Hooked (40 page)

Although the lighting was poor, Meg could see his eyes narrow with unexpected anger.

Clearly, Meg had stumbled onto something Wayne wanted to let rest. But she couldn't; even if it meant an agonizing discovery. So she spoke words aloud that had only once flickered inside her heart—the day Matthew first said them himself. The day she'd adamantly denied Wayne would have done anything underhanded. “Did you have an arrangement with Leroy Doolin at the hatchery?”

He didn't answer right away. “Yeah, I paid him. So what of it? Doolin was happy to unload those fish.” He spoke defensively, causing Meg to gasp. “I won that lottery spot fair and square. I never planned on doing anything before the drawing. But it was my luck that I got the best place. I'm a thinker and going to Doolin was the smartest thing I've ever done. Nobody can point a finger at me because everybody saw me pull up those brown trout. It was a clean win. Everybody got what they wanted.”

In a chilling tone, Meg directed, “Oliver Stratton didn't.”

Her brother stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I did what any man in my position would have done. This town doesn't have squat, Maggie. I won the best place in that lottery.” The gold fob dangling from his vest pocket glimmered in the moonlight. “I got the best so I wanted the best. Not a single soul can prove what happened. Doolin's been paid to stay quiet. And that's the way of it. I won. I got the money
and I'm enjoying the hell out of spending it. Because it's brought me respect.”

At that moment, Meg lost her respect for Wayne.

He'd cheated.

He admitted it. The details. The way of things. And the why was very apparent: He wanted a lifestyle that their father simply couldn't afford: a notable college, smart clothes, and privilege.

The sobering truth hurt worse than anything Meg could ever have imagined. All this time she'd defended Wayne to Matthew. All this time she'd been waiting for the day when she could say to Matthew: “I told you so.”

Instead, it would be Matthew saying those words.

Meg rose from the swing. “You were good enough to win fair and square, Wayne.”

“No. Oliver Stratton was good enough to win fair and square,” Wayne returned.

The hum of night songs blanketed them. Meg grew colder by the minute. Though she didn't know if it was from the night air or her breaking heart.

Rubbing her hands across her arms, Meg said, “Tell Grandma I'm going for a walk.”

Wayne caught her shoulders and turned her to face him; she couldn't meet his eyes, not even in the dark. “Let it go, Maggie.”

Meg lifted her chin and looked into his face. “What's in the past is in the past and you can't change it.”

He all but patted her hand when he released her. “That's right. Now, hey, sweet pea, you want me to come with you?” He winked once more. “A pretty girl like you shouldn't be walking alone at night.”

“I'll stay on our street. It's perfectly respectable.”

“All right. Well, you come in soon. I saw that Finch has made a pie for dessert. I'm going to find out what kind.”

“You do that.”

Meg woodenly went down the steps and let herself through the gate. When she began walking, she didn't have any idea where she'd go. It was only after she reached the end of her block that she knew she was going to see Matthew.

*  *  *

Gage tilted on the back legs of his chair. His stockinged feet were propped on the edge of the hotel room desk and his vest hung open as he studied the typewritten sheets he'd completed earlier in the evening. His article on last year's fly-fishing contest and Wayne Brooks's win was chock-full of details, brow-raising speculations, and worded in a way that was typical Gage. Three pages of flaming prose that would surely sell newspapers.

He'd reread the piece dozens of times. There was nothing wrong with the story itself. It was the kind Gage scooped. Yet each time he viewed his work, he drew the same conclusion.

Something was missing. And that something, he knew, was that one piece of information that proved that Wayne Brooks had rigged the contest.

Gage dropped the article and went for another. One he'd written much earlier in the evening. He skimmed the words. This piece had heart. It had warmth, a vibrancy.

The story made him smile, not with satisfaction, but with fondness.

As Gage began to reread the article once more, a knock sounded on his door. He gave the clock on the
mantel a quick glance, then rose and walked quietly across the rug to answer the door.

