigh, Scott rested his cheek on her peach-scented hair. For all her material wealth, Maggie had been deprived of the love and security he’d taken for granted during his childhood. He remembered Donald’s chilling contempt and his own belittling sarcasm, and felt a volatile mixture of anger and shame.
“I’m sorry, Maggie.”
“Don’t be. I got used to it. And once I was tested and diagnosed, boarding school was a lot better. I had special tutoring to help me with my problems.”
She’d always intrigued him. He seized the opportunity to learn more. “Tell me what school was like.”
In brief, halting sentences, she described a list of difficulties that would’ve seemed insurmountable to him. Yet her soft, melodious voice held no hint of self-pity. If anything, she seemed contemptuous of her so-called failures. By the time her words trailed into silence, his image of her had shifted once again and locked into place.
He’d misjudged her completely. Attending school, hell, attending life, had challenged her at every turn. Her courage humbled him.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before, Maggie? It would’ve explained so many things.”
She toyed with a button on his shirt. “My first summer at Riverbend, the other kids thought I was different enough as it was. Admitting I couldn’t write down a phone number would’ve made me a freak.” Her fingers stilled against his chest. “I wanted you to have my number, Scott. I even wrote it down in private and kept it in my pocket for weeks, but I never saw you again.”
Because he’d avoided any places he thought she might go. The following summers, he’d trolled for women in more worldly waters than the local high school hangouts. Remembering his bruised ego and immature reaction, Scott experienced a choking sense of regret.
“I was busy workin’ the ranch,” he finally managed to say. “But you could’ve told me when you first came here. I wouldn’t’ve been such an ass if I’d known.”
She curled her hand into a fist. “Or you wouldn’t have agreed to my plan in the first place.”
“I’m not that narrow-minded, I hope.” He winced at her long silence.
“I couldn’t take the chance. Besides, I wanted to prove I didn’t need a man’s help. Pretty stupid, huh?”
He covered her fist with his hand and squeezed. “No. I’d say it was pretty brave. And I’m the stupid one around here, for being so blind.” Sighing, he massaged her knuckles and spoke from his heart. “I’m sorry about the way I treated you, Maggie.”
She shifted her body and looked up through swollen eyelids. “You don’t hate me?”
Her patrician nose was red, her flawless complexion blotchy. She’d chewed off her lipstick, and he tensed against a violent surge of desire as unexpected as it was inappropriate. His timing really stank.
“No, I don’t hate you.”
“You don’t?” Her sweet little bottom shifted again.
“No,” he said through his teeth.
Her smile started slowly, gaining warmth and momentum until it took Scott’s breath away.
“I don’t hate you, either,” she said, still smiling.
“You don’t?”
“No.” Her dimple deepened.
For the life of him, he couldn’t keep from smiling back.
MARGARET CLIMBED out of the tub on jellied legs and hastily dried off. Scott had insisted she take first shift in the bathroom, despite the state of the kitchen. Everything would work out tonight, he’d assured her, and a hot bath would make her feel better about the situation.
She did feel better. Relaxed and happy and…reborn. But she couldn’t give credit to her bath.
Scott’s healing words had lifted a crushing burden from her spirit. He didn’t blame her for Matt’s death! She would never be free of regret and sorrow, but maybe she could begin to forgive herself.
His compassion had stunned her, enfolding her as tenderly as his arms. Thus protected, she’d revealed past humiliations never shared with anyone else. He’d listened and offered sympathy, not pity. She wondered now why hiding her dyslexia had seemed so important. Pride, no doubt. She was her father’s daughter, after all.
Slipping into a robe, she braced herself and faced the mirror. No red splotches left. If anything, her skin seemed abnormally pale. The cold rag on her eyes had reduced the swelling a little. But not enough.
Memory of Scott looking down at her tear-ravaged face brought color to her cheeks. His unmistakable arousal must have been an automatic response. Any woman cuddled on his lap would have caused the same reaction. She wished she didn’t care.
As little as two hours ago, Margaret would have gratefully accepted Scott’s kindness and counted herself lucky. She stared at the face in the mirror now as if at a stranger. This woman didn’t look grateful. This woman looked self-assured and determined to earn respect, instead of sympathy—a new and improved version of The Mule. As Margaret smiled, The Mule smiled back in approval. Unzipping a makeup bag, they both set to work in perfect accord.
Fifteen minutes later, Ma
rgaret walked into her room thanking hot rollers and Estée Lauder with equal fervor. The large, cherry armoire bulged with clothes. Shopping had been one of the few pastimes Jim had encouraged. He’d considered a well-dressed wife essential to his career.
Pulling out a one-piece black knit jumpsuit, she stepped into the legs and shimmied into the long sleeves. Dome-shaped gold buttons ran from the scooped neck to below the elasticized waist. She fastened them all and craned to see as much of herself as possible in the silver-spotted mirror above the dresser.
Black suited her, she admitted. Her sleek blond waves seemed brighter, her skin creamier than usual. She inserted gold loop earrings and added a delicate gold chain and pendant, settling the small heart just so above her breasts. Only the faintest hint of cleavage showed, of course. Tasteful, but not totally demure. Spritzing on her favorite light cologne, she slipped into black skimmer flats and headed for the kitchen with a pounding heart.
At the doorway, she froze.
Scott stood facing the sink in the final stages of an effort that was nothing short of miraculous. The floor had been mopped, the counters cleaned and dishes washed. The square table had been cleared and covered with a pristine white cloth. She gazed from the white fabric to the tall man responsible and felt tears sting her nose.
Don’t you dare ruin your makeup, Margaret Winston.
Regaining control, she admired the flex and shift of his broad shoulders, the mesmerizing twist of his rear pockets as he scrubbed the porcelain sink. Suddenly he grew still.
“Have a nice bath?” he asked without turning around.
“Yes, thank you. I feel much better.”
“Good.”
He rinsed out the dishrag, draped it across the faucet and rolled down the sleeve of one arm as he turned. His eyes widened. His fingers stopped fussing with his shirt. His Adam’s apple bobbed. And Margaret felt the purely feminine thrill of flustering a confident man.