Mountain Wild (Harlequin Historical Series) (18 page)

A
ll morning she managed to avoid the haunting allure of a room shrouded by heavy draperies. Streaks of light cut through the darkness, brightening silky pink wallpaper and piercing her memories, awakening images of another time—another life.

Instead of taking the stairs, Maggie stepped into the play of light and shadows of a parlor where dust lay thick on every surface. Fine-boned furnishings maintained a delicate beauty beneath the musty odor and a floating shimmer of intricate webs. A piano, alone in a corner, held her transfixed. Ghostly whispers of familiar melodies echoed in the back of her mind.

She hadn’t seen a piano since she’d sat at her own. Her father’s actually.

Play something sweet for me, Maggie.

His image drew her closer, his long frame relaxed in the pink tufted chair, his eyes closed, his silver hair a soft wave against his forehead. Her fingers reached toward ivory keys as she settled on the cool rosewood bench. Her father’s favorite song trickled through her mind as her fingertips brushed the smooth surface, her light touch barely disturbing a silty film. Her hands moved silently over the keys, following the music playing in her mind.

Well done, button. Your mother could not have played any sweeter. It will be a lucky suitor who wins your delicate hand.

Her gaze fell to the scarred and callused fingers poised over the keys. Sadness rushed her heart at the thought of her father’s disappointment. He’d loved her and had envisioned nothing but refined comfort for her future. He hadn’t meant to leave her unprepared for the harsh realities of her life.

A prickling chill crept up the back of her neck. The internal warning she’d been too naive to recognize at the age of thirteen pulled her from her thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder and spied a tall figure looming. She gasped, lunging up. As she turned her hip banged against the piano. A clash of heavy vibrations exploded across the room.

“Maggie?” His rich voice eased her fright.

“Garret.”

His face moved into a spray of light, casting off the dark pallor of old memories. The purple smudges beneath his green eyes and the puffy gash above his eyebrow reminded her that she’d been heading upstairs. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Lookin’ for my magpie.”

Her heart fluttered at the endearment and she looked away. Her gaze collided with his bare chest and followed the dusting of crisp blond hair to denims riding low on his hips, the top button unfastened. His bare feet were the only part of his exposed body not baring bruises.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his concern palpable.

“You startled me. I wasn’t expecting you to come downstairs.”

Garret had been surprised to find her sitting at the piano as though giving a silent recital. Before sensing his presence she’d been a picture of perfect poise and grace, her shoulders squared beneath her buckskin tunic, her spine erect as her arms moved in graceful rhythm. And yet, the only sound she made was a light tap of her fingers barely touching the keys.

He reached her side and sat on the narrow bench.

“Your arm should be in the sling,” she said, her expression firming as her gaze moved over his bare chest.

Afraid she’d fled before he’d fully roused, he hadn’t taken the time to pull on more than a pair of Levi’s. “My shoulder’s doing good. Those hot packs and whatever you put in them sure helped with the pain and the swelling.” Throughout the night she’d placed warm packs of pungent herbs on his shoulder and abdomen, easing his aches. But it was Maggie’s heat, the feel of her settling back against his side that had truly soothed him.

Judging by the shadows in her eyes and the steel in her spine, it was his magpie that needed soothing. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her onto the bench beside him.

“I didn’t know you played,” he said, tucking her snuggly against him.

“I don’t.”

He’d just seen proof that she did. He glanced at the sad curve of her mouth as she stared at the piano as though fearing it might somehow reveal her secrets.

“I did once,” she amended, her voice just above a whisper. “But it’s been so long…I don’t remember how.”

“That’s a true shame,” he said, certain he’d have heard a song played with perfect precision, had she applied any pressure to the keys. His finger clanked one of the ivory bars. The hollow sound echoed across the high ceiling. “I can’t play a tune. Just like the wallpaper and fancy furnishings, the piano came with the house. The only time this thing makes music is when Chance’s wife or my nieces drop in. Cora plays real well and has been teaching all the girls. When the twins sit down here together, it’s like heaven opens up.”

