The Dakota Man

by Joan Hohl

  “This room was originally the pantry and laundry room,” Karla explained, moving to the sink. “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”

  “I’d love a cup of coffee,” Maggie said, then qualified, “But could I see the third-floor apartment first?”

  Karla laughed. “Of course you can see it.” Turning, she led the way back into the living room. “You might want to go on ahead,” she said, grinning as she opened the door. “I’m a little slow lately going up the stairs.”

  Maggie’s gaze rested on Karla’s extended belly. “You don’t have to go upstairs. I can go up alone. That is, if it’s all right?”

  “Oh, sure it’s all right.” Taking a key off the case Mitch had given her, Karla handed it to Maggie. “When you get to the top of the stairs, follow the hallway to the door at the back. Oh, and by the way, there’s another enclosed staircase at the rear of the hallway, with an access door to the back parking area. I’ll start the coffee while you have a look at the place.”

  At the second-floor landing Maggie found the door to the stairway leading to the third level. It was also enclosed, much narrower, but lit by a ceiling light and by the sunlight pouring in through lacy curtains at a window at the top landing.

  Not knowing what to expect…a big old storage attic, or perhaps a large room sectioned off for servants’ quarters, Maggie mounted the stairs. A wide hallway with sloping ceilings to either side ran to an enlarged room at the front. While she had expected the sloping roofs, she hadn’t expected the storage cabinets built into the spaces beneath—nooks and crannies—or the size of the apartment beyond.

  It was spotlessly clean, huge and wonderful and completely furnished, again with the same Victorian motif. To one side, the bedroom and bath were both sectioned off and private. To the other side one large room made up the kitchen and living area. A small round dinette table sat in the tower alcove, and a lace-curtained window overlooked the front of the house.

  A strange sense of excitement stirred inside Maggie, a feeling almost as if she had found exactly what she had spent months unknowingly searching for.

  A home…or a hideaway? Maggie didn’t know, nor did she care. It felt right, and that was enough, enough even to put up with the bedrock-hard Mitch Grainger.

  Picturing herself seated at the table, gazing out at the world while eating a meal, sipping a cup of hot chocolate on a cold night or a glass of iced tea on a hot afternoon, Maggie decided on the spot that she had to have the apartment, regardless of cost, or her new employer. With the salary figure he had quoted, she knew she could afford it, even though she had immediately thought of finding an inexpensive place and hoarding most of her money away.

  Oh, well, she mused, slowly looking around, already feeling at home. She had to have it, and that was that.

  Anxious to lay claim to it and move in her things, she gave a final longing glance at the alcove, then retraced her steps down to the ground level.

  As promised, Karla had the coffee ready, along with a plate of packaged cookies.

  “So, what did you think of it?” Karla asked, nibbling on a cream-filled sandwich cookie.

  “I love it. I want it,” Maggie answered, taking a careful sip of the hot liquid. “How much?”

  Karla shrugged. “I don’t know.” She popped the last morsel of cookie into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “You’ll have to take that up with Mitch.” She reached for another cookie, paused, sighed and pulled back her hand. “Better not.” She sighed again. “I love sweets, but at my last doctor visit, I had put on five pounds. The doctor was not happy.” She grinned. “She told me to lay off the junk.”

  “Must be rough when you have a sweet tooth,” Maggie commiserated. “I don’t, never did.” She rolled her eyes. “My downfall is pasta…with rich sauces.”

  “Really?” Karla laughed. “I was planning to make a pasta dish for dinner. Why don’t we move your stuff as soon as we’re finished here, then have dinner together?”

  Maggie frowned. “Are you sure Mr. Grainger won’t mind if I move in before paying the rent?”

  “I told you he said I should use the truck to help you move your stuff,” Karla reminded her.

  “Well…all right. But I have a better idea,” Maggie countered, mindful of Karla’s condition. “Most of my stuff is still in my car, as I only took two cases into the hotel and didn’t even fully unpack them. If you’ll run me into town, I’ll grab my cases, check out of the hotel and follow you back here. Then you can rest, put up your feet, while I lug my stuff up to the third floor.”

  “Oh, brother, I’m not an invalid,” Karla protested. “You sound just like Mitch.”

  “God, I hope not,” Maggie said fervently.

  Karla giggled. “He’s really quite nice, you know.”

  “Uh-huh,” Maggie muttered, reserving her opinion and judgment. “Anyway, I have eyes, and I couldn’t help but notice your swollen ankles,” she continued, deliberately changing the subject. “So, instead of your standing at the stove and cooking, when I’m finished lugging my stuff, I’d like to thank you for all your help by treating you to dinner at the restaurant of your choice.”

  “But…”

  “No buts,” Maggie said, cutting her off. “That’s the deal.” She grinned. “Take it or leave it.”

  Karla threw up her arms. “You win.” She grinned back. “I’ll take it.”

  “Good.” Maggie shoved back her chair. “Then let’s clear away the coffee things and get this show on the road.”

