Calico

by Raine Cantrell

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Maggie told herself she was not going to be afraid. She would find another way. But the only other way was back past the cabin.

  And she didn’t care if she had to crawl her way to get by it.

  Lightning split the sky. Maggie felt her belly hollow out. She wasn’t going to be given the time she needed before the storm came. Without boots she would be a fool to try to run, but desperation breeds fools, she decided, making a run for the back of the cabin.

  Flattened against the wall, she listened, but the repeated rolls of thunder foiled her. She couldn’t hear if McCready was inside. A careful peek around the corner revealed nothing but the empty corral.

  Well, if she was a fool for running, she’d be a bigger one to stand where she was.

  Maggie rushed forward only to stop short, swinging her arms in circles to keep her balance. McCready’s back filled her vision.

  And even with the crashing roar of thunder she heard him calling out to her.

  Maggie turned tail and ran back to the boulders, frantic to find a place to hide. There wasn’t a crevice to hide a prairie dog, much less someone her size.

  Forked lightning seemed to point its bony fingers at her, and this time the thunder rumbled like laughter. Even the storm seemed determined to give her away to McCready.

  Wind swept fat raindrops against her. For a few minutes Maggie kept her fear at bay and searched for concealment. A few straggly yucca bushes didn’t offer any hope.

  “Maggie! Answer me!”

  She dropped flat and covered her head with the blanket, praying the small outcrop of rocks would at least hide her legs. Don’t let him come this far. The wind edged its way beneath her blanket, and she knew that the very elements were against her. The rain pelted down, and the ground shook as the thunder claimed the land. Maggie shook right along with it. Fear wormed its way from inside to chill her flesh.

  She wasn’t sure if the wind carried McCready’s voice or if he was going away from the cabin, down the path she had tried to use the last time. It was her call to make. She could go back to the cabin or face her own fears and ride out the storm in the open. A choice from hell, but one she couldn’t wait any longer to make. Rivulets of water were crawling beneath her. The force of the rain and wind already soaked her clothes.

  Maggie scrambled to her feet and ran for the cabin. Only there was no cabin to see. In the few minutes she had hidden beneath the blanket, the dark roil of clouds unleashing their fury had blotted out every bit of light. The solid torrent of rain left her floundering for direction. As desperate as she was to reach safety, Maggie closed her eyes with every strike of lightning.

  The terrifying panic was closing her throat so she could not make a sound beyond a single whimper. Her legs gave way, and she huddled under the soaked blanket, hugging her knees tight while silent screams clawed their way from inside her.

  McCready was forgotten. There was nothing but Maggie and fear. And the storm that seemed to intensify its rage.

  The sound of naked violence hurled her back in time. Maggie was twelve, spouting up as tall as her father, scared to tell him about the bleeding that wouldn’t stop. She didn’t understand why she bled without there being pain. She knew she hadn’t hurt herself. But when a second shirt of hers had to be torn up, her father discovered her secret and told her what was wrong. It was her fault they were caught down in the gully washing out the rags she had made. The storm had caught them there, and she followed her father up the rock wall that offered little in the way of handholds.

  She remembered the scraggly little bush jutting from a tiny crevice that she had reached for. She had bitten her lip and tasted her blood in fear as the roar of water rushed below them. Her father had motioned her over and away from the bush, grabbing hold of it himself. Maggie was braced between two small ledges barely wide enough to hold her toes and hands. The rock face was cold as she pressed her cheek against it, her eyes wide and staring at her father. He had smiled, she recalled, the last smile before the bush tore free and he disappeared down into the churning waters below them.

  “Papa!” The scream from the past clawed its way free with her scream now.

  McCready shook his head. It wasn’t more than the scream of the wind he heard. Soaked and still standing in the rain, he knew he was being a fool to hope that Maggie would come back.

  He still didn’t understand how she got by him. And that is the only way she could have left. One of the reasons he had built the cabin here was the crevice that extended for over a thousand feet in the back of the cabin. No one could climb it, up or down. Not even Maggie. But there was no getting away from the fact that she had managed to leave.

  Raking the rain from his hair, he turned to the door, yet something stopped him from going inside. He knew he did not have Maggie’s skill or knowledge about the land, but he knew the surrounding area well. There was no place for her to hide while the storm continued.

  He remembered that the fire was dead when he returned. Wherever Maggie was, she was long gone.

  He was the devil’s own, but a fool just the same, for he found himself rounding the cabin, swearing at the gray torrent that hindered his sight.

  McCready slid and went down on one knee, cutting it on a rock, before he could stand. The instant sting of the cut was washed by the rain. He couldn’t fight the need he had to make sure that Maggie wasn’t here. Even if she didn’t need him for anything, he had to satisfy himself that she was safe.

  By touching the slippery, cold stone he felt his way, rain stinging his skin as it renewed its force. He tried to call her name, but the wind whipped the sound from his mouth and blended it with its own wild wailing.

  He argued with himself to turn back, for it was impossible to see even with the near constant flashes of lightning. But he went on a few feet more, still trying to call her, driven by icy tendrils of fear. He tried not to think of how cold it was, how quickly the wind stripped the heat from his big body. “Maggie!” he yelled. “Maggie!”