He trailed a finger through the dust on the keys. Maggie curled her fingers into her palms, as though resisting the urge to play. A tear, silent as her song, slid down her cheek.

“Was your childhood home so bad?” he asked, her quiet distress tearing at his heart.

She shook her head. “It was
wonderful.
” She sniffed and wiped at her cheeks. She stood and stepped around the bench. “Can I assume it’s been a while since your nieces have visited?”

He turned on the smooth seat and followed her gaze around the neglected room. “At least five months. This time of year is busy for everyone. Over summer and up until the snow hits the passes my sister and Cora take mercy on me and drop in near once a month. As you can see, I don’t spend much time in this part of the house.”

“It’s a beautiful room.”

“If you say so. Might actually get some use if I started storing tack in here. I spend more time in a saddle than anywhere else.”

Her laughter was light, musical, and eased the tension in Garret’s chest. He much preferred seeing her blue eyes bright with a smile than the shadow of painful memories.

“Come on,” she said, holding her hand out to him. “You need some breakfast.”

He closed his palm around hers. His teeth clenched as he stood, the shift of bruised ribs and sore muscles reminding him he’d had the hell beat out of him the day before. Maggie’s expression tensed.

“You shouldn’t even be out of bed,” she scolded.

“I can’t heal if I don’t move.”

Her arm curved lightly around his waist as she stepped beside his side. He didn’t mind her closeness, but he could walk without assistance.

“I’m not gonna fall.”

“Not intentionally. If you did I don’t think your pride, vast as it is, would cushion you.”

“It would be a pure wonder if I had any pride left,” he mused. “My woman coming to my rescue not once, but twice. A lesser man would take issue.”

She smiled up at him. Liking that reaction, Garret gripped her waist a bit tighter as they walked through the dim corridor leading to the kitchen.

“Lucky for us you’re not a lesser man,” she said. “You’re simply stubborn for no good reason.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of being stubborn? You don’t have to have a good reason. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m Mad Mag. I have to be stubborn.”

“Part of your act?”

She laughed again, the light sound moving through him with such power, Garret knew for certain—he’d been thunder-struck by her.

“Is that what you think?”

“I think you’re ten kinds of wonderful and the sweetest woman I’ve ever known.”

She paused in the kitchen doorway, surprise lighting her expression as she stepped aside. “Then I’m clearly not being stubborn enough.” She moved past him into the kitchen and Garret felt another nick in his pride. He breathed in appetizing aromas as his gaze moved over a spotless kitchen. Every hutch and cabinet had been dusted, their glass fronts sparkling beneath lit oil lamps. Pots and kettles steamed on the large stove. Maggie opened the oven and he noticed one of her flowery dish towels hanging from another handle.

She’d cleaned up after him.

He sat at the table she’d also given a scrubbing. Wasn’t a damn thing he could do about the state of his house or his pride. She was here, which was exactly where he wanted her to be.

“You’ve been busy. My place is a site more run-down than yours.”

“I don’t run a ranch,” she said, busily sorting through various canvas and leather pouches lined up across the drain board near the sparkling sink basin. “And I have a lot less to keep clean.”

“Have you seen Boots this morning?”

“No, but Mitch came in earlier and said he’s doing well.”

She’d talked with his crew?

“I offered to take him,” she said as she turned, a steaming coffee mug in her hands. “But Mitch said he’d rather keep him in the bunks until you were on your feet.”

Garret was pretty sure the mug lacked the strong, dark brew his body was craving. The dull ache in his head needed
coffee.

She stepped beside him, the barest hint of a smile on her lips, and he counted himself lucky to have her here, brewing the herbal tea she placed in front of him. She set the teapot at the center of the table.

“Thank you.” He took a deep drink and was surprised by the strong combination of woody herbs and sweetness, nothing like the tea she’d made him in her cabin.

“Do you like it?” she asked, still standing beside him.

“It’s sweet. What is it?”

“Nothing poisonous,” she assured him as she went back to the stove. “I barter a variety of wild herbs. Another reason Boots and I took our time in getting here.”

