Christmas Male (11 page)

"You know why." Miles ground his molars together, red hazing his vision. He didn't like being this out of control. "Next time I see you anywhere near her, I'll do more than break your nose. Stay away from her."

"From who?" Chester had the nerve to ask innocently, as if he had no clue. As if he was the epitome of innocence.

The red hazing Miles's vision turned brighter crimson and a violent wave of fury blinded him. He had to storm out of the cabin and into the wintry refuge of the storm to keep from pummeling the sorry excuse for a man half to death. What kind of man snuck in to peep at a nice lady during her bath, breaking into a house where she believed she was safe? Miles was so mad, it felt like his head would explode. He stormed over to Big Jack and untied him.

It can't be a good sign that I'm madder now than I was before.
That thought troubled him as he wheeled the horse around and sent him charging through the cruel storm. As dangerous as the blizzard was, Miles had to admit his reaction to Maggie was more dangerous still. It was something to ponder.

Maggie couldn't sleep. She punched the firm feather pillow and rolled on her side on the incredibly comfortable feather mattress, and sighed. Not more than an hour had passed since Miles had left her standing in the hallway. Just an hour ago she'd realized how attracted she was to him, needing him in a way she'd never felt. Not once in her twenty-two years. Why did it have to be Miles?

He was never going to be the marrying kind. He’d never trust a woman who'd agreed to be a mail-order bride. No, that was too much like his fiancée, who'd only seen him as a way to better her lifestyle. In her mind, she'd made Chester out to be a simple but good man, much like the two men who'd come calling back in Holbrook when she was younger.
Much
younger.

She smiled fondly, remembering. Both had been farmers, decent and hard-working men. One had tried to come calling when she was sixteen, just out of the orphanage. No way could she have left Emma, who'd worked so hard to afford a shanty to house her. So Maggie had regretfully turned him down. A year later, another farmer approached her, a widower with two small children. She would have liked to say yes, she felt a fondness for him and his kids, but Emma had fallen ill and couldn't work for a while. There were medical bills and two more sisters still in the orphanage. She'd chosen her sisters, and she didn't regret it—would never regret it.

Never. Her heart warmed as she thought of them. They would be sound asleep in their cozy little shanty, the bunk beds in frames against the wall. Longing filled her, squeezing painfully in her chest. She missed them so much, her bones ached with it. She just wanted to go home.

At a loss, Maggie sat up. The heavy layer of blankets and quilts fell away and she shivered. Yikes, it was freezing. The storm outside railed against the house, the wind howling like a wolf, much worse than it had been before. Which meant whoever had been lurking in the house wouldn't be coming back. Not tonight. That should be some comfort, but it wasn't. Too much troubled her.

There was no way she was going to sleep now, so she groped in the dark for her quilted housecoat. Teeth chattering, she slipped into it, pulled on her knitted slippers and crept across the room. Her toe bumped into something—an ottoman. She caught herself before she tumbled over it. John and Winston had moved her into a different bedroom—they had so many to choose from in this amazing house. This room was closer to them and not so isolated. As John had said, "We want to keep a good close eye on you."

More warmth filled her. Those kindly older men made her feel less alone. They were like family, kind and proper and gentlemanly. Exactly the kind of man she'd been hoping Chester's pa would be. Look how well that turned out. She rolled her eyes. Chester wasn't just a drunk and disrespectful to women, but he'd broken into the house and peeped at her. Honestly, she couldn’t have been more wrong about him.

It was time to tell her sisters she would be coming, she decided as she fumbled in the dark, her fingers searching along the little table next to the chair and ottoman. She caught her shadowed reflection in the mirror, deeply glad for the dark that hid the start of fine, tell-tale lines around her eyes—proof she was aging, proof she wasn't desirable, a fading rose. While she wasn't vain, it did hurt. Very much.

She walked her fingers along the tabletop until she found her reticule. She scooped it up, felt through the fabric to make sure her little ink well and pen were in there, and headed for the door. Since sleep eluded her, she would make this time productive. She tiptoed from the room and crept down the hall, careful not to wake anyone, especially Miles.

Miles, she thought, shaking her head, he was a problem. She had to make it clear to her body that he was not an option. No way, no how. So she had better find a way to stop this hot, insistent attraction she felt for him. That man was a heartbreaker. She'd better be careful or he would break hers and not even know it. But as she crept past his closed bedroom door, heat fired in her veins. Frustrated, she hurried down the hall.

By the time she'd reached the bottom of the stairs, her pulse was back to normal. She padded quickly down the hallway, feeling her way through the house with a light touch on the walls and circled around the grandfather clock. The house felt calm in the dark, hushed and content, empty. Without one Christmas decoration anywhere, it felt impersonal too. Not that it was any of her business, but still. If she owned a grand house like this, she would fill it with warmth and beauty and cheer.

She wandered into the dark kitchen, searching for the lamp in the center of the table. Once she'd found it, she lit a match and sank into one of the chairs, watching the soft light chase back the darkness. She rummaged around in her reticule until she had everything she needed. An envelope with her name on it.

It was the letter they'd given her at the train depot, and she smiled deep inside, all the way to her soul. As she loosened the flap and pulled the single sheet of paper from the envelope, the terrible ache of missing them vanished.

Dear Maggie,

Now it's your turn to find love. Enjoy the adventure! (written in Abby's looping script).

May you find your one true love. Be happy. (Dee's block letters).

If you get into trouble, write and I'll send money (Emma's precise, tidy writing).

Love,

Your adoring sisters (Abby had written it, Emma was not that demonstrative).

