The Dakota Man (2 page)

Maggie had often thought, and even more often said, that if she didn’t like Hannah so much, she could easily and quite happily hate her.

“Not a hell of a lot,” Maggie admitted in a near snarl. “But I’m not finished yet, either.”

“Indeed?” Hannah raised perfectly arched honey-brown eyebrows. “You’re going to take the scissors to your entire trousseau?”

“’Course not,” Maggie snapped. “I’m neither that stupid nor that far gone.”

“Could’a fooled me,” Hannah drawled. “I’d say, any woman who’d tear apart a gorgeous three-thousand-dollar wedding gown in a fit of rampant rage is about as far gone as is possible for a woman to be.”

Just as tall as her friend, just as slim, and no
slouch herself in the looks department, with her long mass of flaming-red hair and her creamy complexion, Maggie gave Hannah a superior look and a sugar-sweet smile.

“Indeed?” she mimicked. “Well, there’s possible, and then there’s possible. Stick around, friend, and I’ll demonstrate possibilities that’ll blow your mind.”

“You almost scare me,” Hannah said, a thread of concern woven through her husky voice. “But I will stick around…just to ensure you don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m already hurt,” Maggie cried, a rush of tears to her eyes threatening to douse the fire of anger in their emerald-green depths.

“I know.” Hannah relinquished her pose in the doorway to go to Maggie. “I know,” she murmured, drawing her friend into a protective embrace.

“I’m sorry, Hannah,” Maggie muttered, sniffing. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry anymore.”

“And you shouldn’t,” Hannah said, her voice made raspy with compassion. “That son of a bitch isn’t worth the time of day from you, never mind your tears.”

Maggie was so startled by Hannah’s curse—
Hannah
never
cursed—she stepped back to stare at her friend in tear-drying amazement.

Hannah shrugged. “Occasionally, when I’m seriously upset or furious, I lose control of my mouth.”

“Oh.” Maggie blinked away the last of the moisture blurring her vision and swiped her hands over her wet cheeks. “Well, you must be seriously one or the other, because I’ve known you since soon after you arrived here in Philadelphia from flyover country, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard a swear word from you.”

“Actually, I’m seriously both,” Hannah drawled, her tone belying the glitter in her blue eyes. “It just fries me that you’re tearing yourself apart over that…that…slimy, two-timing, money-grabbing slug.”

“Thanks, friend,” Maggie murmured, moved by Hannah’s concern for her. “I appreciate your support.”

“You’re welcome.” A smile curved Hannah’s full lips. “And it’s Nebraska.”

“What?”

“The flyover country I come from is the State of Nebraska,” she answered.

“Oh, yeah, I knew that,” Maggie said, interest sparking in her green eyes. “What’s it like there…in Nebraska?”

Hannah frowned, as if confused by both the question and her friend’s sudden show of interest on a topic she’d never before evinced any curiosity over. “The section I came from? Mostly rural, kind of placid, and at the time I decided to move to the big city, I thought, pretty dull.”

“Sounds like just the ticket,” Maggie mused aloud in a contemplative mutter.

“Just the ticket,” Hannah repeated in astonishment. “For what? Being bored silly? What are you getting at?”

Maggie’s smile could only be described as reckless. “You know those possibilities I mentioned?”

“Ye-e-es…” Hannah eyed her with budding alarm. “But now I’m almost afraid to ask.”

Maggie laughed; it felt good, so she laughed again. “I’ll tell you, anyway. Come with me, my friend,” she invited, turning away from the room and the scattered debris that had once been her wedding gown. “Venting my spleen in here made me thirsty. We’ll talk over coffee.”

“You can’t be serious.” Her half-full cup of coffee—her third—in front of her, Hannah stared at Maggie in sheer disbelief.

“I assure you I am. Dead serious,” Maggie
said, her features set in lines of determination. “I have already started the ball rolling.”

“By slashing your gown to ribbons?” Hannah asked, her tone reflecting the hope that her friend hadn’t done something even more drastic.