  The running and lugging were completed in less than two hours. Of course, Maggie didn’t put a thing away, but simply dumped her four suitcases, a nylon carry-on and one cardboard carton in the middle of the living room. She did take a minute to retrieve her makeup case, though. Zipping into the bathroom, she freshened up, brushed her hair and swiped blusher on her cheeks and lipstick on her lips before dashing back down the stairs to collect Karla.

  “Oh, I talked to Mitch on the phone while you were carting your stuff upstairs,” Karla said as they left the house. “He said you can take care of the rent payment on Monday morning, when you come in to work.”

  “Fine.” Maggie masked a grimace with a smile, not wanting to reveal to the friendly and obviously trusting young woman how reluctant she was to face Monday morning, and working for Mitch Grainger.

  The next three days flew by in a flurry of domestic activity for Maggie. For the first time since leaving Philadelphia, she actually unpacked every one of her suitcases, the nylon flight bag and the cardboard carton. She stashed foldables into the drawers of an old-but-solid and highly polished wood dresser and, after a brisk shake-out, hung suits, dresses, skirts, slacks and blouses in the roomy bedroom closet.

  A soft smile on her lips, Maggie arranged the top of the dresser with the few personal items she hadn’t been able to leave behind: a framed enlarged snapshot of her parents; a small hand-carved jewelry box; the white jade figurine of a tiger that had been the last Christmas gift she’d received from her grandmother; and a small, stuffed, gaily garbed clown Hannah had presented to her as a going-away present.

  Deciding to pick up some groceries, Maggie headed downstairs and out to her car. Once in the parking area, she turned to glance back at the house. A soft ‘oh’ of pleasure whispered through her lips as she took in the beauty of the house once more.

  Utterly charmed by the sight of the grand old house, Maggie didn’t allow herself to so much as conjecture on the possible length of her stay in Deadwood. She’d been hired to stay until Karla was able to return to work—some four or five months from now. Perhaps she would stay on a little longer, to experience more of the changing seasons in this part of the country.

  But that would depend a lot on Mitch Grainger, Maggie reasoned, suppressing a sudden shiver of indeterminate origin. Why the mere thought of the man should so affect her, she hadn’t a clue. Yet, whenever he came to mind, or Karla mentioned him, a chill trickled the length of her spine.

  And he came to mind often
throughout the weekend, too often for Maggie’s peace of mind. At odd, disconcerting moments, an image of him, in full detail and living color, invaded her consciousness. Primarily when she was in bed.

  All of a sudden, he’d be there, filling her mind, her senses. She’d experience the weird sensation that she could actually feel him, was as aware of him as she had been in his office. She could almost feel the compelling pull of his intent gray eyes, the sensual energy that surrounded him like a magnetic force field.

  It was really the strangest sensation, one she had never experienced before, and she didn’t like it. The sensation unnerved her, made her feel chilled, then too warm, tingly and quivery all over.

  In a bid to dispel her uneasiness about working closely with him, Maggie conjured defensive images of Todd and every other man she had ever come into contact with who had come on to her.

  Her ploy didn’t work; those other images left her completely unaffected. Only the image of Mitch Grainger had the power to make her heart race, her breathing shallow, her nerves twang, as if his long fingers plucked them like guitar strings.

  It was all just too ridiculous, Maggie repeatedly chastised herself, firmly, if unconsciously, entrenched in denial about the root cause of her awareness of him. Still, deep down inside, she knew the energy was sexual, the attraction mutual.

  By bedtime Sunday night, to Maggie’s way of thinking, those three days had elapsed much too quickly.

  Four

  For Mitch, those days dragged much too slowly.

  Like an animal’s instinctive restlessness before an approaching storm, Mitch felt an inner expectancy, as if something momentous was about to happen. He felt charged, wired, restless, and the feelings were centered around one Maggie Reynolds.

  It was the damnedest sensation, unlike anything Mitch had ever felt before in connection to any woman. It bothered him to the point where it interfered with his concentration on his work, and that bothered him even more.

  What was it about this particular woman? Mitch asked himself at least two dozen times during those seemingly endless three days.

  Unlike his former fiancée, with her near-perfect, symmetrical features, Maggie Reynolds was decidedly not a classical beauty, he continually reminded himself. Yeah, yeah, Maggie was striking, with that tall, slender but curvaceous body, that mass of red hair, those flashing green eyes, those full kiss-me-if-you-dare lips.

  Well, Mitch dared, but why the hell should he want to? he wondered, too often. Yes, she was bright, and quick, and cool…oh, so cool.

  And yet, her coolness of manner was different from the remote and off-putting detachment that had been integral to Natalie’s personality.

  In Maggie, Mitch sensed a coolness based on confidence, not instilled by growing up rich and pampered, but earned by intelligence and competence.

  But Mitch instinctively felt there was even more to it than that. There was a wariness within the depths of Maggie’s cool green eyes that spoke of something, he suspected, having to do with men in particular, and not simply reserve or even arrogance. What that something might be teased and tantalized him.

  So then, a challenge? Was that her unusual appeal?

