“There’s no marking for north or south. I warned you not to try—”
“I can’t be markin’ what you want. I can’t write.”
His exasperated explosion of breath told Maggie how close he was to her. She thought about poking his face with the wood, but there again she could end up shot.
“I might of known that you would be ignorant.”
Once more Maggie eyed the stovepipe. She could see the soot filtering down. And the smell of smoke was getting stronger. Pointing to the line she had just drawn, she said, “This is the road leadin’ out of Cooney Camp. Sun’s at me back in the mornin’.”
Berger shifted to her side, moving the gun and taking the wood from her hand to mark an S at the bottom of the cloth,
Maggie leaned away to give him room, trying to squirm off the chair. The ripping sound of the stovepipe being wrenched free from its place in the stove made Berger spin around, firing a wild shot.
Up on the roof McCready felt as if his heart stopped when he heard the shot. The heat of the pipe had blistered his hands even with his shirt wrapped around it. He managed to pull it free and threw it over the side. Smoke billowed up in his face when he tried to peer down and see if Maggie was hurt.
He could hear them coughing and worked his way to the edge of the roof. He crouched there and waited for them to be forced outside. His ploy had to work.
But fear for Maggie’s safety had wormed its way inside him, and he found that he was sweating and shaking while he offered prayers and promises once again to a deity he had to believe in.
Berger knew he was cornered. He dragged Maggie from her chair, knowing that the smoke overcoming her as well as himself was the only reason she moved at all. She didn’t have enough hair for him to use for leverage, so he grabbed her shirt and twisted it in one hand, holding the gun against her neck with the other.
“Get that bar off the door,” he ordered, rapidly blinking his eyes against the sting of the smoke.
Maggie did as he ordered, offering no resistance. She would have to wait until they were outside. He held her shirt so tight that the material was choking her, but she threw off the bar and opened the door.
Teeth bared, Satin checked her lunge. Maggie couldn’t utter more than a weak order for the dog to stay. The air tantalized her to breathe deeply, but Berger’s grip didn’t slacken.
She could see the dark shadows of men working to douse the fire across the ridge. There was no sign of Ira’s body or Pamela.
“Don’t move yet,” Berger ordered, making his own sweeping search of the immediate area in front of the cabin. He, too, noticed the absence of the miner he had struck from behind, as well as the other woman. He had to assume she went for help, but he had no idea of how many men might be waiting beyond the circle of light spreading out from the cabin behind him.
Maggie O’Roarke was his only way out. Since she didn’t get to finish the map, he had to keep her alive. With a sudden move he let go of her shirt but grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm up behind her back.
“Now we walk out,” he managed before a fit of coughing overtook him. “Carefully.” Once more he had to stop. The smoke was so thick that he couldn’t breathe and knew he had to make his move.
Pressing the gun against her neck, he urged her forward.
Maggie knew that Satin backed away because she sensed the danger to her mistress. But the growling didn’t stop, and Maggie also knew that, given the chance, Satin would tear into Berger until there was nothing left of him. Without his grip on her shirt, she dragged lungfuls of the fresh night air and felt its ease. Her eyes darted from side to side, trying to discover where help would come from so that she would be ready to do whatever she could to get away. But Maggie saw no one, not even a shadow for reassurance.
From his vantage point on the roof, McCready saw that Maggie was in an untenable position. He couldn’t jump down as the man holding a gun to her came into view. His rifle had been left behind the cabin on the ground, for he was afraid it would clatter when he climbed and give away his position.
McCready needed something to throw. Both his shirt and the stovepipe had gone over the side. He looked down at his boots, knowing how much time was wasting. Once Berger saw that no one was there to prevent him from leaving, he would be moving fast. Easing himself down to sit on the edge of the roof, grateful for once that Satin was barking again, he tugged off his boot. Setting it down beside him, he tugged off the other one. Grabbing hold of the heel, he saw Berger move and had no more time to make his move. Swinging the boot he threw it in an arc but didn’t wait to see if it hit his target.
