Christmas Male (14 page)

"I don't know what I can find with anyone," she told him as softly as she could. "It might be too late for me, and you have to know I'm not interested in Rick. It was just nice of him to stop by. I wish it hadn't upset you so."

She laid the flat of her hand against the hot, solid curve of his jaw. The scratchy, coarse texture of his whiskers abraded her palm—a wholly masculine feel that made her stomach cinch tight, that made her warm in places she didn't want to mention.

No, it wasn't love she felt, she thought in stubborn denial, seeing Miles's pain. She left her hand there for just a moment, gazing into his eyes, willing some comfort into her touch. When she stepped away, the palm of her hand throbbed like a wound. What if this was love?

Another knock on the door broke the silence. Miles reached past her to open it, revealing a young hopeful man standing there wearing a patched wool coat and an endearing smile.

"Are you Miss Maggie?" he asked, his blue eyes going wide. "I heard you was pretty, but the rumors don't do you justice. You're about the prettiest lady I've ever seen."

"Not another one," Miles growled out behind her, gave a huff and stormed down the hallway, leaving her alone with her next suitor.

She'd never been so popular.

I'm not jealous, Miles tried to reassure himself as he sought refuge in his east wing den. The fire was already crackling, chasing the chill from the room as he drew the door closed, trying to shut out any hint of sound coming from the front of the house. He did not want to hear Maggie talking to another man wanting to court her.

He wasn't jealous, he was irritated. Not because he cared (because he didn't), but because it reminded him of his own failed courting attempts. With teeth gritted and with every muscle in his body tensed to the point of pain, he charged across the room to his desk. Work was waiting. He'd been fleshing out ideas for a new book while he'd been finishing the last one. No time like the present to get started on it. At least that would give him something worthwhile to think about instead of wondering who would be banging on the door next, eager for a date with Maggie. The bastard.

Miles scowled, seeing red. That was harder to explain away—he could only lie to himself so much. But admitting he was jealous would have to mean admitting that he cared, and he didn't want to. He didn't have to. He was in control of his feelings damn it, and that was the way it was going to stay. His heart would bend to his will and not the other way around.

He pulled out his chair and dropped into it. Since his molars were aching, he tried unclenching his jaw a bit. It did no good, as his jaw went right back to clamping tight. Determined not to give one more thought to the woman, he rolled into place at his desk, uncapped his well of ink and adjusted the small stack of paper waiting for him on the desktop.

Montana Peril,
he wrote across the top of the sheet.
Page One.

Augusta Brown endured the close confinement of the stagecoach, gripping the edge of the seat with both hands. Dust rolled in through the open window like a brown cloud, obscuring the rugged Montana landscape. She hadn't come here to sightsee. She'd come to save her father's life—

A loud rap on the den door interrupted Miles's thoughts. He pulled out of his story, blinked to find himself at his desk and the door opening before he could call come in. Only one person in this house felt he had that kind of authority.

"Pa." He set down his pen and rolled his chair a quarter turn to get a view of his father parading in, coffeepot in hand. Pa had that harmless look to him, the one that he always used when he was trying to cover up one of his plans meant to better Miles's life.

Miles frowned. "I'm trying to work here."

"I know," Pa said amicably, moseying across the large sunny room, crossing the imported Turkish carpet with a smile and a calculating eye squint. "Just thought you might need more coffee with that hangover of yours. I asked Maggie to make it fresh."

"That was thoughtful of you." He gave his cup a push. He loved his father, but that didn't mean he intended to let down his guard. He knew what his old man was up to. "Seems like the door has been busy, opening up to so many men coming calling on her."

"Oh, I don't think she's serious about any of them." Pa easily waved the concern off as he came to a stop, hovering over the desk. He upturned the coffeepot and filled Miles' cup to the brim. "She wouldn't want to settle for men like that. They all just work for the railroad, except for Howie who works for his father's little dairy."

Oh, yeah, he knew exactly where his father was going with this. Miles leaned back in his chair, smiling. "I don't know, Pa. Maggie was willing to settle for Chester Collins."

"When he went on and on about what a good man he was. Now that she's met you, surely her standards have changed." Pa stepped back, coffee pot in hand, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "And look at you. It's been a long while since you've taken a scotch bottle to bed."

"Don't remind me." It was how he'd coped with his decimated heart after Bethleigh had made a fool of him, breaking him to the core, rendering him shattered. And before that when Sylvia had told him she was carrying his child—oops, not his child after all but the wealthy senator's son who'd reconsidered and wanted to marry her. Miles never wanted another woman to have that kind of power over him again. "Last night was nothing to worry about. I won't do it again."

"I should hope not." Pa's mouth twitched upward as he backed a few steps toward the door. "A man your age ought to be taking a woman to bed, not a bottle of scotch. Honestly. I raised you better than that, son."

"Funny. I prefer the scotch." Not really, he thought, but his father didn't need to know that.

"I don't believe you for a minute." Winston winked, turning around, crossing the room. "You're here instead of hitching up Big Jack to take Maggie to town."

"I will, when she's done with her suitors and is ready to go," he ground in a voice that made it unquestionably clear he wasn't happy with his father's topic of conversation. Miles winced, wishing his head didn't feel ready to explode. The good news was that he only had to endure being with her for just a little bit more. "Come tell me when she's ready to leave."

"All right. I'm just saying this is your last chance to ask her to stay." Pa turned at the door, appraising him. "She could spend Christmas here."

"We don't celebrate Christmas here," he pointed out, hoping his father didn't argue with that. "We don't need Christmas, and contrary to your opinion, I don't need a wife."

