Hooked (32 page)

Matthew.

Could she? Dare she?

Of course she could. She could say Matthew and make the name sound just as bothersome as Mr. Gage.

“You told your grandmother about me, didn't you?” His tone wasn't grating, but nor was it honey-smooth.

“Why would you think that?” she replied, neither admitting or denying the question.

“When I went into the lobby this morning, she aimed her fountain pen at me and gave me a look.”

Meg laughed at the image of Grandma Nettie pointing an ink pen in a threatening direction. “Did she squirt you?”

“No.” He gave her a half smile. “Disappointed?”

She made no comment.

After a moment, he resumed their conversation. “When are you going to tell me what all those flies are in Wilberforce's tackle box?” he asked in a tone as unhurried as a Sunday afternoon.

Meg wrinkled her nose. She'd been meaning to go through the flies and tell him which one to use for which situation. He'd have to know that for the contest.

From where she sat, she couldn't clearly view the variety of flies Matthew had spilled onto a cloth napkin by his elbow. Getting to her feet, she walked to him and crouched down. There was something to be said about wearing trousers. She didn't have to worry about stepping on petticoats.

With her forefinger extended, she shuffled through the colorful lures. “This is a bumblepuppy, that's a rooster's regret, black ghost, golden darter, black-nosed dace bucktail, black woolly bugger, zonker, yuk bug, and those are your nymphs.”

Matthew made no comment. He merely gaped at the multitude of lures she'd rattled off.

One fly in particular looked out of place. She picked it up and then with an inward smile declared, “This is a screech owl.”

“A screech owl?” he asked with a bit of dubiousness.

Turning the fly over in her hand for him to look at it, she said, “It's made out of screech owl feathers. Quite a clever invention.”

“Let me see.” Matthew took it from her, the warmth of his fingers a whisper across her palm, and held it to the sunlight for a closer inspection.

“I'll bet Mr. Wilberforce made it.” Meg was careful not to look at Matthew's hair and the way the sun played on the glossy strands. He was without his hat. He'd hung it on a tree branch and it swayed gently in the breeze when the air ruffled the branch. She still had Wayne's hat on. She didn't care for it. All her hair stuffed in there was a nuisance.

Meg became aware of Mr. Gage perusing her once more. She frowned and said, “That fly doesn't have a distinct look, so it could pass for a variety of bugs. I wonder if it works?”

“You can use it if you want,” Matthew said, his gaze slowly skimming over her neck and shoulders. Then higher. “You've got a dragonfly on your hat” When he whispered, she shivered.

She could have easily said—no bother, it would fly away. Instead she caught herself murmuring, “Can you brush it off?”

“I can.” But he moved slow. So slow. Her every nerve ending focused on him. His hand as it lifted upward. With a quiet
swish
the bug was gone. If indeed there had been a bug at all.

Meg didn't want to think about why he would make up such a thing. It would be like he was . . . flirting with her. Wanting to touch her. This out of the way brush of his hand had to be a lie. Just like everything else.

And yet . . .

After she'd foolishly blurted out that she hadn't meant a word of what she'd said Sunday night, he could still hold her captive. And it was as if he knew
just how much hold he had over her with a mere glance. Like he still wanted her to be in love with him.

She was being silly. It had been Vernon Wilberforce she'd fallen in love with. The fact that Matthew Gage was in his body—so to speak—had been an unfortunate circumstance.

She had to stop thinking this way about Matthew. It would serve no purpose at all.
Keep reminding yourself you're on a mission, Meg, and you'll be all right Be strong enough to ignore him.

“Yes, I wouldn't mind giving the screech owl a try,” Meg replied in a tone that was all business as she reached out to take the wispy lure.

Matthew closed his fingers around it. “You have to call me Matthew if you want to use it.”

Meg would have liked to tell him to sit on his request. Then again, if she did, he'd think she was afraid to say his name. Which was a bald-faced he. She could say it. She'd say it with pleasure.

“Matthew.”
Her mouth hummed the “m” longer than necessary.

“You could have said it without making it sound like a dead fish.”

“That wasn't part of the deal,” she responded with a shrug, taking the fly then standing.

“Hell,” he muttered.

She was used to him using Veron Wilberforce's archaic expletives. These little “hells” and “damns” that slipped past his lips were surprising. He didn't talk with Mr. Wilberforce's old fossil language anymore. She didn't know if she was happy about that or not.

What she wasn't happy about was the longing he could put in her heart just from the way he looked at her. How could she get him to stop it? She had to get
him to ignore her. Plenty of men had ignored Meg. In fact, she was used to being passed by for dances and parties.

As she walked to the shoreline, she pondered the way of things. Under other circumstances, she would have welcomed the attentiveness. Meg had never received this much consideration from a man. As soon as she turned into Margaret, she'd had Harold Adams calling. Who, thankfully, had stopped calling as of late.

Matthew had told her that he cared about her. Inasmuch as she felt certain he'd fibbed about that, there was an underlying denial that held on to her heartstrings and wouldn't let go. She couldn't forget the times Matthew had kissed her. Embraced her. Looked at her as if she were . . . special. Maybe he had had
some
genuine feelings for her.

