Love's Silver Lining

by Julie Lessman

  “Only four months to go,” he muttered as he entered Minx’s stall, determined to get as far away from Maggie Mullaney as he possibly could. He didn’t want to see anymore of her sunny smiles. Hear anymore of her musical laughter. Feel anymore of her dad-burned gentleness when she tried to approach him like he was some skittish bronc.

  Oh sure, she’d tried to apologize plenty over the last three weeks, obviously missing his friendship as much as he missed hers, but he’d always just walked away, too blasted afraid she’d breech his defenses and make him care more than he already did. He paused at Minx’s stall with a hand to the railing, eyelids weighting closed with the painful reality that he cared for her far too much as it was. Ice prickled his spine as he slammed a fist to the fence.

  Blue thunder, I’m already halfway in love with her now.

  Minx nickered and nuzzled his hand, and Blaze unleashed a weary sigh as he looked up, grazing the mare’s neck with a gentle rub. Who was he kidding? He was flat-out moony over the woman, and the very thought iced the blood in his veins.

  “What am I gonna do, Minx?” He scrubbed the horse’s snout in a manner as listless as the malaise that had lingered from the moment his lips had touched Maggie’s. “I want her, girl,” he whispered to the mare, gaze numbing into an empty stare as he fondled the horse’s mane. “I want her real bad, but I don’t want all the blasted trappings that come along with her.”

  Commitment

  Marriage

  God

  Every muscle in his body suddenly twitched with resistance, calcifying along with his resolve. Two blasted months, and the woman has me craving her like a cool drink of water in a desert drought. He pounded the stall with his palm, then stormed to the tack room for his saddle, slamming it over the wooden railing of Minx’s stall. “Worse than a blasted bottle of rotgut,” he hissed while he snatched the curry comb to remove loose hair from the mare’s sleek body. “So blasted dizzy and sick I just want to puke.”

  “Is that why you didn’t want ice cream?”

  Blaze spun around, heat chasing his blood clear up his neck at the sight of Maggie standing not twenty feet away. “What are you doing here?” he snapped, turning his attention back to Minx as he combed her body a little more vigorously than usual. “Thought you’d be out there meltin’ ol’ Clint’s ice cream.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he cursed under his breath, downright irked that she reduced him to some jealous dogie craving its mother’s milk.

  “I came to check on you because I was worried,” she said quietly, the tenderness of her tone shooting an ache straight to his heart.

  Along with a fuse to his temper.

  “Well, I don’t need a nursemaid, Miss Mullaney,” he said, practically spitting the words, “so you can just go focus all your attention on ol’ Clint ’cause I guarantee you, he wants it a whole lot more than I do.”

  “I don’t think so.” Her words were soft and tentative as she approached the stall slowly, as if he were that dad-burned horse that had spooked her when she was small. “I think you do, Blaze, just like me.”

  He paused to gape at her. “Are you daft? What do I have to do to prove I want nothing to do with you, lady?”

  Her jaw nudged up the slightest bit as she clutched her arms to her waist. “Well, acting like a mature human being instead of a scalded mule kicking and nipping at everyone might be a good start.”

  He slapped the curry comb back on its hook and snatched the brush instead, all but brandishing it at her as he glared her down. “I told you once, and I’ll tell you again, Maggie—stay away from me!”

  She stepped in, a bit of fire kindling in those golden eyes. “I have, Blaze, for three lonely weeks, while you freeze me out with a shoulder colder than those two churns of ice cream out on the back porch.”

  “Ha! Lonely?” He brushed Minx with hard strokes as rigid as his body. “Could have fooled me. And if you want a shoulder to warm you up, sweetheart, I suggest you stick with Lady-killer Keller, because I promise he’ll light your fuse just fine, keepin’ you plenty warm at night.”

  She slammed a fist to the rail, his lewd comment obviously hitting the mark. “Nobody lights my fuse like you, you … you cocky mule of a man, too blasted stubborn to admit that you need my friendship as much as I need yours.”

  The truth of her remark stung, and whirling to face her, he aimed the brush right in her face. “I’m telling you for the last bloomin’ time, Maggie. I don’t need you or your blasted friendship, so just leave me alone!” Stomping to Minx’s hind end, he proceeded to brush her tail with a vengeance, expecting Maggie to turn tail and run like all the other times he’d turned her way.