  The ground was treacherous between the slippery rocks and churned mud. There was no sense to the certainty that Maggie was somewhere nearby. He knew it but kept looking.

  At first when his boot kicked at something soft, McCready didn’t understand what he’d found. It wasn’t until he dropped to his knees, wincing as another rock hit his cut, that he tore the covering aside and found her.

  Chapter 13

  Outside, the storm had nearly spent its fury. In the silence and firelight McCready broodingly watched Maggie. She was finally warm and dry, despite the occasional shiver that racked her body. Wearing his clothes and covered by the quilt, she sat propped up against the wall, sipping from the steaming cup of coffee she held.

  McCready would have killed for whiskey. Not for his cut knee that was more bruise than anything else, but for Maggie. She’s fine, he told himself, sipping from his own cup. Any fool could see it. Even him.

  So why do I feel she’s still lost somewhere?

  Easy. Even for a fool like you. She hasn’t said a word from the moment you found her.

  And her eyes. He couldn’t avoid looking at them. The fire lent them a luminous quality, but they stared blankly at what only Maggie could see.

  Her cheeks had taken on a flush that he hoped came from the warmth in the cabin. He turned his gaze to the fire, trying not to recall the sight of his hands stripping Maggie’s sodden clothes and drying her skin, or the way her breath had turned ragged and her nipples tightened when he had bundled her into his shirt.

  His own breath shortened when he found that Maggie was looking at him. Something in her eyes made the blood simmer wildly through his body. Even as he warned himself, he felt the rush of his body changing to meet the honest femininity of Maggie herself. He was filled with a need that was as basic and necessary as breathing itself.

  And he wasn’t going to do anything about it. Sometime in those frantic minutes of his search, he had made up hi
s mind to take Maggie back. He’d find another way to protect her if Quincy returned or there was another attempt on her life. He could only guess that his conscience had finally caught up with him, just as Dutch had been warning him would happen one of these days.

  “McCready,” Maggie said, clearing her throat of its husky intensity. “I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me a damn thing. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have been trying to run, would you? And the storm would have played out just like it’s doing now.”

  Nervously Maggie plucked at the quilt. She knew what had to be said to McCready, she just needed to gather up the courage to do it.

  “Want more coffee?” he asked, turning to fill his own cup.

  “Bet you’d like whiskey in its place.”

  “I won’t deny it. But this will do.” Holding up the pot, he glanced over his shoulder to where she sat. “Yes?”

  She nodded and held out her cup. But after he had poured, Maggie reached out and touched his arm. “I need to talk to you.”

  His gaze remained on her hand. He told himself that she couldn’t burn cloth and skin, but he felt scalded by her lightest touch. Carefully he set the pot aside.

  “Maggie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’ll be better if I sit over by the fire.”

  There was a feverish light in his eyes when he looked up at her, and Maggie didn’t lie to herself that it was from anything but the same ache in her. She had been so grateful when he found her that she couldn’t speak. He couldn’t know what it meant not to be left alone with her terror. But even with her mind still filled with reliving the nightmare of her father’s death, she had been aware of McCready. The heat and strength of his hands. The ragged sound of his breathing. The pulse beating wildly in his throat that she had longed to touch but didn’t. She had shied away from watching him strip off his own wet clothes, too shaken by her own discovery that she had needed McCready and he had come. A new tension had filled her, even as she questioned why he didn’t yell at her for running and getting caught out in the storm or for the soaking he took along with her.

  Truth was, he hadn’t said much of anything for the last hour or so. He started to jerk his arm away, and she tightened her hold. Setting aside her cup, Maggie turned to him, but as she opened her mouth to speak, he placed one finger against her lips.

  “Maggie, you’re playing with fire,” he said flatly, taking her hand off his arm.

  She didn’t pretend not to understand. “Maybe I like to. Or maybe I’m just cold. It could be,” she added with a rueful smile, “that I haven’t the sense of a mule, McCready.”

  She reached out and cupped his cheek, and this time he didn’t push her away. “I haven’t mentioned this lately, but Maggie, you’re right. Dig-your-heels-in mule stubborn.”

  “Nice of you to notice.”

  His narrowed blue eyes swept over her slender body. “Oh, I’m a right noticing kind of man, Maggie. Right now I’m noticing things that would make you run and blush.”

  There was a warning for her, but she wasn’t about to heed it. She watched his eyes darken, and her gaze drifted down to his chest. Half the buttons were undone on his shirt, revealing a light mat of hair. It looked soft and Maggie wondered how it would feel to touch. Her mouth went dry and she licked her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.

  “What things, McCready?”

  “That I’ve come to crave the sight of your smile as much as your kisses. Kisses only lead me to wonder how it would feel to have your mouth on my skin.” He reached out and with the tips of his fingers stroked her cheek. “It’s the same way I want to taste yours while I’m counting all those darlin’ freckles.

  “And that sassy pink tongue. There’s a reason for a man to gamble all his winnings, Maggie. I’d like to feel that all over every damn aching bit of me.” His thumb brushed the quick pulse in her throat. “Enough?” He watched her lick her lip again and slid one hand behind her head, angling it back so she had to face him. With his gaze locked on hers, the words feathered over her mouth.