At that, she almost laughed. The feelings he'd had for her were for Margaret. Not Meg. And they'd been faked just so he could get his story.

She had never shown him the real her. At least, not all of her. He would be disappointed. He wouldn't want to brush dragonflies off her hat anymore. Nor quietly watch her.

Yes . . . all she had to do to put him off was be herself.

Her
real
self.

That's what she wanted. Wasn't it? Of course it was.

Dropping the screech owl fly and her fishing rod with hardly a glance at them, she strolled up the stream side, not too far, to where she knew there was something so indecent for a woman to do, that she'd never done it in front of any man—not even Wayne.

Hildegarde, Ruth, and Meg used to sneak over on hot evenings, strip down to their underwear, and indulge
in pure frolic. Nobody had ever caught them. Their mothers would have a fit of the vapors if they ever knew what their daughters had done.

As Meg spied the stately cottonwood beside the stream, she bit back on a smile of mischief. She wouldn't go as far a disrobing to her underwear in front of Matthew Gage—even she had her limits. But she could still have the same scandalous affect with a plunge in her clothes.

Hanging from a thick rope on one of the high branches, was an old tire from the one and only automobile that had ever managed to drive into Harmony. On all four rims. Mr. Hollyhock, of the Mammoth Garden and Flower Seed Company, had had four flat tires. He'd had to sit and wait in their hotel for three weeks for four spanking new tires and tubes to arrive so he could drive out. Those four flat tires of his had scattered and ended up in various places.

One as a back scratcher for the Addison's plow mule. Another as a makeshift set of hobbles for Max Hess's livery. Another as a picture frame at the Blue Flame Saloon—or so she'd been told; she'd never seen it firsthand.

And the last tire, the local hooligans had made off with to use as a swing over Evergreen Creek. As luck would have it, in the tree not ten yards away from where Meg and Matthew had been fishing.

Meg saw it and put a light stride in her steps.

Intending to call Matthew over so he could watch her make a spectacle out of herself, she stopped and turned. Practically right into him.

“Oh!” she cried as he nearly slammed into her.

With his mouth so precariously close to her ear she literally gasped, he wickedly mused, “That's twice now
you've stopped cold in front of me, Meg. I'm beginning to wonder if you have an underlying desire for me to bring my body next to yours.”

After seconds of speechlessness, Meg managed to say, “If I wanted you to touch me, I'd tell you.”

“Would you?” She didn't like the way he arched his brow. “That's not the Meg I know.”

“Well, just like I don't know the real Matthew Gage, you don't know the real Meg Brooks.”

At that, Meg removed her boots and walked to the tire. She tested the rope for strength by giving it a few firm tugs, then brought one leg through the center. She used her right leg to push off and give herself some momentum. Holding on to the rope and swinging over the pool of water, she thrust her weight forward and back until she had a darn good sway going.

With a quick glance at Matthew to make sure he was watching, she arced high once more. So high her hat flew off and went sailing the same time she did.

She landed with a grand splash in the frigid water and scissored her legs to bring her to the surface. The brace of water was like a douse in ice.

But she had to prove a point.

And prove it she had.

The telling was glorious. Swimming to shore with strong, sure strokes, she climbed out of the water. She didn't care that her teeth were chattering, or that her long hair drooped around her face, or that her man's socks were so heavy she could barely walk.

“W-well,” she stated boldly, her teeth clicking together, “W-what d-did you th-think of that, M-Matthew?”

Fire danced in her velvety brown eyes, giving Gage quite the show of defiance. Her expression grew spicy
and reckless with her taunt. Lips, red and blushing from where she pressed them together, became quite enticing. In that moment, he saw passion in her.

He'd wanted her before—yes. He had tangled with physical attraction, enjoying their kisses and the times she'd been in his arms. Gage thought he was the type of man who wanted nothing more.

Now a multitude of untried emotions took hold of him. He saw before him a woman emerging from a Victorian stuffiness who had been reposed and safe. This new enchantress got to him in his gut, his groin. The urge to kiss her senseless drew him in. To sink his fingers into the fiery curls that matched the fire in her eyes.

His body ached. His insides burned. With her forbidden plunge into the water, she had ignited within him a desire the likes of which he'd never felt. She, on the other hand, was oblivious to her power—which made him want her all the more.

At length, and in a voice deceptively hoarse, he conceded, “I think you are the most captivating woman I know.”

Then he walked away.

Shaken, he dared to admit the truth to himself. It was as if it had been staring him in the face the moment he'd discovered her in his hotel room. He just hadn't been able to accept the fact that he wasn't immune.

Realizing this, he nearly smiled with irony at the twist of fate. The tables had turned. Most anyone would tell him it was hopeless. But Gage wasn't a quitter—although he should be because, chances were, nothing could ever come of what he felt.

Even so, as he walked back to his spot in the shade,
his hands almost trembled from the potency of his discovery.

He'd fallen in love.

No doubts.

The real thing.

God help him. He'd been hooked.

16

G
age stood amid the small crowd of fishermen waiting his turn at the lottery to see which spot he'd land for the contest. Quite a few people were at the town square to view the drawing of numbers.