"All right, just checking." Pa held up his hands, innocent, and ambled out into the hall. "I'll go check on Maggie, see when she wants to go."

"I appreciate that." He glared down at his work, at the character who'd taken on Maggie's gold hair shining with red highlights when the light was right, her cornflower blue eyes and her wholesome beauty.

Yes, taking her to town would be the best thing that could happen to him. He grabbed up his pen, setting it to the paper. As for being cooped up next to her in the sleigh on the ride to town, he wasn't looking forward to that, being alone with her beauty and sweetness and allure, but he'd survive. He was a disciplined man, his will iron-strong. But was it strong enough?

He didn't know. He might feel sad that she was leaving, and that was a weakness he wasn't proud of. Miles sighed, grabbed hold of his coffee cup and stared at the page in front of him.

The truth was, he didn't want her to go.

Maggie recognized Miles's glowering mood the instant she stepped foot through the lean-to door from the kitchen into the bitter cold morning. He'd hitched up Big Jack to Winston's sleek sleigh and was waiting for her beneath a pile of soft, warm-looking buffalo robes. When he caught sight of her, his jaw tensed in incremental bits as she scampered over the few feet of hard-packed snow toward him. Muscles bunched one by one along the length of that chiseled jawline.

Poor Miles. Sympathy pinched in her chest, drawing up all sorts of warm feelings. She hardly noticed the biting cold or how her breath froze into instant white clouds as she approached the sleigh. He seemed to be dominating her senses, and she felt sorry for him. He really was having a hard time.

"I appreciate your driving me," she said as he snapped up the edge of the buffalo robes, allowing her to slip beneath them and onto the seat. "I know it wasn't your preference."

"My preference doesn't seem to matter, even in my own house. Besides, it's true, I did drink up Pops' scotch. The least I can do is replace it." His voice held a bit of a growl, but his hazel eyes held something else. Something she didn't dare try to name, but it was sincere and real and it made her wonder if she wasn't the only one fighting feelings she didn't want.

"I would have driven myself, but I've never driven a horse before." It was warm beneath the buffalo robes, thanks to the warming iron at her feet. Miles had apparently gone to the trouble to make the trip more bearable. She'd been upstairs packing, so she wouldn't have been able to hear him in the kitchen. It was such a big house.

"You grew up in the country," he said, snapping the reins. Big Jack took off, eager to get moving. "How can you not know how to drive?"

"We couldn't afford a horse." As they left the shadow of the grand house—an estate really, with dozens and dozens of windows glinting in the mid-morning sunlight—she took in one last view. She wanted to be able to tell her sisters everything about the impressive house where she'd stayed. There was a large stable tucked up near the tree line, penned in by tidy wooden fencing. A handful of stunning horses playing in the snow. It made a gorgeous picture.

"We walk everywhere we need to go," she told him. "Which isn't too bad as Holbrook is a very small town. The nearest larger town is a two hour drive one way. That's where I had to go to catch the train. It's not often we have to make that trip, but when we do Emma rents a horse and wagon from a local farmer."

"So your sister can drive, but not you?" He didn't look at her as he guided the horse around a large wave of a snowdrift taking up one part of the driveway.

"Oh, that's Emma. She has to be in charge of everyone and everything. We used to really need that when we were young." Her breath caught in her chest. At least she'd be with them soon. "Emma was there for us when our parents died and we moved in with our grandparents in Nebraska. And again helping us to adjust when we went to live in the orphanage."

"How did you get to Montana?" he asked, although how he could talk with such a clenched tight jaw was anyone's guess.

"After our grandparents passed away, we were supposed to go live with a cousin near the Dakota border, on the Montana Territory side. But he wanted nothing to do with us and handed us over to the nearest orphanage." She bowed her head, blaming her tearing eyes on the cold wind against her face. She would never forget that hopeless feeling, as if the world would never be right again. Or the unwanted, scary uncertainty of stepping foot through the front door of the Holbrook Children's Home for the first time. "At least we were together and we stayed together."

"How old were you?" He turned toward her, his granite face softer somehow, the bunched muscles gone along his jaw. Shades of caring darkened his hazel eyes.

That caring gripped her, wrapped tight around her heart. She blinked away her tears. "Fourteen."

"That had to be hard." His gaze roamed over her face, as if trying to see more of her, to see deeper. "No wonder you want to get married so badly. You want the home you kept losing over and over as a child."

"Something like that." She was the one who looked away, unable to take the intensity any more. Holding back her heart, trying not to let herself care for him any more than she already did made her chest ache, as if it was about to explode. "I do want that stability and security, of loving someone and being loved. I think I'm starting to accept it might not happen for me."

"Why not? You had a handful of suitors at the door today. Maybe all you need to do is live in a larger town. You're gorgeous. You must know that." He turned his attention to the road, his big hands gripping the reins easily, the tension back in his jaw.

"That's a word I've never heard from anyone other than my sisters." She tried to shield her heart, because his compliment meant a lot to her. She'd heard a lot of comments about her looks the past few years. Being a spinster in a tiny town made other people feel sorry for her. It affected her. A lot.

"Last spring, I went into the mercantile to pick up more soap for my boss." She bowed her head because even the memory still wrung out her heart. "I happened to overhear two farmers talking about me. One man who'd come calling on my youngest sister Dee, who was seventeen at the time, had ended up marrying a friend of Dee's. He said to his friend, 'Too bad that Maggie Carpenter girl is starting to show her age.' Well, if that wasn't hurtful enough, I tiptoed back into the aisle but not in time to keep from hearing his friend— who was a new widower, by the way —reply. He said, 'The only thing Maggie has going for her is that she's a hard worker. That's what a farmer wants in a wife.'"