His Mountain Miss (Smoky Mountain Matches) (7 page)

“Don’t think that way, Kate,” she admonished with a gentle
smile. “You are the most nurturing, kind, loving woman I know. You’ll be the
best mother ever! God knows the desires of your heart. Just keep praying and
waiting on Him. I’ll pray, too.”

She nodded slowly. “I have been. I suppose I’m impatient.”

“God’s timing isn’t always our own,” Megan agreed, thinking of
her own longing for a husband. “What’s Josh saying about all this?”

Her quick smile lit up her lovely features. “He’s been very
supportive, very patient with me. He’s my voice of reason, something I
desperately need right now.”

“I’m not surprised. He loves you so much.” Last fall, when Kate
left Gatlinburg to return to New York, Megan had worried the pair would never
find their happy ending. She thanked God that Josh had come to his senses and
gone after her.

“I’ve been truly blessed.” Kate paused, reflective. “Not only
do I have a husband I dearly love, I have new friends and family. I need to
remember my many blessings instead of focusing on what I don’t have.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting things,” Megan said, “but
you’re right—if we focus too much on what we don’t have, it can affect our
outlook.”

Kate gave her a quick hug, then leaned back to smile at her.
“Thanks for being such a dear friend, Megan. I think of you as a sister, you
know. I love you.”

A lump formed in her throat. “I love you, too.”

Thank You, Lord, for bringing this
delightful woman into my life.
Kate’s friendship eased the ache of
Juliana’s absence.

Turning speculative, Kate rested her hands on her hips.
“Charles’s grandson is certainly a distinguished gentleman. You failed to
mention how utterly handsome he is!” Her brow furrowed. “He does seem a bit
haughty, however. Is he a cold man?”

Megan rushed to his defense. “That was my first impression of
him, too, but he’s not at all that way. Actually, he’s quite kind. Lucian’s a
good man—he’s just...going through a rough patch right now.”

“It sounds as if you’ve learned a lot about him in a short
amount of time.”

“You could say that.”

Strange—she couldn’t recall what life was like without him
around. There was a connection between them, one she hadn’t experienced with
anyone else. One she must ignore, must fight against. At the very most, they
could be friends. There would be risk involved, of course, but she was certain
she could withstand the temptation to care for him more than was wise. He was
only here temporarily, after all.

“Be careful, Megan,” Kate warned. “I wouldn’t want to see you
hurt.”

“Don’t worry. I’m perfectly aware that Lucian isn’t the one for
me.”

“Hmm.” She moved to the door. “Well, I believe we’ve left them
to their own devices long enough, don’t you?”

To Megan’s relief, the men were involved in a deep discussion
about furniture. Josh winked at her, continuing to talk as he placed an arm
about Kate’s shoulders. She took it as a sign that he liked Lucian, which
pleased her. Both were businessmen, so they had something in common. Lucian
searched her face as if trying to ascertain if everything was all right and,
apparently satisfied, returned his attention to Josh. His stance was relaxed yet
focused.

Twenty minutes later, they were back on the boardwalk.

“Do you want to return home?” she asked.

“Not unless you do.”

Shielding her eyes with one hand, she scanned the blue sky
above. No clouds. Good. “I can show you our favorite picnic spot, if you’d like.
It’s a twenty-five minute walk from here.”

“I’d like that.”

They were quiet as they left the town behind, each lost in
their own thoughts. Walking side by side in the forest, Megan was acutely aware
of his commanding presence. There was no compulsion to fill the silence with
inane chatter.

Spotting one of her favorite birds, she tugged on his sleeve to
stop his forward progress, pointing to a branch above their heads. “Do you see
that?”

He tipped his head back to study the elegant golden-hued bird
with a splash of red on its wings.

“That’s a cedar waxwing,” she told him, suddenly reminded of a
verse she’d read the night before. “‘Look at the birds of the air; they do not
sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are
you not much more valuable than they?’”

His gaze turned quizzical. “That sounds familiar. Is it from
the New Testament?”