Maggie blinked tears from her eyes. Oh, how she loved those sisters of hers. She traced her fingertips over the written letters, feeling the love there. One thing was for sure, distance could never diminish their bonds. She gave a little sniff, twisted the cap off her little ink bottle and picked up her pen.

Dear Abby, Dee and Emma,

Thanks for your note. It brought tears to my eyes and love to my heart when I really needed it. Chester turned out to be not what he claimed (Emma, you had that right) and so I'll be taking the train to Callie's house to spend a few days for Christmas (I don't have enough funds to make it all the way home to you). I shall see you soon, but in the meantime I'm safe and missing you all terribly.

Sending my love,

Maggie

She signed her name with a flourish when she heard a man clear his throat behind her.

Miles.

Miles couldn't believe his eyes. She was lovelier every time he looked at her. Her hair was unbraided and falling down her slender back like liquid gold, shimmering in the lamplight. Miles groaned, overwhelmed with the urge to wind his fingers through those silken strands, to hold her captive while he kissed her. And kissed her.

And kissed her until she melted beneath him.

Whoa, there.
He fisted his hands and summoned up the strength to purge that image from his head. Unaware of his heated thoughts, sweet Maggie twisted around in the chair to force a smile.

"You couldn’t sleep either?" she asked, her voice scratchy, her face flushing pink.

Well, no wonder she was blushing. He'd seen her naked. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, that fantastic memory of her perfect breasts blazing into his brain. Hell, he was never going to be able to look at her without seeing them and that wasn't all. She'd been spellbinding—curving hips and slender thighs, the golden hair there, hiding her secrets.

Enough!
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, thankful for the bottle he'd swiped from Pop's liquor cabinet on his way past the den. When he opened his eyes, Maggie was on her feet, swishing toward him in a very proper quilted housecoat buttoned all the way up to her throat. Her face had turned bright pink—she was perhaps remembering her nudity too—and her sweet, heart-shaped face crinkled with genuine concern.

"What did you do to your hand?" She sounded alarmed, as if it mattered to her that he was hurt. "It's swollen and bruised. You'd better let me see it."

"I'm fine," he growled, taking a step back. Damned if he'd let her close. Not with the way his gaze kept sinking southward to the press of her bosom against her housecoat and the unmistakable sway of her unbound breasts. Hell, he was doomed if he didn't find a way to keep from thinking about that. He ground his teeth and reared back a few more steps. Act tough, that was the best way to deal with it, he thought, straightening his shoulders. "It's nothing. I just need a drink."

And a much bigger drink now, he thought, since she was standing in front of him with her big, gentle blue eyes staring up at him with feeling.

He'd had women stare up at him just like that before, as if they cared deeply, and it hadn't been real. Not one whit of it. Just pretend, that's all women did, he reminded himself, whether he really believed it or not. It made it easier to ignore the tantalizing scent of vanilla and warm woman as he marched past her and set the bottle of scotch on the table with a hard clunk. His blood thrummed hot in his veins. He felt ready to explode needing something he couldn't have (which was her). So he went in search of a glass because he couldn’t have Maggie, then he could have all the scotch he needed to forget her.

"An injury isn't nothing," she argued in her alluring, sweet-as-sin voice, the kind of voice a man liked to hear in the dark of night saying all kinds of naughty things.

He blew out a heavy, weary sigh and opened a cabinet. This is what a man got for going too long without a woman. He seized a short crystal glass—no, not big enough—and grabbed a coffee mug instead. He set it on the table, nearly bumping into Maggie, who'd closed in, unaware of the danger.

Or maybe she did know, he thought. Was there a chance she knew how he felt? Did she have a clue? He considered that as she gathered his hand in hers. The impact of her touch was like electricity telegraphing through him in one big shocking zing. His first instinct was to jerk his hand free to protect himself, but she had a surprisingly firm grip on him. Besides, he couldn't quite do it. Something inside held him back, kept him from pulling away.

"How did you get this?" She leaned in closer, her hair cascading forward now, brushing the curve of her face and tumbling over her slender shoulders. Those blond locks glinted faintly red in the light, falling over her breasts, and he swallowed hard, one big gulp.

Never, not once in his life, had he ever wanted anyone more.

He definitely needed a lot of scotch and he needed it now.

"Don't pull away." She protested as he wrestled out of her grasp. "Wait, you need to get some ice on that."

"I put ice on it, well, snow." On the ride back from the Collin's cabin, that is. Miles grabbed the bottle and twisted the cap, clenching his jaw as renewed pain shot through his injured hand. He must have hit Chester Collins harder than he'd thought. The bones in his knuckles throbbed painfully. Well, a little scotch would take care of that.

Or maybe a lot of scotch. He upended the bottle over the coffee mug and let the golden liquid pour.

"It's really swollen." Maggie's fingertips feathered across the back of his hand. "I can get more snow for it."

"No," he barked, because she was killing him. When she touched him like that, it was impossible not to imagine her fingers on him everywhere. He grimaced, focusing his attention on the scotch gushing into the mug. "I don't need anything."

"Stop being such a man. Honestly." She swept away from him and he didn't dare watch where she was going.

No, he was smart enough to keep his eyes firmly on the scotch level rising in the mug. That would be the only thing rising tonight, he told his body firmly, because he was not going to make the enormous and dangerous mistake of giving in to his growing desire for her. No way, no how.

When the mug was full, he set down the bottle and capped it, careful to keep his gaze from straying across the room, where her shapely bottom swayed beneath her housecoat.