Calico (8 page)

“We can’t play here, girl. Ah, McCready, the risks I take for you.” Dutch hunkered his considerable weight down and slowly, very slowly, reached out with his hand for the steak. Satin, enjoying this, used her paw to inch the meat away from him.

Dutch lunged.

Satin snatched the steak and trotted a few feet before dropping it in front of her.

The lapsing time made Dutch desperate. He could hear McCready’s whistle from below the trail. Crouched down on all fours, he steadily made his way toward where the dog waited. He pleaded, he cursed. He coaxed and promised, then cursed some more. Every time he got close enough to grab for the steak, Satin snatched it up and trotted off. With the meat held firmly between her jaws, Satin shook her head back and forth, as if making sure her prize was dead, before holding the steak between her front paws and tearing off a few chunks to eat.

Neither Dutch or McCready had any idea how much laudanum would be enough to put the dog to sleep. Dutch had finally stayed McCready’s overgenerous hand while he dropped the liquid over the meat. Now he wished he hadn’t. Satin showed no sign of stopping her play.

They were halfway down the rocky trail, and Dutch heard McCready’s cheerful whistle coming closer. He backed down a bit more, hoping that Satin would follow him. For once his action and prayers came together. Satin came after him with the remains of the steak dangling from her mouth.

Dutch cursed his own luck that she was still alert and standing when McCready was in sight. The dog dropped the piece of meat, ears straight up and attack ready, as McCready, carrying a napkin-covered tray, neared them.

Two pairs of eyes were pinned on Satin. The dog eyed the steak, then McCready while issuing a low rumbling growl.

“Hell of a choice, ain’t it, girl?” Dutch muttered, hoping his boss had the sense to remain perfectly still and, above all, quiet.

McCready had to have heard his silent wish, for when Dutch shot a glance over his shoulder, McCready was frozen in place.

One of Satin’s ears drooped a bit, and she tilted her head to one side, rubbing the offending ear with one paw. Dutch watched with bated breath. The dog shook her head, and he wished that it wasn’t a pesky flea but the drug finally taking effect. Guilt flooded him when the dog began to whine, her gait unsteady as she started toward him.

“Easy girl, easy,” he offered in comfort, once more inching his way to her.

Unexpectedly Satin stopped and turned back to grab hold of the steak, tearing at it, tossing it from side to side, all the while a deep, threatening growl issued forth from her throat.

“She knows,” Dutch whispered, thinking that McCready had been forgotten as he reached the dog’s side and tried to touch her.

With a snarl Satin backed a few steps. Panting, she dropped the meat, her head falling forward. Her back legs refused to support her, and down she went. But when Dutch attempted to lift her in his arms, she lunged for McCready, throwing him off balance.

Dutch gave McCready credit for nerve. The man didn’t move while he struggled to maintain a grip on the dog’s fur. Satin had more strength than he thought, for she managed to get within a nose of McCready’s feet before Dutch flung his considerable weight on top of her. With one hand clamped over her nose to keep her jaw closed, Dutch fought for breath.

“You’re running late, Dutch.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say? And I’m not late—you’re early, you son of a bitch.”

McCready ignored the last. “Is she down for the count?” He glanced up at the still-closed cabin door, realizing that they were in full view of Maggie should she open it.

“I can’t tell. You hold her while I get up.”

McCready knew it was a perfectly reasonable request. The look Dutch gave him said as much. But he had no desire to tangle with Satin’s teeth. Not after seeing the way she had torn into that steak.

Swallowing a lump, he offered a compromise. “We can spare a few minutes more and be sure.”

“No way. You either hold her so I can get up, or I let go and you’ll take your own chances. It’s not my throat she wants.”

“No give?”

“No give, boss. As it is, I may never forgive myself for doing this to her.”

McCready set aside the breakfast tray. He didn’t want to ask who Dutch meant, Satin or Maggie. He didn’t want to know since he was doing a bit of regretting for all this himself.

Hunkering down in front of the dog, McCready took a steadying breath, released it, and placed his hands over Dutch’s. At his nod Dutch eased his hold, sliding his body back and away.

Dutch eyed Satin, for he had felt the bunching of the dog’s muscles, but feeling a twisted sense of justice, he figured that McCready had coming whatever the dog did to him.

McCready’s hold wasn’t as Dutch’s had been. When the dog whined again, he barely kept his hands in place, swearing at himself. A look at Dutch showed him kneeling and rubbing his hands over his massive thighs.

Satin gave a long shudder. Another smaller one followed, then she didn’t move.