McCready launched himself off the roof.
Maggie’s acute sense of hearing had told where help was coming from with a bare scrape against the roof. She was pulling away from Berger when the boot hit his back. The pain in her arm brought her to her knees as she tried to twist free. But the weight of a body falling on Berger had her flattened beneath him when he fell.
She kicked her free leg and used her fist on whatever part of him she could reach. But it was only moments before he was torn off her.
For the second time that day Maggie had her mouth open without a sound coming out. In the light spilling from the smoke-filled cabin, she saw McCready punch Berger’s gut. The gun was fired again, but the shot went harmlessly into the ground. She drew herself up and away from them, worried that McCready might trip over her, while they grappled for possession of the gun.
McCready managed to tear Berger’s grip from the gun, but before he could back away and use it, Berger kicked McCready’s hand, and the gun went flying. There were no curses, just the sound of their ruthless fists landing where they could as each man sought an opening to take his opponent down.
Maggie was held by the sight of McCready’s lithe moves, the flex and play of his muscles, and the light and shadows thrown on his bare chest and bare feet. She had the damnedest impulse to call out a warning about the rocks so he wouldn’t cut himself. But she kept quiet and began searching for the gun. Satin circled the men, nipping at Berger’s legs. Berger landed a solid blow to McCready’s jaw and sent him sprawling, then spun to kick Satin’s chest before she could lunge at him.
The dog’s painful whelp sent Maggie running to her, but she kept her eyes on McCready, willing him to get up. Berger was searching for the gun, too. Maggie prayed that she would find it first.
She urged the dog to move away from them. McCready was moaning, but he wasn’t getting up.
Berger kicked McCready’s leg, and Maggie couldn’t wait any longer. She tackled Berger around the legs, thankful for her strength, furious that he dared kicked McCready while he was down. Berger fell, but he managed to twist himself around, facing her before she could plant herself on top of him. Maggie’s punch danced off his arm while his blow sent her head snapping back. Lights danced in front of her eyes, and she fell back, her arms sliding uselessly away from him.
But she had bought McCready time, and he came to his feet in an enraged rush just as Berger went to hit her again.
“You son of a bitch! Get the hell away from her!” McCready ordered, lunging for Berger.
Maggie had witnessed lethal fighting in her trips with her father through Indian territory and later with her uncle as they roamed the mountains prospecting. But she had never seen such a feral look on a man’s face as McCready’s when the light caught him.
Berger staggered to his feet, swinging wildly.
Maggie heard Satin’s warning growls and spun around. The dog launched herself at Berger’s back just as his blow knocked McCready backward.
“Satin, no!” Maggie screamed, seeing the dog’s bared teeth before they closed over Berger’s neck.
McCready stumbled toward her, and Maggie closed her eyes, then turned away, unable to watch. But nothing could prevent her from hearing the vicious sounds of her dog vanquishing her enemy.
Chapter 22
It was over. Maggie t
old herself this, but stood shaking in the aftermath of violence. Warmth suddenly came from the feel of McCready’s body behind her, his hands cupping her shoulders, forcing her around to face him. The race of his lips over her face brought heat to chase the cold inside her, her whispered name the only sound he made.
She burrowed against him, betrayal and lies forgotten, in her need to be held, to feel safe again.
But other needs surfaced, bringing with them a trembling that rocked their bodies together. The need to taste sealed their lips, and a softer violence erupted. Maggie drank her own tears from his mouth, hungry to know again the mindless wanting that left no room for questions. No soft words. No gentleness. She understood the raw passion they brought to each other. She could feel McCready’s heart race to match hers.
McCready dragged her head back. Snarling one minute, giving him everything the next, she made him ache until he couldn’t think.
She made him forget words and remember only needs. His mouth savaged hers, and she took, and took, then demanded more.
“Figure my two cents ain’t wanted, but you’ve got company coming.”