  Only she didn’t.

  “Maybe not, Blaze”—her voice was barely a whisper as she stood there like some little, lost orphan, picking at her nails with crocodile tears in her eyes—“but I need yours.”

  A low groan escaped as he dropped his head, eyes squeezed tight to shut her out.

  Only he couldn’t.

  “I’ve … never had a friend like you,” she said in a fragile tone that tore at his gut. “Someone that cared for me just … as I am.” Her voice faltered, cramping his chest. “Or at least acted like he did.”

  “Maggie, stop …” His voice came out hoarse as he put his head in his hand, fighting the urge to comfort her like he wanted.

  “Someone I could talk to about anything, Blaze, down to the deep, dark recesses of my soul. Oh, sure, I had a friend or two in New York, but only because I was the stepdaughter of The Judge, so-called friends hand-picked by him to spy on me.”

  He groaned, fingers pinched white on the brush to keep from reaching out.

  “The only real friend I ever had was Aunt Libby, but only because Mama asked her to take care of me, so that doesn’t count.” Her voice cracked on a sob and he groaned out loud before his gaze lifted to hers. “Please don’t turn me away,” she whispered, the pitiful sound wrenching him to the core, “because I need you in my life, Blaze.” The pain in her tone matched the tears in her eyes, shredding him into a hundred miserable pieces.

  “Aw, Maggie …” He threw the brush down and wrapped her up in his arms, burying his head into silky hair that smelled of lavender. Her body heaved as she wept against his chest, and gently stroking her back, he shut his eyes to steel himself against the pull that she wielded. But it was no use. Maggie owned his heart whether he liked it or not, and he couldn’t ignore her in her time of need.

  Need.

  His fingers fairly shook with a need of his own, but he silently vowed to provide the comfort of a friend and nothing more. No matter how much “more” tempted with the tentative wrap of her arms to his waist, molding her body to his.

  A perfect fit.

  Posing an imperfect fate.

  “All right, you win,” he said in a gruff voice edged with frustration, gripping her arms to hold her at bay. “I’ll be your friend, Maggie, but that’s as far as it goes—ever—understood?”

  “Oh, Blaze!” She shot back into his arms, squeezing him so tightly, heat licked through his body like wildfire before she pulled away with a glow in her eyes. “Thank you! And you have nothing to worry about, I promise. This relationship will be purely platonic.” She teased her lip with a scrape of teeth before she distanced herself considerably, an imp of a grin curving on her beautiful mouth. “You’re the cocky cowboy type who can’t abide religion, remember? And I’m one of those annoying respectable types who will only badger you into church, so friendship is undoubtedly the safest course.”

  Safe? His pulse kicked up as she sashayed to the door of the stall. She turned with a tilt of her chin, hands perched on the hips of a body that made his mouth go dry. “I made Gert promise she’d save you some ice cream, so you ready to cool down?”

  Oh, he was ready all right. But he doubted ice cream could do it.

  “Sure.” Retrieving the brush, he returned it to its hook before skimming a palm down Minx’s main, wondering what in the devil he
was doing cozying up with the friend who haunted his dreams. You can do this, he told himself as he nuzzled the mare one last time. Four more months is all it will take, and the temptation would be gone when Maggie moved back to Virginia City.

  He smothered a grunt as she tossed a smile over her shoulder, alarm constricting his stomach that even New York might not be far enough.

  Purely platonic? The pure he could believe because after all, this was Maggie. But platonic? He tugged on the brim of his hat as he followed her out the door.

  Dad-burn it all—bring on the ice cream!

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “My, what a beautiful evening!” Mrs. Poppy leaned back in the rocking chair on Finn’s porch as the sun gilded the mountains with a dusky pink. Her rocker squeaked up a storm as she and Libby sipped tea and watched Maggie and the girls play baseball with Finn and the others.

  “Indeed,” Libby said quietly, lounging in her own comfortable rocker—as sturdy and strong as the man who’d built it and other pieces for his house. She breathed in the sweet almond scent of white-thorn hedges lining Finn’s porch, which merged amiably with the lingering smell of wood smoke from the barbecue. Taking a quick gulp of her tea, she knew she hadn’t been this content in years.