“Oh, that. That was symbolic.” Maggie dismissed the act with a flick of her hand. “I couldn’t stand looking at it another minute. No,” she said, shaking her head. “What I have done to get the ball rolling was to spend this lovely Sunday morning composing notes to all the guests invited to the wedding, informing them that there would be no wedding, after all, e-mailing those on-line, and preparing the rest for snail-mail delivery.”

“If you’d given me a holler, I’d have gladly helped you with that,” Hannah said, heaving a sigh of exasperation.

“Thanks, but, well…” Maggie shrugged. “That chore is done.”

“You didn’t e-mail your parents….” Hannah’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you?”

“Well, of course not. I telephoned them.” Maggie sighed. “They were understandably upset, insisted I go spend some time with them in Hawaii.”

“Good idea.”

Maggie gave a quick head shake. “No, it isn’t. They both took early retirement and moved to Hawaii to relax after Dad’s mild heart attack. If I went there, in the mood I’m in, Mom would probably knock herself out to fuss all over me. Dad would likewise fret, curtail his golf games and try to distract and entertain me. And I’d feel guilty as hell because of it.”

Hannah frowned but nodded. “I suppose.”

Maggie soldiered on. “I also drafted a letter to my superior at work, giving my one-month notice of my intention to leave the firm.”

Hannah’s eyes widened with alarm. “Maggie, you didn’t.”

“I did,” Maggie assured her, raising a hand to keep her friend from interrupting. “What’s more, I faxed a Realtor I know, asking him if he’d be interested in listing my apartment for sale.”

Hannah jumped from her chair. “Maggie, no.” She shook her head, setting her sleek, bobbed honey-brown hair swinging. “You can’t do that.”

“I damn well can,” Maggie retorted. “My grandmother left this place to me, I own it free and clear.” She rolled her eyes. “And the forever taxes that go with it.”

“But…” Her hair swung again, wildly. “Why? Where will you go? Where will you live?”

“Why? Because I’m tired of the treadmill, nose to the grindstone, following the rules.” Maggie shrugged. “Who knows, maybe I’ll join the circus.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this.” As if unable to remain still, Hannah began to pace back and forth in front of the table. “To give up your job, sell your apartment…” Hannah threw up her hands. “That’s crazy.”

“Hannah—” Maggie came close to shouting “—I feel crazy.”

“So you’re just going to take off?”

“Yes.”

“For how long, for Pete’s sake?”

Maggie hesitated, shrugged, then answered, “Until I’m broke, or no longer feel crazy enough to break things and hurt people… Todd what’s-his-name in particular.”

“Oh, Maggie,” Hannah murmured in commiseration, dropping onto her chair. “He’s not worth all this anguish.”

“I know that,” Maggie agreed. “But knowing it doesn’t help. So I’m cutting out, cutting loose.”

“But, Maggie…” Hannah actually wailed.

Maggie shook her head, hard. “You can’t change my mind, Hannah. I’ve got the itch to run free for a while and I’m going to scratch it.”

“But you must have some idea where you’re going,” Hannah persisted, always the one for detail.

“No.” Maggie shrugged. “Who knows, maybe I’ll wind up in Nebraska.”

Three months later

T
he redhead knocked the breath out of him. A jolt of energy, physical and sexual in nature, made the body-blow a double whammy.

Mitch was both shocked and confused by his reaction to the woman Karla ushered into his office. It certainly wasn’t that she was a stunning beauty; she wasn’t. Oh, it wasn’t that she was not attractive; she most definitely was, very attractive. But he knew many attractive and even
a few stunning women, and yet he had never experienced such a strong and immediate response to any one of them.

Strange.

Baffled, yet careful not to reveal his condition, Mitch studied the woman as she crossed the room to his desk. On closer inspection, one might even concede she possessed a particular beauty…if one had a weakness for tall, slender women with creamy skin, a wide mouth with full lips, slightly slanted forest-glen-green eyes and long, thick hair of a deep shade of flaming red.