McCready froze, his chest heaving, and tore his mouth from Maggie’s. Still holding her, he made a half turn and saw Ira, leaning on his rifle, standing no more than a few feet from them.
“Lucky for you, McCready, I’m friendly and that one’s down for the count.” Ira glanced to where Berger lay. “Best call off the dog, or there’ll be nothing left to bury.”
“Call the bitch off, Maggie,” McCready ordered.
Maggie wasn’t as quick to recover, and she didn’t react until anger rode McCready’s voice with the second order. His hands on her arms became a punishing grip as he forced her away from him and once more repeated it.
“Do it now, before your husbands get here.”
She then heard the sounds of men running up the rocky path and pushed McCready away. “Satin! Come, girl.” Still holding McCready’s gaze, she wiped at her mouth. “I forgot who you were.”
“Damn you, Maggie!” McCready spun away from her.
“Damn yourself, McCready! You’re a hell of a lot easier to take when you’re not pretendin’.” Tell me you want me. Tell me no one else matters. But when he faced her, those weren’t the words he gave back to her.
“Don’t you dare,” he said, fury coiling around every word, “tell me that what’s between us is anything but as honest as it gets, Maggie.”
She had hurt him. He had saved her life, and she gave him hurt in return. “Honest, McCready? You’re wrong.” She lifted her hand to him, but he had already turned away, and then Pamela came running to her.
“Are you all right?” she demanded, taking Maggie’s limp hand into hers. “I heard the shots and was so afraid for you.”
“No need. McCready was here. An’ Satin,” she added, holding the dog’s neck to keep her by her side. She watched McCready as he walked around the side of the cabin to recover his shirt, but instead of putting it on, he draped it over Berger’s face.
A chorus of men’s voices warned Maggie she would have no time to talk to him alone. She closed her eyes briefly, knowing she had made a terrible mistake.
Pamela moved away to make room for Lee Warren.
“Maggie, I wish I had been here to help you.”
“It’s over, Lee, an’ that’s all that matters.”
“Maggie!” Mike Grant shouted as he spotted her. He ran to her, gripping her arms and turning her so that her back was to everyone. “Darlin’, I should’ve been with you. Sorry don’t say the half of it.”
“It wasn’t your fight,” Maggie answered, tightening her grip on Satin’s neck so the dog wouldn’t lunge for the men milling about the body. Satin issued one long low growl, and Maggie was thankful that Mike released her.
“You should’ve told me about that gold mine. Now I understand why you ain’t anxious to leave. When McCready was reading me off your good points like a heifer going to auction, he didn’t say a word about you being rich to boot.”
Maggie found McCready watching her. The gold again. Was that all he wanted from her? Was that all any of them wanted from her?
McCready read her bleak, accusing stare and wished he knew why. In the next moment she looked away, and Ira was asking him what to do with the body.
For Maggie, McCready’s ignoring her was an answer. But when Mike asked about the mine, she barely managed to talk to him. “Me gold mine has nothin’ to do with you.”
“Darlin’, a wife’s property belongs to her husband.”
Maggie retreated. “You see that body? Satin did that. Leave me alone. Don’t call me darlin’. Don’t call me anythin’. Pamela,” she called out, “will you spend the night with me?”
“We can’t stay here, Maggie.” Pamela glanced around for support, but Maggie surprised her.
“You’re right.” Maggie looked into her smoke-filled cabin. “I’ll come down an’ stay with you.” She swayed where she stood, fighting the hollow feeling in her belly and the pounding in her head. She shrugged off Mike’s offer of his arm and went into the cabin to get her other boot.
McCready caught the bemused expression on Mike’s face and walked over to him. “Don’t waste your time trying to understand. Maggie doesn’t need help from anyone. She’ll get around to telling you that eventually.”
Embarrassed that McCready had seen Maggie’s rebuff, Mike couldn’t help his anger. “Seems to me you’re on more than friendly terms with my wife. Only a fool would miss the looks you’re exchanging.”