“I guess it finally worked, Dutch.”

“Guess so.”

“Where’s the sack?”

“Down below, behind that clump of rocks.”

McCready could no longer ignore the censure in Dutch’s voice. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go get it so you can carry her down.”

“Sure, boss.” Dutch lumbered to his feet, started down the trail, but stopped and looked back. “You’ve got to know how lousy I feel about this.”

“Spare me. You’ve only done this to a poor dumb dog, but I’ve got to do this to Maggie,” McCready snapped, his voice taut with exasperation and a few other emotions, among them, shame.

It seemed to placate Dutch, for he nodded and went to retrieve the sack.

McCready glanced at the covered breakfast tray he had prepared and intended as a peace offering to Maggie. How peaceful, she wouldn’t know until later. He closed the door on his conscience.

There was no other way to protect Maggie’s life.

McCready stood beside the bed in his cabin watching Maggie. She lay snugly enfolded in a drug-induced cocoon while sunlight dappled her fine-boned features like the spots on a newborn fawn hidden in a thicket. Within the confines of his pants pockets, his fingers tightened, fighting the urge to touch her. Dutch had left with the pack mule and horses; they were alone.

A bit of the lace-edged cotton of her chemise peeked from the open throat of her linsey-woolsey shirt. With a gentle rhythm, her breathing made her breasts rise and fall. She appeared sweet, vulnerable, and innocent, but he had no illusions about the snarling, spitting wildcat he would have to contend with when she finally awakened.

As the need to touch her became stronger, McCready lifted one of her hands that lay slack outside the quilt. Work-rough, bruised, and callused, nails broken to the quick, there was nothing soft, nothing feminine about the strongly made hand that he held. But it was all too easy to imagine this same hand, softened with delicately scented cream, returning the sensually seductive caresses he burned to offer her.

What was Maggie doing to him? He found himself leaning over to rub her palm against his cheek, understanding the sudden tender protectiveness that surged through him, but not why he was feeling this for Maggie.

And if she knew, she would likely laugh at him. The thought was sobering, and he set her hand down but didn’t move away. McCready gazed at the faint bluish shadows that lay beneath the gold tips of her lashes. Proof enough of the sleepless night she had had. The laudanum-induced sleep he caused gave her the benefit of much needed rest, but he doubted that Maggie would appreciate the gift.

Sap spit from a log in the fire, drawing his attention to the coffeepot he had forgotten. McCready went to the fireplace built into the far wall and nearly singed his fingers to pull the pot back before it boiled over.

There was none of the scattered clutter of Maggie’s cabin here. From the neatly stacked logs and filled wood box, to his favorite books arranged on a shelf, all was in order. Airtights of peaches and peas, jars of tomatoes, green beans, and pickles filled two open shelves in the corner cupboard. The flour, sugar, and salt were stored in crocks alongside the bottom of the cupboard. A basket of fresh eggs, meant for the free lunch offered at the Rawhider, sat on the table. Pickled beef, dried venison, and bacon should see them with enough to eat through the few weeks he thought they needed to get rid of Quincy. If luck was with him, Dutch might discover who had shot at Maggie a lot sooner.

Retrieving a cup for himself, McCready poured out the coffee. He opened the bottom of the cupboard and was about to take out a bottle of whiskey when he thought better of it. He needed to keep a clear head to deal with Maggie.

He stood gazing out the unshuttered window, sipping the coffee, wondering if he had made a mistake in estimating the strength of his willpower to be alone with Maggie for even a few days without attempting to bed her.

With a shake of his head, McCready dismissed peeking through that mind’s door. Maggie would certainly have plenty to say to him, but he doubted he would hear an invitation to share the mutual pleasures of sex.

The restless prowl of masculine hunger had him shooting an angry glance at her, resenting the hint of a smile on her lips as if she knew what he was thinking and enjoyed torturing him. It made no sense. How could he be angry with her for casting innocent allure that tempted him to forget he would never take a woman against her will? The bitter memory that surfaced sent him bolting from the confines of the cabin.

Maggie felt the tug on her senses to awaken. She turned on her side, cupping her cheek with one hand, refusing to heed its call. She drifted lazily through a misty-colored world where warmth cradled her, making her feel safe, and she snuggled deeper into its welcoming arms.

That did it! Singed, fried, and done to a turn, McCready swore and damned himself for the stupidity of believing he would get any rest stretched out on the bed with Maggie nestled tight against him.