When he opened it, he paused, his heartbeat quickening as he drank in the sight of Meg, who stood in the hallway.

Without a word, she let herself in. Gage slowly closed the door after her.

She appeared distraught. Lips parted, then closed. Eyes looked down, then directly met his. Slender hands clasped together, then unclasped with a tremble. Sighing heavily, she sat on the end of his bed. She wore no cape or shawl, no gloves or hat, as if she hadn't given any thought to coming to see him. He watched her shiver, a tiny quake of her body and shudder of breath.

“You're cold.” Gage went to the bed and picked up his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Their hands touched briefly as she lifted hers to the coat's collar.

“I . . . thank you,” she said, then stared at the tips of her shoes.

Gage sat down beside her. “What happened?”

She was as quiet as a bench judge awaiting a jury's verdict.

Her voice was distant when she said, “My brother came home today.”

Wayne
. Gage waited for her to continue, his pulse surging.

“He talked about the university. He's quite the man around town. I almost didn't recognize him. He was dressed so uptown. All the go in his suit. He's in the student government and he's in a sought after fraternity. He really has done well. He's getting good grades, too.” Her monotone recital of her brother's
merits sounded hollow to Gage. She took in a shaky breath. “He's only here for tonight. He'll be leaving tomorrow.”

Then silence. A shiver from Meg and a bite of her lower lip as if she were trying to keep from crying.

Gage put his arm around her and drew her close. “What's wrong, darling?”

She sighed into his shirt and let him hold her while she pressed her body next to his. A hunch washed through his conscious and somehow he knew what had distressed Meg.

The truth.

That one piece of unequivocal truth that would complete his article.

“He talked about last year's contest,” Meg said, her words bringing an intimate warmth against the side of his neck. “He told me he paid Leroy Doolin to let those brown trout go upstream. That's how he won. He had fish coming right at him. Nobody had a chance against him.” Her voice broke as she sucked air in her lungs; then with a strangled cry said, “You were right, Matthew. You were right from the start.”

“Meg,” Gage murmured into her hair, several strands catching on the beard stubble at his jaw. “Ah, Meg. I didn't want to be right.” And he realized as he said the words, how true they were.

“But you were. You were able to see what I refused to believe. I never thought it possible. I . . . he's my brother. He isn't a . . .” She never finished the thought.

Gage caught her chin in his fingers and turned her face toward his. “Meg, don't do this to yourself. I know how it hurts. I let what my father did eat me up. It doesn't do any good.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes.

Gage touched her hands with his and coaxed her to look at him. The anguish in her eyes wounded him to his soul. He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

The pools of moisture on her lower lashes spilled freely. He stopped a trail of tears with the pad of his thumb.

On a half-sob, Meg lifted her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. Gage drew her next to his chest just as closely, breathing in the fragrance of her hair, her skin, her perfume.

They held each other for a long while. Then Meg lifted her head, her eyes glistening. She wet her dry lips, then a soft shudder escaped her—as if she were holding herself in check.

Her lips quivered. A brave front. So he consoled her with his touch. A caress of her temple, a tuck of hair behind her ear. A smoothing of his knuckles across the slight hollow of her cheek. A fingertip that traced the fullness of her mouth. Her breath stilled. And in that moment, Wayne was forgotten.

The mood changed. No longer gentle; comforting. An undeniable magnetism had built between them. Meg's eyelids lowered and she leaned toward him. He took her into his arms once more, happy to cradle the nape of her neck in his hand as he brought her snugly to him. Touching . . . body to body.

Gage enjoyed the feel of this woman in his arms. The delicate way she seemed at this moment. So dependent—on him. He liked how she made him feel. Like he was worth something. Like he meant something.

Taking her face in his hands, he lowered his head to claim her lips with his. The kiss was slow and gentle.
The longer he kissed her, the softer her pliant mouth became—relaxing, inviting, opening. He slipped his tongue into the sweetness of her mouth—exploring, savoring.