Apparently, Mitch wryly concluded, he did have such a previously unrecognized weakness.

At least, his knees felt a little weak; he felt the tremor in them when she drew closer.

Up close, she looked even better…damn the luck.

But, one thing was for certain, Mitch mused, she sure as hell hadn’t dressed to make an impression. Her casual attire made a silent declaration of her utter disregard for conventional, or his personal, opinion.

She came to a stop next to a chair in front of his desk.

Mitch came to his senses.

Cursing his uncharacteristic distraction, he made a show of perusing her application.

“Ms. Reynolds?” Raising his gaze from the papers in his hand, he offered her a faint smile.

“Yes.” Her attractive voice was soft, modulated, neutral, her return smile a pale reflection of his own.

He leaned forward over his desk and extended his right hand. “Mitch Grainger,” he said, amazed by the tingling sensation caused by the touch of her palm to his in the brief handshake. “Have a seat.” He flicked the still-tingling hand at the chair beside her.

“Thank you.” With what appeared to be relaxed and effortless grace, she stepped in front of the chair and lowered herself into it. Settled, she met his direct stare with calm patience.

Watch it, Grainger,
Mitch advised himself.
This is one woman determined not to be intimidated.

He arched a brow. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, while I give your application a quick once-over?”

She deigned to nod her permission.

Cool? Mitch speculated, unlocking his gaze from the brilliant green of hers to skim the
application. Or was she, like Natalie Crane, just plain glacier-cold, through and through?

To his astonishment, after the fiasco of his engagement, Mitch found himself anticipating the opportunity to discover the answers to his questions about this particular woman.

Speed-reading the forms, Mitch quickly concurred with Karla’s enthusiastic opinion; Maggie Reynolds’s credentials were very impressive. A fact that had been pleasing to them both as Karla had been thus far unsuccessful in finding a suitable replacement.

Lifting his head, Mitch tested her with a piercing stare and his most forbidding tones. “You can produce references to confirm the information provided?”

“Not at hand,” she said, her voice as cool and unruffled as her demeanor. “But I can obtain them.”

He nodded; he had expected no less. “You appear to be well qualified for this position,” he admitted, unfamiliar excitement quickening inside him at the idea of her working for him, at his beck and call, five days a week. But his hidebound sense of honor insisted he be completely honest. “In fact, you are overqualified. A bigger
city would offer you much better opportunities for corporate advancement.”

She smiled.

His blood pressure rose a notch.

“I’m aware of that,” she said. “But, while I appreciate your candor, and advice, I’ll pass on it.”

Too cool, Mitch reiterated…and just a hint of condescension. The woman had guts to spare; not many dared to condescend to him.

“Why?” He shot the question at her.

She didn’t shoot back. Then again, maybe she did, only she fired with a flashing, mind-bending smile.

Mitch felt the hit…and rather enjoyed it.

“As I explained to your assistant, and as my application attests, I’ve been there, done that,” she said. “I’m tired of the struggle.” She shrugged. “I suppose you might say my edge got dull.”

Mitch wouldn’t have said there was a damn thing dull about her. At any rate, he wasn’t prepared to say it to her, not at this point of their association. And, for some reason, or quirk in his own nature, he was determined on their having an association.

“I see” was all he would say.

“Besides,” she continued, “I like the look of this town, the Old West ambience. It’s quaint.”

Quaint. Mitch nodded. It was that. “When did you arrive? Have you seen much of the town?” He had to smile. “Not that there’s much to see.”

“I…er, strolled around this morning,” she answered, her hesitancy and obvious reluctance revealing her first signs of uncertainty.

Mitch decided to probe for the reason for her reticence. “You didn’t take a ride on the Deadwood Trolley?”

She shook her head, setting her hair swaying around her shoulders like living flames…and kicking his imagination into high gear.