They hadn’t started out that way. At first he had been careful to keep his distance until she had wiggled and squirmed her way to his side. Putting his arm around her wasn’t going to hurt anyone, not even when she burrowed her face against his chest with one leg flung over his thighs and wore that darn hint of a smile.

He couldn’t take any more. Shooting up from the built-in double bed, he shoved back his hair, muttering, “The hell with a clear head. I need a drink.”

He wasn’t quiet. Truth be told, he knew he was deliberately making noise, wanting Maggie up and snarling. Tossing off a quick drink, he built up the fire, then poured out another one. “Wake up, Maggie,” he called. “I need the sharp side of your tongue, Irish.” Anything would be a relief from the emotions plaguing him.

Maggie slept on.

McCready finished his drink, lit the lamp, and turned it up so with the fire burning bright the shadows were chased to the corners. He broke open a fresh deck of cards, shuffling, then packing them into place with sharp raps on the table. Maggie stirred, rolled onto her back, arms flung to the sides, murmuring.

Tilting the bottle to fill his glass, McCready wondered what happened to his idea of gifting her with sleep. He eyed the full pail of well water and knew he was losing what few wits he had left.

He hummed, dealt himself a hand of solitaire but couldn’t draw one card from the remaining pack. The level of the bottle steadily decreased, and still Maggie showed no sign of waking.

McCready tossed the cards aside, drumming his fingers to the tune he sung. Maggie murmured again, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“No you don’t, Irish. I’m not coming near you.” He turned his chair so that his back was toward her. Maybe without the tempting sight of her in view, he could find some peace.

A cottony dryness filled Maggie’s mouth. Her eyes fluttered open, closed, and stayed that way as she tried to swallow. An angry buzzing came to her ears, then a sharp rap. She struggled against the bonds that drew her back to sleep. With her eyes still closed, she felt alongside of her to test the place she rested. The bed wasn’t her own. Wriggling her nose, she inhaled the scent of wood burning and something faint that she didn’t know. The buzzing had softened, and she realized that someone was humming.

Despite the dryness of her mouth Maggie tried to call out. She heard the scrape of a chair against the wood floor and didn’t understand the cowardly urge to keep her eyes closed and flop over onto her stomach when footsteps neared.

The gentle touch on her cheek told her who it was before she opened her eyes. McCready. The mist lifted and she remembered opening the door to him this morning. But Maggie knew morning was long gone.

“What happened?” she croaked.

He didn’t bother to answer but went to fetch her a cup of water. He had his wish; Maggie was finally awake.

Maggie managed to push herself into sitting with her back braced against the wall. She couldn’t seem to fight her eyes wanting to close, but when McCready returned and cupped the back of her head with his hand, holding the cup to her lips, she managed to keep them open.

“Don’t gulp the water, Maggie mine. I’ll get you more.”

“Do it, McCready. A lot more.” She glanced around and knew without asking that this was his cabin, the one everyone knew he had, but not where. Like a greedy child she finished the second cup of water, impatient to shake off the feeling that wanted to drag her under again.

“More?” McCready asked.

Maggie shook her head.

“With your mouth all puckered up like that you look unspeakably sanctimonious, Maggie mine. Reminds me of a schoolmarm I had.”

Having no idea what he meant, Maggie ignored this. “Tell me why, McCready. You tricked me like the low-down thievin’—”

“Spare me the litany of your pet names.” Walking away, McCready set the cup on the table and lifted up the lamp. He was worried about Maggie. She had not attacked him. There wasn’t even much heat in her voice. After setting the lamp on the small bedside table, he leaned over and peered into her eyes.

Disconcerted, she frowned up at him. “What are you lookin’ for?”

“I want to make sure you’ll live. Since I went to a bit of trouble to get you here to keep you alive, don’t you agree that it would be a pity if I had accidently killed you?”

McCready saw the fear before Maggie shoved him away. “Maggie, you know I wouldn’t—”

“I know nothin’, but you bein’ a snake. It was the food, right? Smilin’ an’ fakin’ your carin’. ‘I was worried ’bout you,’ ” she mimicked his words of the morning when she opened the door to him. “ ‘Can’t be sharin’ your breakfast, Maggie, it’s all for you. I was worried an’ wantin’ to prove we can get along.’ You’ll pay, McCready. You’ll pay for every lie.”

Maggie searched for a weapon, but she couldn’t reach the lamp on the table unless she went through McCready. Grabbing one of the pillows from behind her, she threw it at him. “Rotten gully-raker!” She was incensed that he merely smiled and caught the pillow, which he tossed to the floor. She managed to scramble to her knees, landing a few feeble punches on him.