  Nor this nervous.

  Her gaze lighted upon the source of her anxiety, and her stomach automatically flipped when he handily caught the baseball to tag Shaylee out. Swooping her up in a hug, Finn spun her around while his rich laughter merged with her giggles.

  Shirtsleeves rolled and collar loosened, Finn McShane was a man at ease with everyone he met—from babies and children, to adults and the elderly, and easily one of the most charismatic people Libby knew. Not to mention handsome, a deadly combination that had always been the problem. From high school till adulthood, the man had churned her stomach as briskly as Gert and Angus churned the ice cream in their endless contests to produce the favorite dessert. A wispy sigh feathered her lips. A problem she wasn’t sure she wanted to battle. Because Finn McShane was a good-looking mule who would always demand his own way.

  “It would seem Finn is still mighty handy with the catch,” Mrs. Poppy said with a husky chuckle, gaze trained on Finn as thoroughly as Libby’s own. “And not just on the baseball field, I’ll wager …” The old woman’s voice was suddenly soft, eyes flicking to where Libby sat stockstill with her face warming more than the cup of tea in her hands. “You still love him, don’t you, Libby?” Mrs. Poppy whispered, drawing Libby’s gaze with a knowing smile tinged by a touch of sadness.

  The heat in Libby’s cheeks pulsed to full throttle as she kept her attention on the game, Mrs. Poppy’s potent stare causing her to guzzle her tea. “We’re just tolerating each other until I can go home, Mrs. Poppy.”

  A throaty chuckle floated in the air. “I would say you’re well beyond tolerance, my dear, but what I don’t understand, Libby darling, is why are you fighting it?”

  Libby’s eyes drifted closed.

  “It’s either your silly suffrage movement, Libby, or me, so take your pick!”

  “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” The tenderness in Mrs. Poppy’s tone sparked tears in Libby’s eyes as she thought of the man who could weaken her with merely a smile.

  “Terrified,” she admitted quietly, wishing it could work, but doubting it ever would. Moisture stung the back of her lids as a Scripture haunted her mind, the one her father had given her the day she’d walked out on Finn.

  Better a dry morsel, and quietness therewith, than a house full of sacrifices with strife.

  She swiped at her eyes, knowing full well that Harold may not elicit the passion that Finn did, but at least he would never deny her dreams.

  “Libby dear …” Mrs. Poppy drew Libby’s gaze with a gentle hand to her arm, her compassion and love evident in the sheen that moistened the old woman’s eyes. “Have you prayed about it?”

  Libby blinked, the thought of prayer so foreign to her now that heat braised her cheeks. A lump dipped in her throat. “Uh …”

  Mrs. Poppy patted her hand while a soft chuckle drifted from her lips. “No fret, darling—God already knows we’re not perfect. It’s certainly no surprise to Him when we falter or fail … or even forget how much He loves us.” She settled back in her chair with that serene smile that had never failed to calm Libby’s soul, frail hands holding her teacup in her lap as she watched the baseball game with a faraway look. “It is, in fact, because of our falterings, our failings, our forgetting just how much He wants to be a part of our lives that He went to the cross in the first place—to wipe the slate clean. So, none of that matters a whit to Him if we just call on His name, dear girl.” Translucent lids closed as she lifted her face to the sky, her words as steady and sure as the Scripture on her lips. “You, oh Lord, are forgiving and good, abounding in love to all who call to you.”

  Resting her head on the back of the rocker, she refocused on Libby. Understanding glimmered in eyes that wielded a wealth of wisdom. “Because no matter what we have done, where we have gone, how we have failed, who we have hurt, who we’ve been hurt by, or how long we have strayed—the cross calls us home. Home,” she repeated with a tender smile, “to His forgiveness, His love, His wisdom, His healing, and abundant blessings that exceed our very hope.”

  There was no way Libby could stop the tears that suddenly brimmed in her eyes. “Oh, Mrs. Poppy, I didn’t mean to stray, I promise, but I was so hurt after I left Virginia City …” Her voice tapered off as her gaze trailed out to where Finn was at bat.