“No.” Her full, tempting lips curved into a faint smile; his imagination soared off the gauge. “My father always said that shoe-leather express was the best way to see any city,” she explained. “I can ride the trolley another day.”

As fascinated as Mitch surely was by her mouth, he didn’t miss the fact that she had answered only part of his two-part question. Naturally, he wondered why.

“And when did you say you arrived?” he asked, with gentle persistence.

A spark flared to life in the depths of her
fabulous green eyes. Annoyance, anger? Mitch mused.

“I didn’t say.” Her voice held an edge.

Good, Mitch thought. He wanted her on edge, off balance, her cool composure rattled. In his experience, he had found he learned more that way.

“I know.” He smiled…and waited.

She sighed, clearly losing patience with his persistence. “I arrived yesterday,” she finally admitted.

Mitch wasn’t through yet. “From where? Philadelphia?”

She gave him a level look, as if taking his measure. Mitch felt that tingly sensation again, this time throughout his entire system. He liked it. Once more, he merely smiled and waited, returning her measuring look.

“No.” She didn’t smile; she met his look with green fire. “I left Philly months ago, on an extended vacation tour of the country. I arrived here via a small town in Nebraska, where I had stopped for lunch.”

“But you were originally headed for Deadwood?” Mitch thought it a reasonable question. Evidently, Ms. Maggie Reynolds did not, if her
fleeting expression of exasperation was anything to go by.

“No.” She shook her head, setting the red strands swirling once more.

Mitch’s fingers itched to delve into the fiery mass, just to see if it burned him. When she didn’t continue on with an explanation, he raised a nudging eyebrow, determined now to hear the whole of her story.

Silence stretched between them for several seconds, then she capitulated with a the-hell-with-it shrug. “While waiting for my lunch, I checked my finances,” she said grittily. “The bottom-line balance indicated that it was time for me to go back to work—” she shrugged “—and here I am.”

She had managed to surprise him, a rare accomplishment for anyone; he had long since been surprised by much of anything. Mitch glanced down at the bona fides on her application. A frown creased his brow when he looked up at her. “I don’t get it,” he admitted. “With your credentials, you could have secured an excellent-paying position in any major city.” He refrained from adding that he was glad she hadn’t. “Why Deadwood?”

She shifted in her chair, revealing her
mounting impatience. “I think I’ve already explained that.”

He agreed with a slight nod. “Been there, done that, tired of the grind. Right?”

“Yes.” Her smile had a hint of smugness.

“But, if you’re running out of money…” Mitch let his voice trail off, not yet ready to let her off the hook by quoting the salary he was prepared to offer her, for he definitely was going to hire her.

“I’m not running out of money,” she corrected him. “I’m running a bit low. There is a difference.”

“Point taken,” he admitted, deciding he liked this woman’s style. “But…why Deadwood?” he repeated, now merely curious about her choice.

She smiled.

His stomach muscles constricted.

“Believe it or not,” she said, “I overheard the men seated in the booth behind me talking about it.” She shrugged. “So, I figured…why not?”

Guts, style and insouciance. Some combination, and, thankfully, not in the least similar to Natalie, Mitch thought, tamping down an urge to laugh. He was looking forward to working with, matching wits with and, hopefully, gaining
a more intimate relationship with this woman. But he didn’t want to appear too eager or show his hand too soon.

“As I’m sure you couldn’t help but notice, my assistant is in her third trimester of pregnancy,” he said.

“It is pretty hard to miss,” she responded dryly.

“Yes.” He paused, allowed his concern for Karla to show on his expression. “I’m growing anxious about finding someone to replace her, she needs to rest more.” He paused again, pursed his lips, just for effect.

She didn’t betray knowledge of his “effect.” She held his steady gaze with cool green eyes.

His admiration for her expanding, Mitch silently applauded her display of composure. “That being the case, the position is yours…if you still want it.”

“I do.” She nodded. “Thank you.”

Then he quoted a salary figure.

That got a reaction from her. It was quick, but there, in the slight flicker of surprise in her eyes, her expression. She controlled it just as quickly.

