Hooked (18 page)

The bottle of dark soda pop glimmered in the sunlight as she raised the neck to her lips. “Is that the kind of thing your father did?” Then she took a sip and waited for his reply.

What Meg had just said, was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him. She'd offered Gage a way out. A kind of sweet and sentimental excuse. Too bad Gage couldn't tell her she'd gotten things right.

His father had known exactly what he was doing.

When his father's lawyer had read the will, Gage had been shocked to learn how much his father was worth. Close to a million dollars. But Gage didn't touch it. It was dirty money in his eyes.

Instead, he'd donated it to various charities and the miners' funds, all anonymously, as a way of restitution. If those who despised his father knew where the money had come from to fill their coffers, pride most likely would have prevented them from accepting the contributions. He'd given away his inheritance in the hope of finding closure for his father's ill-gained monopoly. What money Gage now had was hard-earned.

He sought redemption with each story.

This was why Gage took on the corrupt and dishonest and brought them to the public's attention, why he tried to expose them before they ruined others.

If he had been thinking clearly and smartly, Gage would have stopped his and Meg's conversation cold. Right now. Bring up her brother. Ask her about him. Find out what he could. Instead, he said, “Charging more for a hotel room and outright taking people's money are two different things. If I had known what he did, I would have told him it wasn't right. Just like your mother told your father.”

“You sound as if it's your fault,” Meg quietly spoke.

Shrugging with a half-breath, Gage looked at the lake's glimmering water. “In a way, maybe it was. My father wanted things for his family. I was his son. He wanted me to have the best. If I hadn't expected that,
then maybe he wouldn't have done some of the things he did. I don't know. You can't change a person like that, I suppose.”

Meg propped her Dr. Pepper next to the picnic hamper. “People can change if they want to. But I think it all depends on why they're changing. If it's to better themselves, then I think that's good. If it's to please others, then . . . that's not so good.” She bent her knees and hugged them with her arms. “I'm afraid I have a confession to make, Mr. Wilberforce.”

A confession?
He didn't know if he wanted to hear it. He had so damn many of his own. The foremost: His name was not Wilberforce. And each time she said it, it became harder to hear.

“I hope you won't think any less of me, but I feel I must get this off my chest.”

Gage arched a brow, waiting for her to drop the anvil.

Her words barely registered when she spoke them. “It's about the bellman's cart at the hotel.”

“The bellman's cart?” he repeated.

“Yes, I'm afraid so.” She looked directly at him from beneath the plain brim of her hat. “You see, I wasn't honest with you. I led you to believe that I was a little girl when I rode it. Well, that's not the truth. I only gave up riding on that luggage cart three months ago.” She swatted at a dragonfly, then frowned. “I can see it in your eyes you're shocked. No more so than my very own mother. I promised her I would give it up and I did. I have to also say that I do have bouts of wanting to hop right on it again when I hear the afternoon whistle as the train pulls into the depot.

“You just don't know the thrill it is to have the
wind blowing in your face, knocking off your hat, and letting your hair down while speeding over the cobblestones. But I was told afterward that my behavior was vulgar. I suppose I could take hearing the term
vulgar
from my mother. But when my friends agreed . . . well . . .” She sighed.

“It shouldn't have mattered that I stopped because it was getting me nowhere riding the darn thing where men—I mean,” she hastily rephrased, “nowhere where respectability—was concerned. So I gave it up. That and a few other things I used to do.”

Gage was so caught up in her story, all he wanted to do was look at her. The light in her eyes, the way loose tendrils of copper hair fell around her temple.

She barely took a breath. “You're disappointed. I knew it. I shouldn't have confessed. But I'm not sorry I did. If you want to go back to town, we can.”

She must have really thought riding a bellman's cart unforgivable in a man's eyes, because she went as far as moving to stand. He caught her by her slender wrist and said almost too loudly, “No.”

“Mr. Wilberforce?”

“No, Miss Brooks. Don't go. I'm glad you told me. I don't think you're a,” he grinned in an effort to make her smile, “vulgar person for riding on a luggage cart. In fact, I think that you should do it if you want to.”

Her eyes filled with relief. “Really?”

“Yes.” He let her go and she put her hands over her heart.

“You honestly don't mind? I can't believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“Well . . .” She giggled—as if by accident because she quickly changed the tone of her laughter to a more
sophisticated sound. “I'm happy I told you about it, Mr. Wilberforce. You just don't know
how
happy. I feel so much better.”

Gage's smile weakened as a knot of conscience twisted in his gut. If he confessed vulgarities of his own, she wouldn't be happy. She would tell him to go to hell faster than he could explain. And then
she
would leave.

Deception came with a bitter taste.

But the truth would cloud over the only ray of sunshine he'd seen in a long, long time.

*  *  *

What woman needed bust cream when the man of her dreams didn't care if she rode a luggage cart?

Meg couldn't believe she'd paid cold hard cash for a jar of something so frivolous. Well, she wasn't going to use it anymore. She'd slathered some on last night—twice the recommended amount, and this morning she measured exactly the same. Not a single fraction of a fraction bigger.

But why did she care?

Mr. Wilberforce wasn't put off by her former behavior. That meant she wouldn't have to be so careful to do and say the right things anymore. The very idea was so
freeing.
However, she should still be cautious and not just outright go back to her old ways. She'd hate to go back to square one.

For the moment, keeping on an even keel was best. Stay with things she knew he approved of. And right now, that was her showing him how she cast a fishing line.