“Faith and begorra! I’ll have your hide for a saddle blanket. You’d rob bees of honey an’ sell it back to them, you gin-shepard!” Maggie landed a solid blow to his stomach. McCready winced but didn’t move or try to stop her. She could feel her strength returning; the fury she felt for his fooling her so easily boiled her blood. She wanted McCready’s hide and anything else of his she could get her hands on.

“Tinhorn,” she grated from between clenched teeth, aiming a blow to his groin. But McCready’s hand blocked her. “You loose-in-the-rump parish stallion!” Maggie went for his chin. McCready jerked his head back, and her fist slid harmlessly past his shoulder, but her strength ebbed and she fell forward.

McCready was there to catch her. “You run down yet?” he asked, grateful that his fear of having given her too much laudanum was groundless. He would rather have a spitting, snarling Maggie than the helpless companion of the day. Maggie struggled. “Stop it, now. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

“Let me go, McCready,” she demanded hotly. The soft feather tick offered little support to her knees. Maggie felt the grogginess she was trying to fight return. Having McCready’s hands on her didn’t help. “You whiskey-swillin’ hog,” she muttered, running out of names to call him.

“Now, Maggie, I’ll be the first to admit that I like my whiskey, but a hog? No fair. I’m taking exception to being called a hog. I’m a generous man, Maggie mine. I’ll share my whiskey and anything else you’d be wanting.”

“Fair? You think I’ll be fair after what you did? It’s war, McCready. Open huntin’ season on you.”

With a wave of his hand he indicated the cabin. “This, then, is your battleground for as long as it takes.”

Maggie gulped. “Long as it takes?” she repeated. The words lit another fire inside her. “You can’t keep me here!” No matter how she pushed and twisted, he refused to let her go.

“Remember that we’re married, Maggie. I can keep you here as long as I like with none to stop me.”

“You’ll have to tie me down,” she declared but with a panicked note. She had forgotten his devil’s claim of their being married. Maggie angled her head back to look up at him.

McCready smiled. “Tying you up offers several pleasing possibilities.”

“What? Spoutin’ more of your devil’s tongue?”

“No. I was just thinking that if I were half of what you called me, Maggie, I would have certainly taken advantage of your charmingly vulnerable state.” The aching fullness that strained to be closer to Maggie’s body had him adding, “I would have thought that your first concern upon waking up in my bed would have—”

Maggie wiggled her hand free and clamped it against his mouth. Her eyes were wide with understanding what she had stopped him from saying. But she was fully dressed. Except for her boots. Even for the whispered prowess of McCready, sex was impossible if she was fully clothed. But his cocky know-it-all grin was back. The sass and fight seeped out of her. Her hand slowly slid down from his mouth to his chin coming to rest on his chest.

“Tell … me.” She had to swallow. She even had to find the courage and drag it up to ask, “Did you … I mean, was I … could you really … No, you wouldn’t.” With a shudder she closed her eyes, giving up a pitiful groan.

McCready let her suffer. After all, he reasoned, he’d been through the torture of the damned all day. Stroking her tangled curls, he rested his chin on top of her head, drawing her closer to his body. “Maggie,” he murmured, “would it have been so bad if I had?” Another shudder rippled over her in answer. His lips pressed a light kiss to her hair, sure that she couldn’t feel it. She felt good in his arms, just as she had when she was curled up trustingly against him and sleeping. But it played hell with him to know that she didn’t want to be there.

“You have no morals,” she whispered, unable to keep herself from sagging against him. Her legs felt like loose gravel. Her stomach turned into a stage for the fluttery sensations to dance on.

“Not a one, Maggie mine.”

“I wouldn’t be proud as Lucifer to admit it.”

“But you see, O’Roarke, I’m trying to prove I’m not all the liar you call me.”

“You belong locked up with the key thrown away.”

“Not me, Maggie. You.”

Her green eyes flickered up in groggy confusion. She wasn’t sure she heard him right. He had both his arms around her, his forehead touching hers. Maggie noticed the dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. His shoulder-length hair brushed her cheeks. Maggie licked her dry lips. She didn’t like the way his eyes followed the tip of her tongue. McCready was dangerous. Her body was telling her so.

“McCready? Why do I belong locked up?”

He was lost in visions of her tongue gliding against his own lips. Maggie’s fingering the bruise on his cheek ended his distraction as she repeated her question.

“To keep you alive, that’s why. It’s the only way, Maggie mine. You stay locked up, and I’m the man with the only key.”