  “I can’t help but notice how tight your nipples are. From the cold, Maggie? Would they get like that for a man’s hand, for his mouth?”

  Maggie’s lips parted, but she couldn’t make a sound. Her breath caught, then rushed out. No one had ever said such things to her. She didn’t even know that men thought about women this way. Not men, a little voice corrected. McCready.

  “I told you that I wanted you that day in the Rawhider when I saw you dressed as a woman for the first time. The mud and men’s clothes you used to hide behind were all gone. And I felt poleaxed,” he gently informed her in a voice rich with passion. The slight tremor sliding through her brought his slow smile, but even as his body curved over hers, he wouldn’t touch where he burned to, wouldn’t take her mouth.

  “Did you know that I was furious with you?”

  “Why?” The word creaked out like the turn of a rusty key, but Maggie couldn’t help it.

  “I felt…” The curve of her brow invited his lips, and he placed a light kiss there, dragging his mouth to briefly touch her temple. “Cheated, Maggie, that’s what I felt. I never noticed till that day that you had a small waist or gently flaring hips that could easily cushion a man’s ride with ease or breasts so lush that they would fill my hands.”

  Once more he stroked her cheek, barely touching her. “And you’ve got skin to rival the color of sweet cream. Did you know,” he whispered, tilting her face up so that he was brushing her mouth with every word, “that those long, long legs of yours have kept me awake nights wondering how they would feel locked around me? You cost me sleep, Maggie, and I didn’t have a drop of whiskey to cool the fire.”

  McCready leaned back and cradled her face within his hands. “There you have it, Maggie. As honest as I get. I want you like hell’s on fire, but I won’t take.”

  Maggie’s eyes closed as she savored his passion-laden voice but hid from the bright knowing glitter of his gaze. For once she didn’t think that McCready was lying.

  Those few moments of hesitation cost her his warmth. He was up and away before she could stop him. Maggie stared at his back. He stood to the side of the fire, one hand on the mantel, the other clenched at his side. It distracted her to feel the tiny stretching of the wee ones inside her, for they had been slow to awake tonight to McCready’s heady nearness. But now that they were awake, there would be no peace.

  “McCready,” she called out softly. “I’m sorry that you hurt your knee, but I’m glad that you found me.”

  “Don’t,” he stated flatly, turning to face her, “be so sure of that, Maggie. And don’t worry about my knee. It’ll be fine.”

  “Tonight, in the storm…” Maggie raised her knees so she could wrap her arms around them. It seemed important to tell him how the storm made her feel, but before she spoke, he did.

  “I wondered why you hadn’t gotten far.”

  “Did you? It wasn’t for lack of tryin’, boyo. I’m … storms…” Maggie swallowed, unable to understand why the words seemed to stick in her throat.

  “There’s no shame in being afraid of something, Maggie,” he said, pierced by the vulnerable look of her innocent eyes. Did she understand half of what he’d told her? He turned back to the fire. It didn’t matter if she did. He was taking her back.

  No shame. Maggie repeated those words to herself, thinking McCready might be right. No one would hear what she said but him, and if he dared to tell anyone, she’d deny it.

  “My father died in a storm like this one. Washed away in a gully. I never found his body.” Tears choked her throat. “I’ve been scared of storms since then.”

  He wanted her body, and she was handing him her secret fear. Damn you, Maggie! Don’t trust me.

  Maggie watched him. The firelight lent streaks of gold to the dark brown of his long hair and caressed his skin the way she longed to. Clutching the quilt tighter around her, she took what
warmth she could from it, wishing it was McCready’s arms wrapped as tightly.

  He felt her gaze on him and resisted the urge to turn around. But he couldn’t continue to ignore her confidence and said, in a too husky voice that he couldn’t help, “If you’re worried, Maggie, I won’t tell anyone.”

  She brooded over the way he stood, not making another move toward her. How could he say those things to her and leave her alone with them? From memory she dragged forth the sight of Cora Ann’s smile along with the Rose’s teasing sigh that hinted of all the delights they shared with McCready. She’d had a taste of them herself and wanted more. There was a time to take bait and a time to leave it in the trap. She had to decide what she wanted. “McCready?”

  “What?”

  The word was as tart as green apples, and Maggie shifted to come to her knees. She kneaded her thighs, finding the courage to ask what she had to.

  “You’ve not said a word about us bein’ married.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You told me that you’d be teachin’ me what bein’ your wife meant. What’s more, you said I’d be likin’ it.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember, Maggie.”

  Frowning, she hesitated, uncertain what to say to that. “But you threatened me.”

  “Then I apologize.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t the one who was mule stubborn. He was. How did a woman go about getting a man to come to her? The question startled her. When had she decided that? Maggie shook her head, as much in confusion as she did to rid herself of plaguing questions.

  “You said you’d been wantin’ to kiss me, McCready. I’d figure you can’t be wantin’ it all that bad.”

  Tension coiled his body, but still McCready didn’t turn around. “Maggie, how many men have you been with?”