Meg returned his kisses, her arms entwined around his neck, drawing him close. He could feel the small swells of her breasts pushing against his chest. Her size had never bothered him. Her figure wasn't that of a curvaceous temptress. He always thought he preferred women with larger breasts, flared hips, and narrow waists. With Meg, he liked her just the way she was.

He lowered them backward onto the bed, side by side. His coat fell from her shoulders, a blanket for them to lay on. Kissing. His hand at her hip, he slid it upward, grazing the bow of her waist. Then to her breast.

She gave him a hesitant kiss. Barely a brush on his mouth. As if uncertain. He could feel her pulse beat beneath his palm when he pressed his hand over her heart through the thin fabric of her shirtwaist. Their lips melded. Blending and warm. Growing fervent. Her breasts thrust against the stiff edge of her corset and he discovered the nipple; a tiny bud. A treasure.

He wanted to undress her. Make love to her.

As he broke away from her mouth, he looked into her expectant face and saw the trust written in her eyes. Her slow gaze caressed his face and she brought her hand up to cup the contour of his cheek.

Meg. Sweet Meg.

She would let him. He saw it in her eyes. She would let him make her his.

Christ almighty.

“Meg. Not this way,” Gage whispered as she
mapped his jaw with a light rasp of her fingernails. She laid her sweet hand on his shoulder. This woman, with all her ways of Meg. The old Meg. The new Meg.

The Meg he loved.

He couldn't envision life without her.

He wanted to prove himself worthy of her. So he stopped. He had to show her something.

“I want more than anything to be with you,” he said. “But I have to do things right. I want you to see this.”

Gage went to his desk and picked up the first article he'd written. He handed it to Meg for her to read.

Meg sat up and lowered her head to follow the words. His words. His new voice. Would she like it? Scoff it? Tell him that he should tear it up?

Once, she glanced up at him. A mixture of confusion and disbelief in her brown eyes. The she tilted her head once more.

As she read, she absently ran her fingers through her loose curls. When she was finished, she let the sheafs of paper lay on her lap. Awe marked her tone. “You wrote about my Grandma Nettie.”

Gage nodded, hopeful that she'd liked what he'd had to say.

“You wrote about her and her sisters going to Washington. You made it sound so . . . noble. You were on their side. I . . .” Her voice broke. “I'm touched by what you had to say. You told it like everything they planned to do meant something.” Her lips curved softly. “Even her bicycle chain sounded important. I don't know what to say.”

A tightening took hold of Gage's throat. To say he was overwhelmed was an understatement. “You said everything I wanted to hear.”

“You're a great writer, Matthew. You have a lot of talent I'm sorry I said you didn't do good things.” She lifted the pages and returned them to him. “Will you send this to your editor?”

“I don't know.” And he honestly didn't. This wasn't the kind of article
The Chronicle
published from him. If he wanted to see it in print, he'd most likely have to ink the pages himself.

Looking to the future, Gage didn't see the tarnish and distaste of sensational journalism sustaining him in his old age. He finally saw what he really wanted out of life and he had the chance to get it. He wanted Meg. Harmony. He wanted to start a local paper in the building on Hackberry Way. To report on everyday goings on without always having to prove a point. Like a group of elder suffragettes convening on the White House steps to fight for equality.

Gage's paper would be a cauldron of modern vision, steaming up a mist of larger purpose than to sensationalize. The little man or woman would get his or her turn to speak up. Gage would be doing something that would make Meg proud of him.

He wanted her for his wife.

He wanted marriage. A family. And all the responsibilities that went with being a husband.

Through the quiet and without preamble, Gage uttered words he never thought he'd hear himself say. “Marry me, Meg.” He went to her and cupped her chin in his hand. “Be my wife. Marry me.”

Her reaction was not what he would have predicted. Instead of blissful kisses and yeses, she began to weep. Quietly. Then in soft shudders that ripped pain through him to the core. God help him, what had he said wrong?

Meg shook her head. “How long have I waited to hear those words?” she asked, her voice as soft as velvet. “It seems like forever.”

“Is your answer yes?”