“The book of Matthew. And Luke writes, ‘Are not five sparrows
sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very
hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than
many sparrows.’”

“You’ve memorized quite a bit of Scripture.”

“That’s true, but you’re missing the point.” She spread her
arms wide. “Since God took the time to create an astonishing array of creatures
for His pleasure and ours, don’t you think He’d care about us, who are created
in His image?”

His mouth lifted in an indulgent smile. “
Oui,
it would make sense.” He didn’t elaborate, however, leaving her
wondering if she’d gotten through to him. When he resumed walking, she had no
choice but to follow. He shot her a sideways glance. “Thank you, Megan.”

She stepped around a large hole in the ground, likely a
gopher’s. “For what?”

“For caring.”

Uncertain how to respond, she merely nodded and averted her
gaze. When they reached the forest’s edge, she paused in order for Lucian to
take in the view. A wide, sweeping green field sprinkled with clover lay before
them, and in the distance, a tree-lined river meandered through the valley. On
the far side of the river, green hills and pastures gave way to the mountains,
rounded peaks shining in the sun.

Inhaling the fresh, sweet-smelling air, he wore a look of
appreciation. “I can see why you like it here.”

“Our families come here to relax. My ma, aunt and uncle
normally sit and talk while the rest of us swim or fish or play games.”

He held out his hand. “Want to walk to the river?”

Placing her hand in his felt like the most natural thing in the
world. The sun warmed their skin and the light breeze teased their hair as they
crossed the field.

“Your cousin is an astute businessman,” he said after some
time. “I enjoyed our discussion.”

“More importantly, he’s a good man. He’s like a protective
older brother—irritating at times but always looking out for my best
interests.”

“His wife seemed upset when we arrived. Is everything all
right?”

Megan hesitated, not because she didn’t trust him but because
it was a delicate subject. How to say it? “Kate is eager to start a family.”

His grip on her hand shifted so that their palms fit snugly
together, his fingers firm and sure. He shot her a sideways glance. “And it’s
not happening as quickly as she’d like?”

Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Exactly.”

“I see.”

Oh, dear. In this moment, she didn’t resent that phrase quite
so much.

They stopped at the river’s edge and stood on the low, gently
sloping bank, their boots sinking slightly in the soft earth as they watched the
clear water tumbling past. Thousands of tiny rocks littered the riverbed, all
shapes and sizes and colors. Pond-skater bugs pushed across the surface. Fish
the size of her thumb darted back and forth.

Lucian didn’t release her hand. She’d hoped he wouldn’t,
relishing the connection although she knew she shouldn’t.

He turned to her. “How many children do you want?”

“Me?” The question startled her. “Oh, I don’t know. Five or
ten.” A laugh burst forth when his jaw dropped.

“Surely you jest!”

“I love kids. I’ll take as many as the good Lord sees fit to
give me.”

He shook his head in wonder. “I noticed you seem to have a way
with them.” He asked quietly, “Is Tom the lucky man?”

“What? Tom and I? No.”

His face inches away, his dark gaze pierced her. “I got the
impression that the two of you are more than friends.”

“I don’t feel that way about him.”

Was that relief in his eyes?

Breaking eye contact, they stood and gazed at the scenery.
After long moments of silence, she asked, “What about you? How many do you
want?”

Hitching a shoulder, he spoke matter-of-factly. “I need a son
to carry on the Beaumont name. If my firstborn is a son, then I’ll have only the
one.”

His detached attitude made her feel slightly nauseous. “You
make having a child sound like a duty,” she accused.

His gaze sharpened, his jaw hardened into marble. “That’s
because it is. Unlike you, I won’t marry for love or some other fickle emotion.
I’ll do so because I have a responsibility to my family to further the Beaumont
legacy.”

Snatching her hand from his, she lifted her chin. Why was she
so angry? “Let me guess—only the brightest, richest, most well-connected young
debutant will do?”

His eyes shuttered, he jerked a nod. “That’s the way things are
done in my world.”