They'd finished their lunch and Meg had put the plates away while Mr. Wilberforce assembled his fishing pole by the edge of the water.

He called to her over his shoulder. “Miss Brooks, I've just about got this ready for you.”

“I'll be right there, Mr. Wilberforce.”

With the picnic basket in order, Meg went to rise from the checkered cloth. Her shoe tip caught on her petticoat hem and she grimaced when the rip of elastic at her waist snapped free.

“Hells bells,” she murmured beneath her breath, using one of Wayne's favorite expletives before she caught herself. More annoyed than flustered, Meg managed to stand and clutch the slipping petticoat before it fell to her ankles. Looking left and right, then keeping an eye on Mr. Wilberforce, she went to a thicket of willows. Once concealed behind them, she kicked off her petticoat and left it there—promising herself to buy new ones so this would never happen again.

“Miss Brooks, where are you?”

“I'm right here, Mr. Wilberforce,” she replied and came out to meet him at the creek. Surely he wouldn't notice she was without her undergarment. She didn't think men noticed much about women's clothing. Not like women. Because she'd noticed every single detail of Mr. Wilberforce's attire.

Never had a coat and trousers looked finer on a man. He wore his with such ease and masculinity, he took her breath away.

After lunch, he'd removed his coat and had rolled up the sleeves of his fine white shirt. The sleeves had tiny pleats at the shoulder seams that gave the impression of broadness—not that he needed any superficial help. His vest was scarlet—a startling color; its back panel silk. When he'd first removed his coat, she'd been tempted to touch the shimmering fabric with her
fingertips to see if it felt as cool and sleek as it appeared.

The pockets of his deep navy trousers had front buttons in the slashes. She'd noticed them when he'd casually slipped his hand inside to bring out a type of mint or something like that. She wasn't sure. She had an uncle who used to chew on soda tablets after every meal. But of course a man like Mr. Wilberforce wouldn't need such a remedy. With his rock-hard physique, his stomach would be made out of cast iron.

Once at the bank, she examined the fly rod Mr. Wilberforce held. He'd strung the line nicely and knotted a fine hook where he'd attached a Prince Nymph that hadn't been stripped.

“If you'd like, Mr. Wilberforce,” she began, not wanting to sound superior to him—after all, he was a fishing expert since he was entered in the tournament, “I could strip a Prince Nymph for you.”

“You could what?” He looked down at her, his black hair falling over his temples, the chiseled outline of his chin not so set.

“The fly. It's too fuzzy. I'd like to tone it down.”

The hook dangled, practically brushing over the wet embankment, and he pulled up the silk line and grabbed the fly. “Sure.”

She looked in his tackle box, picked up what she needed, then trimmed down the lure. “There. That ought to do.”

Glancing at the water's sluggish current, she pondered her next move. Since she didn't have her waders, she decided to fish from the pebbled bank. She preferred wading out to fish, but that would mean hiking up her skirt.

“All right,” she said while taking the fishing pole
from him, “I'm ready. Is there any type of cast you like to see?”

Mr. Wilberforce walked alongside of her as she assessed the best point in which to cast her line. His voice came across clearly and self-assured. “I like all casts.”

Meg laughed. “But not all casts are right for all situations.” Then she bit the inside of her lip, fearing he'd think she was trying to impress him so she quickly added, “But you already knew that.”

“Of course.”

Without further conversation, Meg began to move the rod as if it were a magical wand. She became a musical conductor and the water became her orchestra. Some people connected with a fly rod the first time they held one. Meg was one of those rare people. She didn't understand why or how it had happened. It just had.

She'd been eight when she first tried. Her father and Wayne said the way she moved the silk line—it all just looked right from the beginning. If she thought about it, she couldn't cast. But if she watched the water, then her silhouette on the bank, she could get everything to flow.

The warmth of the midday sun raised the water temperature enough to awaken the trout. They nipped at the water's surface, leaving little rings and the occasional
plop
of a splash. Caddis flies danced here and there over the water; a wren dipped down to catch a quick drink before flying off.

After a half dozen casts, a rainbow struck the fly and she reeled it into the bank. Flapping and flopping, the fish's scales shimmered dark speckles. Contrary to
its name, rainbows weren't all that colorful. Brook trouts were a sight better to look at.

“Isn't that beautiful?” Mr. Wilberforce declared. “Not as pretty as a brook trout,” Meg remarked, enjoying the way they shared a camaraderie about fish.

“I wasn't talking about the fish, Miss Brooks. I was talking about you.”

Meg lifted her chin, then straightened to stand fully. Her pulse raced with an unnatural swiftness. When she spoke, her voice betrayed her by sounding faintly breathless. “Me?”

“Never have I seen such an exhibit of . . .” His green eyes darkened, as if he were grappling to come to a conclusion—and was annoyed with himself because he couldn't. “I can't believe I can't think of the right words. Me. I'm never at a loss for them. It's my j—”

He cut himself off with a scowl.

With every nerve-ending focused on the man beside her, Meg waited for him to complete his thoughts. “Yes, Mr. Wilberforce? It's your what?”

Shoving both hands in his pockets, he looked out at the water. “It's not anything about me, Miss Brooks. Watching you cast that line is like seeing something done for the first time and realizing that all the other ways are insignificant because they are too mechanical. I'm amazed. Truly.” Then turning toward her, he urged, “Show me some more.”

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