“If you’re looking for a fight, you’ve found it.”
Maggie came back outside in time to hear McCready. She knew he wasn’t a man quick with his fists. Everyone knew that he’d rather talk you to death than fight. She quickly stepped between them, ignoring the glare in McCready’s eyes for her interference.
“You can’t fight. There’s been enough here tonight to fill everyone’s belly. An’ for you,” she said, rounding on Mike, “McCready’s nothin’ but a claim jumper tryin’ to get me mines.”
Dragging her pride up to rescue her, Maggie walked away from them and, together with Pamela, headed down the rocky path.
“She’s one hell of a lot of woman, that Maggie.”
McCready clamped his mouth shut when he heard Mike’s admiring tone. His hand clenched at his side in an effort to keep from hitting the other man. He was trying to figure out why it hurt to hear Maggie dismiss him as nothing more than a claim jumper after her mines. She had sounded calm, too calm. That wasn’t his Maggie. She should have been sassing them both and wishing them to the devil. But she was right about the belly full. He had had enough for one night.
Pamela insisted that Maggie have the first bath to rid herself of the dust and smoke that still lingered in the air. They had seen for themselves that the fire on the ridge was out, but the miners were still up there, so neither one knew how much damage had been done.
As Pamela bathed, Maggie listened to her humming in the kitchen, and looked down at the pristine white, voluminous nightgown that Pamela had given her to wear. She had never had a nightgown but liked its softness as well as the freedom it gave her to move about. The cotton was trimmed with tiny flowers and lace around the cuffs and neckline. Maggie felt strange seeing herself in the mirror over Pamela’s bureau.
Pamela said she looked pretty. Maggie wondered if McCready would think the same. A flush stole into her cheeks, and she lowered her gaze to the bottles neatly arranged on the tray. Why would a woman need all these scents and creams? Seemed like nonsense to her. Bathing was fine when she had the chance, but she’d be damned before she would gussie up and stink for some man.
But she found herself lifting the stopper to a bottle and raising it to her nose. The scent was so light that she had to hold it beneath her nose and repeatedly sniff to know she was smelling flowers. But she didn’t know what they were.
“Help yourself, Maggie,” Pamela offered,
coming into her room.
Feeling the same way she did the first time she was caught with her pants down, Maggie set the bottle back on the tray.
“Well, if you don’t like the scent of lily of the valley, try the violets that I lent you for your wedding day.”
“Ain’t a need to.”
“Of course there’s a need to, Maggie. Women don’t use creams to make their skin soft or pretty perfumes just for men. They use them because it makes them feel good about themselves.” Bustling over to the bureau, Pamela lifted a pink glass jar with a seated cupid on its lid. “Give me your hands. Come on, Maggie, this won’t hurt you.”
Reluctantly Maggie held out her work-rough hands, feeling out of place in this room of lace and fancy pillows. She was embarrassed, too, that Pamela, not much younger than she, knew all about women’s things while she was ignorant.
The cream Pamela rubbed on the top of her hands was silky soft, like the first pussy willows. It was cool and soothing, too.
Finished with one hand, Pamela lifted it to Maggie’s nose. “Go on, smell that. Isn’t it pretty? This is Madam La Roche’s hand cream.” Pamela dabbed more on Maggie’s palms. “Now, you work that in and tell me if it doesn’t make your hands feel smooth and nice. While you do that,” she said, replacing the jar and taking up another, “I’ll start working some of Miss Philippa Gosling’s face wash into your skin. This is guaranteed to make your face feel like silk.”
“Pamela, you do this all the time?” Maggie couldn’t believe she was standing still for this, but she was. Blame it on all that happened today, she told herself.
“Of course I do. Every morning and every night. A woman has to protect her skin and especially her hands. It’s the first thing a man’s allowed to touch.”
Their gazes locked, and Maggie was the first to smile, then chuckle as Pamela started giggling. Laughter eased the tension of the last few hours, and for long minutes they couldn’t stop.
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