  “There, there, sweet girl, no one is blaming you, least of all God.” Sadness welled in the her eyes as surely as saltwater welled in Libby’s. “If anything, He aches because He knows how much pain you’ve endured on your own, my dear”—she paused briefly to offer a tender look laced with sympathy—“and how much He could have helped to ease it. He longed to be the One who carried you through, Libby, to the good things He planned for you based on a Father’s love. Not the things you planned for yourself based on pain, anger, or fear.”

  Mrs. Poppy patted Libby’s arm, the gentle touch unleashing a trail of moisture down Libby’s cheeks. “I’m afraid it’s the age-old story of man, my dear—God’s will vs. our own, compliments of Eden. Most people don’t realize that prayer can conquer any problem, large or small, and God’s precepts can guide them through. Because the truth is, darling girl, human beings see insurmountable problems, but God sees golden opportunities to bless us, grow us, and most importantly, set us free to be the people He created us to be.”

  Her bodice rose and fell with a fluttery sigh as she glanced out at Finn, the affection in her face hard to miss. “And I believe He created you to be Finn’s wife and he your husband, but unfortunately, humanity often gets in the way, robbing us of God’s best.”

  “I believed I was meant to be Finn’s wife, too, at one time, Mrs. Poppy,” Libby said as she pushed the tears from her eyes, “until he gave me an ultimatum out of anger, demanding I make a choice between my passion for him and my passion for women’s rights.” Pain convulsed in her throat as she stared at the man she had married. “So, I did.”

  Mrs. Poppy gave a slow nod of commiseration. “Ah, yes, anger can often distort the lens of wisdom, something I soon discovered in my own marriage. But you know, it’s a funny thing about the men that we love, Libby; they’re desperate to know they’re more important than anything else in our lives.” Pausing to take a sip of her tea, she settled the cup back in the saucer, pinning Libby with a penetrating stare. “Because you see—that’s how they measure true love. But I’m afraid they come by it honestly.”

  Libby tipped her head. “What do you mean?”

  The softest of laughter bubbled from the old woman’s lips as she slipped Libby a mischievous wink. “Why, like Father, like son, of course.”

  Libby blinked in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand, Mrs. Poppy.”

  A soft giggle drifted in the air as Mrs. Poppy took another drink of her tea. “I mean th
ey’re no different than the God who created them, Libby, who longs to know that He, too, is the most important thing in our lives. Longs to know that we love Him enough to trust Him with the desires of our heart, choosing His will over our own. But you know what the really extraordinary thing about that is?”

  Libby shook her head, barely aware she was holding her breath.

  A twinkle lit the old woman’s eyes as she bent close to Libby’s chair, her face so luminous, she could have been an angel sent straight from above. “When we make Him the most important thing in our lives, our desires become His and His ours, unleashing a fierce yearning in Him to bless us beyond measure. Because never forget, my dear, love begets love and blessing begets blessing.” She sighed, the sound almost melancholy. “That was a lesson I learned the hard way in my own marriage to Pastor Poppy.”

  “You?” Libby asked, more than a little surprised that Mrs. Poppy had had any difficult lessons at all, as perfect as her marriage had always seemed.

  The old woman nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so. You see, when the California Gold Rush hit in ’49, Horace had a fire in his belly to minister to the countless poor souls who flocked to San Francisco during its boomtown days. Oh, and a wicked place it was for sure …” Her gaze lapsed into a faraway stare as she grazed a thumb along the rim of her near-empty cup, the faintest of smiles shadowing her lips. “But Horace made a difference, and oh my, how he loved it! Never wanted to leave, he said, in fact.” Her chest expanded with a weary sigh. “But somehow I had this sense, this feeling, we were needed elsewhere.”

  She peered skyward, her face taut with memories. “So, when I received a letter from a dear friend in Nevada, begging us to come to this lawless boomtown called Virginia City, I was certain it was God’s will.” A deep chuckle escaped as a glimmer of tears glazed in her eyes. “It was no more than a ramshackle town of tents and shacks that had sprung up on the heels of the Comstock Lode, but it was rife with souls in dire need of the Almighty, so it became my passion.”