“That’s more than generous,” she said. “When would you like me to start?”

Immediately, he thought. “As soon as possible,” he said.

“It’s Thursday.” She raised a perfectly arched, dark red eyebrow. “Will Monday suit?”

“Fine,” he agreed, somehow certain it would be a very long weekend.

Although she had endured the actual torture rather than allow her consternation to show, Maggie exited Grainger’s office feeling as if she had been grilled to a turn by the Spanish Inquisition. She recalled the conversation she had overheard last night in a nearby restaurant. A woman who had interviewed for this position had stated a very adept description of Mitch Grainger. That young woman in the restaurant hadn’t exaggerated; he was every bit as hard as bedrock, maybe harder, hard and tough, intelligent and probing, and physically attractive…devastatingly so.

After that nerve-jangling interview, Maggie felt as if his image was imprinted on her mind, never to be erased. And the image was more than a little disturbing.

The first thing Maggie had noticed about Mitch Grainger, even as he sat behind his desk, was his height. He was tall, at least six two,
possibly three. He had the lean, well-toned body of a top-notch, worth-a-bizillion-dollars quarterback. His hair was dark, his eyes a piercing gray. His skin was sun-burnished. His clothes were expensive, impeccably tailored to his broad-shouldered, long-muscled frame.

Yes, indeedy, Mitch Grainger was sexy and good-looking…if one were susceptible to sharply defined features, cool reserve, an air of absolute command, blatant sensuality and quick, intelligent wit with attitude.

Fortunately, for Maggie’s peace of mind, she was not so inclined. Within seconds of entering his office, she had labeled him an arrogant, chauvinistic ram, hiding inside the trappings of civilized clothing.

And she had just signed on to work for the man. The emotional side of Maggie urged her to run for the nearest exit. Her practical side reminded her that she needed the money, or she wouldn’t be running very far for very long.

“How did it go?” Karla asked, equal measures of anxiety and hope in her tones.

Jarred from her less-than-encouraging introspection, Maggie dredged up a smile. “He hired me. I start Monday.”

As if she had been holding it, Karla’s breath
came out in a whooshing sound. “Oh, good,” she said, a bright smile lighting her pretty face. “He was driving me crazy.”

Great. Just what she needed to hear, Maggie thought, sinking onto the chair Karla indicated with a wave of her hand. Convinced her initial concern about Karla’s obvious anxiety over finding her replacement was because the man was an absolute tyrant, she was almost afraid to ask “Why?”

“He thinks I should rest more.”

“So he said,” Maggie confided.

“Oh, he’s so-o-o protective,” Karla said, heaving a sigh and rolling her eyes. “This last week especially…just because my ankles have been swelling a little.”

He was so-o-o protective? He noticed a little swelling in her ankles? Well, she guessed she could credit the man’s supposed tyrannical behavior as the reason for Karla’s overanxiousness, Maggie thought, her mental gears beginning to spin.

Why would an employer, a bedrock-hard employer at that, evince such concern…her gears ground to a halt at a sudden, most startling of questions: could Mitch Grainger be the father of Karla’s baby?

Well, of course he could, Maggie chided herself. He was a man, wasn’t he? A blatantly sensuous man.

For some inexplicable reason beyond her comprehension, she suddenly felt queasy.

“Is something wrong?” Karla asked, peering at Maggie with concern. “You’re pale. Are you feeling ill?”

No, not ill, disgusted, Maggie assured herself, working up another smile. “No…” She shook her head and raked her mind for a reasonable response. “I…er, everything happened so fast, you know. It’s exciting but a little unnerving, too.” She managed a laugh, a weak one, but a laugh. Sort of. “I mean, who ever expects to get hired for a job—” she snapped her fingers “—like that?”

“I know what you mean.” Karla laughed, too, for real. “But that’s Mr. Grainger’s way. He is decisive, forceful, and he has a tendency to be a bit overwhelming.”