“Then I’m glad I inhabit a different one.” Trembling now, she
hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “We should probably be heading back.”

Without a word, they retraced their path. Only this time, the
silence was strained, heavy. As disheartening as it was, she’d needed this
reminder of their vast differences, not only in their stations but their
outlooks. While she envisioned marriage as a union of hearts, he saw it as a
cold, emotionless business arrangement. She could never live that way, and it
saddened her that Lucian would choose such a life.

Rounding the base of a live oak, he nearly trampled a patch of
pink heart-shaped flowers. He stopped short. “What are these?”

“Bleeding hearts.” Joining him in the shade, she gently traced
a petal. “There’s a legend associated with them,” she said offhandedly. “It
involves a tale of a young man’s quest to win the love of his life.”

He cradled one flower against his flat palm. “Is it an
interesting story?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of that.” Snapping one off, she
removed the two pink petals and, balancing them on her hand, lifted them up for
his inspection. “A young man fell deeply in love with a wealthy and beautiful
maiden and, in an effort to win her love, gave her extravagant gifts. The first
gift consisted of two rabbits to keep as pets.”

One black brow snaked up as he eyed the petals. “I see the
resemblance. Let me guess—she didn’t want them?”

“Oh, yes, she did. She accepted the gift, but rejected the
giver.” Pulling out the white inner petals, she said, “He didn’t give up,
though. Next, he gave her a pair of silk slippers. The finest money could
buy.”

“Well, I know for certain she kept those,” he drawled. “What
woman would turn down a pair of shoes?”

“You’re right—she did. But she still wasn’t interested in him.
Desperate now, he spent the last of his money on a pair of extravagant
earrings.” She showed him the question-mark-shaped stamens.

Lucian outlined her palm with his fingertip. “It didn’t work,
did it?”

His light touch and husky voice sparked shivers along her skin.
Her gaze caught in his, she shook her head. “No.”

“What did he do?”

“He had no more gifts to give,” she murmured, unable to
maintain eye contact, “and no way to win her love, so he took his knife and
plunged it into his heart.” Placing the stamens side by side, she created the
heart shape. The green pistil represented the knife. “They say the first
bleeding-heart plant sprung up in the spot where he died.”

All of a sudden, she wished she hadn’t told the story. Just as
there was no hope for the mythical characters, there was no hope for her and
Lucian.

When she started to drop the disassembled flower onto the
ground, he stopped her. “May I have that?”

“Of course.” When she’d transferred the pieces to him, he
placed them in a handkerchief and, folding up the sides, tucked it into his
pocket. He didn’t offer an explanation. And she didn’t ask for one.

At the lane leading into town, she stopped to bid him goodbye.
She resorted to twirling her hair, a nervous habit she’d developed as a small
child and one she’d mostly abandoned. “I need to get home and help the girls
with supper.”

His hands at his sides, he stood tall and straight and formal.
“Thank you for showing me around. I know you have responsibilities to tend
to.”

The solemn expression on his handsome face, the weariness in
his dark eyes, called to her. How she yearned to throw her arms around him, to
pull him close and smooth all the cares from his brow. She ruthlessly squelched
the urge. Heartache lay down that path.

“I was happy to,” she said in all honesty.

He sketched a bow. “Until Friday evening.”

“Yes, I’ll see you then.”

She watched him go, his long, sure strides carrying him quickly
in the opposite direction, his shiny Hessians winking in patches of sunlight. A
solitary figure with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Megan desperately
wanted to be the friend he needed. But at what price?

Chapter Eight

I
n Charles’s study Tuesday afternoon, Lucian refolded the letter and, sliding it inside the top desk drawer, let his head fall back against the leather chair. Stared at nothing in particular. His lawyer had written not to impart news, but to reassure Lucian of his efforts to find a way around the stipulation. Upon seeing the return address on the envelope, he’d assumed it meant his stay here in Tennessee was coming to an end. Not another delay. Apparently the gentleman hadn’t been able to give the matter his immediate attention as he’d been wrapping up a delicate legal matter.