“You sure know a lot about doctoring and herbs for a woman who keeps to herself.”

“Trapping can be a hazardous trade. Weak and clumsy as I was in the beginning, Ira had to seek out an Indian camp when I had a cut that needed stitching.” She turned with a plate in her hands, a smile on her lips. “I spent quite a bit of time with the Sioux, and I learned a lot.”

Garret was taken aback by her easy delivery of information she’d held under lock and key up at her cabin.

“A little burnt,” she said, leaning over the table to set a plate heaping with fried ham and potatoes in front of him. “I was keeping it warm and I’m not used to your stove.”

“This isn’t burnt,” he said, taking a bit of crispy potatoes and tender ham. “It tastes good. Burnt is when you can’t tell what the black coals used to be. We get that in the bunkhouse from time to time.”

Maggie smiled as she sat across from him. She propped her elbows on the table, a mug of tea between her scarred hands—
skilled
hands that had nursed him back to health more than once. He doubted he’d be able to move his left shoulder today if not for her constant tending of herbs and hot packs.

“Thanks for staying last night, Maggie. You didn’t have to.”

“I had a feeling the Morgans would have knocked you out and hauled you over the mountain if I didn’t offer to stick around.”

“They might have
tried,
” he said darkly.

“They care about you. No harm in that.”

“You haven’t met my sister. Her caring can be downright brutal.”

The sudden chill in Maggie’s eyes made Garret pause midbite.

“I didn’t mean that literally, darlin’,” he said, amused by her protective reaction. “She tends to hover, is all, like any good mother hen.”

“She raised you?”

“Our ma died of pneumonia when I was five. Skylar had her hands full, driving stock for our pa and lookin’ after me.”

“I never met my mother.” She lifted the teapot at the center of the table and refilled his mug. “She died shortly after I was born. I was named after her.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

“She was,” she said, missing his intended compliment. “Our house was full of portraits of her. She was taller than me and had light brown hair and skin like fine porcelain. I take after my father.”

“Did he live in Wyoming?”

“He did, but he was originally from Connecticut. He came West after Mother died.” She stared down at the table as though staring into a window on her past. “We always had visitors from back East. Father would take them hunting and
fishing. He loved Wyoming. He said it was the only place a man could step outside and see heaven.”

“Can’t argue with that. I’ve ridden through every state in the South and the Midwest and none are so beautiful as these hills and mountains. Have you been to Connecticut?”

“A few times when I was real young.”

“Did you like it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like to think about my life before Ira.”

“Why not?”

She shifted her gaze to the wall behind him. “Your wife must have really liked pink. I have yet to find a room in this house that doesn’t have pink wallpaper.”

“My
ex
-wife didn’t decorate the house,” Garret said, not appreciating her new tactic of evasion. “She left with everything she brought with her. Every decoration in this house is the handiwork of Widow Jameson, the original owner.”

“More?” she asked, glancing at his empty plate.

“No. Thank you.”

She took his plate and scooted his mug closer. “Drink your tea,” she said as she stood and went to the sink.

Her knack for giving orders hadn’t changed. As sweet as she could be, he knew she also had a harshness to her—a reality he’d seen the night she took out Strafford.

Mad Mag has made herself a real nuisance, releasin’ stock and vandalizin’ ranches. We’re goin’t’ find ’er…

The man’s Southern drawl had haunted him all night, along with images of Maggie surrounded by masked men. He wondered where else Maggie had been headed yesterday, why she’d come back and how in the hell he would convince her to stay. The thought of her traveling alone with such a band of men after her…

She stepped beside him and held up a fresh pot of tea. He pushed his chair back and set the mug on the table.

“Maggie, why did you come back yesterday?”

“I was headed north. I stopped by the river so Star could rest and have a drink. A group of riders rode past. I heard one of them say they’d shot a dog and might have killed the owner.”

A chill raced across his skin at the thought of her being so close to the men who were hunting her.

“Your ranch was the closest.” She set the teapot on the table and shifted her shoulders. “I wanted to make sure Boots was all right.”