He needed to leave and
soon.
He had work and responsibilities. A life to resume. With nothing pressing calling for his attention here, his mind was free to wander down paths he’d rather not explore.

He’d spent the better part of the day searching his mother’s and grandfather’s rooms for clues, anything that might shed light on the status of their relationship in recent years. He’d rifled through this desk, examined the bookshelves. No letters. Nothing. No way to know what, if anything, had transpired between them.

The lack of evidence was telling in and of itself. Besides a couple of photographs, Charles hadn’t kept anything near him that would remind him of his estranged daughter. And there certainly wasn’t anything here linked to Lucian.

Going from room to room, touching their belongings, he’d felt like an intruder.

Pushing to his feet, he crossed to the single window, taking in the sweeping view of property, the flower gardens and beyond, the forest and distant mountain peaks. He could easily picture Megan there, a vision in pink. Had it been only yesterday that she’d stormed up to him, demanding to know the reason for her nickname?

Hands curling into fists, his nails bit into his palms. Megan was the primary reason he couldn’t afford to stay much longer. The alluring country miss was dangerous to his peace of mind, to his goals. Too much time in her company, and her naive dreams about love and marriage might start to make sense.

He’d purposefully shocked her yesterday, spoken plainly about his expectations all the while knowing her views were in complete contrast to his. The censure in her beautiful blue eyes had stayed with him the rest of the day and long into the night. Of course a romantic like her would find his businesslike approach to marriage difficult to swallow. A man such as he—practical-minded, cynical, uninterested in love and without a single romantic inclination—could never meet her high expectations, would only disappoint her.

His housekeeper poked her head in the door. “Mr. Lucian?”

He turned and motioned for her to enter. “Mrs. Calhoun. What can I do for you?”

Although in her mid-sixties, the woman had boundless energy and could accomplish more than ten men put together. A hard worker, she was pleasant without being intrusive. He appreciated that.

Her shoes squeaking on the polished floorboards, she held her folded apron in her hands. “I’m off to the mercantile. Is there anything in particular you need?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“All right, then.” She made to leave.

“Uh, Mrs. Calhoun? If you give me a list, I’ll go for you,” he blurted, unable to shake the restlessness plaguing him. Needing
something
to do, he was even willing to do her shopping for her. If she didn’t accept his offer, he was going to go find Fred and help him weed the gardens.

“Well...I do have a new recipe for buttermilk pie I’d like to try out. I could do that while you went to town. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Moving around the desk, he pointed out, “I’m not used to having this much time on my hands.”

“Rest isn’t always such a bad thing, you know. I suspect you don’t get much of it back home.”

Shrugging, he brushed aside her words. “I prefer to keep myself busy.” So he didn’t have to face his problems. To think about this past year and all its disappointments and losses. The glaring mistakes.
Coward,
a taunting voice accused.

Shaking her head in motherly concern, she sighed, turned and led the way to the kitchen where she handed him a slip of paper.

“Is this everything?” He scanned the ten items.

Retying the apron around her ample hips, she instructed, “Give the list to Emmett or his wife. They’ll gather everything for you. Don’t be surprised if you have to wait a little while. They fall behind sometimes, depending on how many orders they have to fill. Besides, I’m in no hurry.” She thumped a bag of flour on the work surface, alongside a bowl. “And if this here recipe of Juanita’s is any good, you can have a slice of pie when you get back.”

Smiling, he rubbed his stomach. “I don’t see how Fred has managed to stay fit after all these years eating your cooking. Our chef could learn a thing or two from you.”

Though she waved away his compliment, she fairly beamed. “He works it off doing all that yard work.”

“Ah, I see.” He glanced out the window to where Fred was trimming bushes with a wicked-looking pair of shears, sunlight bouncing off his sweat-slicked bald head. “If I’m here much longer, I’ll have to join him if I don’t want to go home stouter than I arrived.”

“It’s been a pleasure having you here.” She held a spoon aloft, gazing at him with disconcerting nostalgia. “It’s almost like having Charles here again.” Then she turned her attention back to her recipe.

He didn’t know what to say to that. He supposed it would be strange for the elderly couple to work here with no one around. They’d been here for most of their lives, were here while his grandmother, Beatrice, was still alive, and his mother was small.

Slipping the paper in his pocket, he asked as casually as he could manage, “Were they a happy family? Charles and Beatrice and my mother?”

Lifting her head, she gave him a surprised smile. “They were very happy.”

“Good.” Bittersweet relief curled through his body. At least they’d had a taste of happiness before...well, before his grandmother died and his father came and ruined it all. “I’m glad.”

He left then, before he peppered her with more questions. Waving to Fred, he went to the barn to hitch up the wagon. His valet was there mucking out stalls.

Lucian stopped short. Laughed at the sight of the normally fastidious gentleman sweaty, his hair mussed and bits of hay clinging to his pant legs. “You must be as in need of a diversion as I am.”

Smith didn’t stop what he was doing. “You would be correct, sir.”

Still smiling, Lucian went about his business, glad to be doing something as simple as hitching horses to a wagon. He had to admit, it beat sitting in the stuffy shipping offices pushing papers across his desk and having his father assess his every decision as if he hadn’t a clue what he was doing.

It didn’t take long to reach Main Street. Pulling up in front of Clawson’s Mercantile, he glimpsed a flash of blond hair through the window. Megan? Setting the brake, he jumped down to the dusty ground and stepped up on the weathered boardwalk. Who else could it be? No one else in this town had hair the color of moonlight.

Anticipation humming along his veins, he opened the door. The bell clanged above his head and she looked up, full lips parting. The eager welcome surging in her wide eyes buoyed his spirits. Apparently she’d set aside her irritation.

“Lucian?”

“Good afternoon, Megan.” Sweeping off his black hat, he tucked it beneath his arm and, shoving his unruly hair out of his eyes, approached the wooden shelves lined with personal items such as combs, mirrors and shaving supplies.

Refreshingly lovely as always, her simple, unadorned dress would have been deemed boring were it not a pleasing aquamarine, its exact hue putting him in mind of the sea he loved but couldn’t handle. Dratted seasickness.

“What are you doing here?” Her quizzical gaze slid to the wagon outside.

“I’m running errands for Mrs. Calhoun.” He lifted a finger to touch the porcelain doll she clutched to her chest. “I didn’t realize you still played with baby dolls,” he teased, arching a mocking brow.

The witty retort he expected didn’t surface. Instead, regret pulled at her mouth as she replaced the frilly-dressed doll on the shelf. “I’m on my way to Owen Livingston’s to deliver food. I’d like to purchase this for Sarah, but it will have to wait.”

He finally noticed the cloth-lined crate at her feet. “Are they ill?”

“No, but it’s hard for him to manage the farm chores and still find time to cook. From what I understand, he’s not an experienced cook, anyway. Ever since Meredith died, the ladies of our church have taken turns taking food to them twice a week.”

“How long ago did she die?”

“Six months.”

So the loss was still fresh. What a nightmare for Livingston and his small daughter. To have lost not one, but two cherished loved ones at the same time. A wife and mother. An innocent baby.

Sympathy clogged his throat. “It appears your townsfolk take care of their own.”

“You’re right about that.” She lifted her chin a notch. “Like any other small town, we have our not-so-great moments, but I have to say I’m proud to be a part of this community.”

He could tell she meant it. Unlike Nicole, who’d made it clear she found small-town life confining, often declaring her intention of leaving it behind, Megan loved her life. She didn’t care about fashion or fancy houses or money. She cared about people. That much was plain in how she chose to spend her time...whether it was entertaining little children or preparing and delivering food.

How could he have ever doubted her integrity?

Heart beating out a warning, he forced his attention away from her. It wasn’t easy. Not now that he’d come to his senses and could see her as she truly was...compassionate, sensitive to others’ needs, a heart full of love.

He picked up the doll. “How about I purchase this for Sarah?”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t.” He guessed she didn’t have enough money for such a splurge. How to put this to her without hurting her pride? “I think a little girl who’s missing her mommy might be cheered by a gift such as this. You’re right to want to give it to her.”

“But it won’t be from me if you pay for it.”

Leaning closer, he suggested softly, “Why can’t it be from the both of us?”

“You have a soft spot for her,” she stated with sudden clarity. “Don’t try to deny it.”

“If I do have one—and I’m not saying I do—it’s because she reminds me of a certain sassy storyteller,” he said, gently tapping her nose.

The bell clanged as another patron, a skinny, awkward girl who looked to be in her teens, entered the mercantile. Straightening, Lucian dipped his head in greeting as Megan offered her a quiet hello. The girl smiled shyly before darting to the fabrics’ section.

Get a hold of yourself, Beaumont. Have you forgotten your surroundings? No wonder the girl acted embarrassed...you were too near Megan, touching her in a familiar manner right here for all the world to see.

Megan was looking far too pleased with herself, like a cat with a big bowl of cream.

“What?”

“I thought you said you didn’t like children.”

Wagging a finger, he passed the doll to her and lifted the crate. “No...I recall saying I have no experience with them.”

Walking beside the shelves towards the long counter where the Moores measured out goods and calculated totals, Megan fell into step with him, a huge smile on her face. Her eyes sparkled with friendly challenge. “If it’s to be from both of us, that means you’ll need to come with me to give it to her. I’m heading over there now.”

“We can take my wagon,” he agreed smoothly, sliding the crate onto the counter so that he could retrieve the paper from his pocket. “Let me give them Mrs. Calhoun’s list and have them wrap up Sarah’s doll, and then we can go.”

“Fine with me.”

Ruthanne Moore exclaimed over the doll, chattering endlessly as she wrapped it in crisp white paper. At long last, they escaped outside, the humid heat that made it difficult to breathe preferable to the stuffy confines of the mercantile and the speculative glances of the proprietress. He stowed their belongings in the back. Ran a finger beneath his stiff cravat where it stuck to his damp throat.

“Today seems hotter than usual.”

Megan huffed a laugh as he assisted her up onto the wooden seat. “This is nothing. Wait until July. You won’t want to go outside after eight o’clock in the morning.”

He wouldn’t be here come July, he wanted to remind her. But that would only chase away her smile, and what was the point in that?

* * *

At the turnoff leading to the Livingstons’ homestead, the front wagon wheels hit a dip that jostled Megan. Pitching sideways, she very nearly landed in Lucian’s lap. Without a moment’s hesitation, he put an arm around her. Anchored her to his side.

“You all right?” His warm gaze assessed her, strong hand settling heavily on her waist.

Licking suddenly dry lips, she nodded. He was looking at her as if seeing her for the first time...the same look he’d given her in the mercantile. There’d been a flare of
something
in those shrewd black eyes. Insight maybe? Whatever it had been gave her hope. Was he finally coming to realize she wasn’t out to gain possession of his house or anything else that belonged to him?

She would have gladly remained this way for the rest of the afternoon. Tucked in the shelter of his arm, inches away from his firm jaw shadowed by a hint of a beard and his generous mouth, infused her with tingling delight. His nearness was more exciting than any adventure she’d ever read, more thrilling than any romance put down on paper. This was real.
He
was real. Better than any hero her imagination could’ve constructed.

You mustn’t think that way, Megan. It isn’t wise.
While Lucian was certainly hero material in the minds of New Orleans socialites, he wasn’t
her
idea of a hero. Her hero would marry for love instead of duty. Her hero would want children to love and cherish, not simply to carry on a family name. She couldn’t afford to forget that.

As the cabin came into view, she pulled away, the heat of his hand lingering long after he’d removed it. Sarah emerged from the darkened doorway dragging a bucket behind her. A black dog trotted beside her, pink tongue lolling. Lucian frowned at the little girl’s untidy braid and smudges of dirt on her cheeks.