  Mitch spent an inordinate amount of time mulling that one over. It was possible, he conceded, since a sense of challenge in regards to a woman was a new and novel emotion for him. By and large, Mitch knew he was rather blasé so far as women were concerned, simply because he had never had to go out of his way to attract any woman he had ever shown the slightest interest in, as well as those he had not.

  But Maggie Reynolds was different. She had revealed not the slightest interest in him, nor so much as a hint of feeling a bit intimidated by him.

  An image of Maggie slipped in and out of his mind at unexpected, inconvenient intervals. Always the same, the image of her was as she had looked while seated across the width of his desk from him. And she had looked anything but a nervous supplicant, anxious about an interview for the employment position she obviously needed.

  The picture of self-containment and confidence, Maggie had met and maintained his deliberate and steady regard with a cool composure bordering on detachment.

  A challenge? Oh, yeah, Mitch concluded. Maggie Reynolds presented a challenge he couldn’t wait to accept.

  By Sunday evening, the sensation of simmering expectancy inside Mitch had ratcheted up to rioting anticipation. Unused to the unfamiliar feelings, he prowled the confines of his spacious apartment two floors above the casino, disgusted and amused in turn by the novel, disruptive emotional, physical and mental effect of the inner heightened eagerness.

  It was a relief when his private phone line rang, simply because of its distraction value. Mitch snatched up the receiver on the second ring. The sound of his brother’s voice centered his attention.

  “How are you, ole son?” Justin drawled in his usual low, sardonic tones.

  “Compared to whom?” Mitch drawled back, a warm smile curving his lips and coloring his voice.

  Justin chuckled. “Me, for one.”

  Despite his brother’s soft laughter, Mitch frowned with sudden concern. “There’s something wrong with you?”

  “Now, Mitch, don’t go tying your guts into protective big-brother knots,” Justin said. “I’m fine.”

  Mitch snorted at the big-brother reference. Less than two years separated them. But he was protective, he acknowledged. He always had been, not only of Justin and their sister, Beth, the baby of the brood, but of Adam, the eldest, who was even more protective of the rest of them. Come to that, a tightly knit group of four—rowdy angels, as their mother had lovingly called them—they were all protective of one another.

  “But I do have a problem,” Justin continued, “and I need a favor.”

  “Name it,” Mitch said at once. “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s Ben.”

  “Daniels? He isn’t working out at the ranch?” Mitch asked in surprise.

  Though the varied business enterprises of the Grainger Corporation had been headed by Adam since their father’s retirement, Mitch still kept tabs on everything concerning his family. He knew full well the story of Ben Daniels. It had begun the year he turned twenty-two, two years before he had been given control of the Deadwood casino.

  Thirteen years before, Ben, a seventeen-year-old orphan, had hired on as a wrangler on the Grainger homestead in Wyoming, where Mitch and his siblings had been born and raised. All of the Graingers, from Mitch’s father and mother, straight down the line of the kids, even Beth, who was three years younger, had taken the tall, lanky Ben under their protective wings.

  Over the years Ben had developed a real ability for handling horses. Although he wasn’t to the level of Justin, whose talent with horses was damn near uncanny, Ben had a solid working ability.

  As he matured, Ben’s good looks formed into sheer masculine handsomeness, and he was hell with the women. Three years ago, the eighteen-year-old daughter of an influential banker became pregnant and named Ben as the father. Ben denied it, claiming he had never been intimate with the girl, and insisted on a DNA study. It never came to that for, distraught and terrified of her father, the girl had swallowed a lethal dose of her mother’s sleeping pills.

  The traumatic incident had nearly destroyed Ben. Depressed, he began drinking, heavily. Afraid he’d wind up destroying himself, Adam had fired him from the homestead ranch, then rehired and relocated him to the Montana horse spread Justin managed for the family.

  But that had all happened three years before, and Mitch had believed Ben had overcome his depression.

  “That’s the problem,” Justin said, breaking in to Mitch’s surprised ruminations. “He’s working out too well. Damned man don’t quit.”

  “And that’s a problem?” Mitch asked, thinking he should have that problem with—thankfully—a few of his less-ambitious employees.

  “Hell, yes, it’s a problem,” Justin said. “At least in Ben’s case it is. He goes nonstop, seven days a week
, from before dawn until after nightfall. I don’t think he’s been off the ranch more than five times in the three years he’s been here. You…”

  “Just about the same could be said about you,” Mitch cut in to observe about the brother who had always been something of a loner, but even more so after the breakup of his early, ill-fated marriage. “How long has it been since you left the ranch, had a vacation?”

  “It’s my place, Mitch, my home, even if it is a part of the family business,” Justin retorted. “Besides, not that it’s any of your business,” he added in a one-upmanship tone, “but I took a short vacation last week, spent some time in Wyoming with big brother Adam, his gorgeous bride Sunny and our adorable niece Becky.”

  A soft smile softened Mitch’s lips at the mention of the two-month-old baby; Becky was adorable. “I took a quick trip down week before last,” he said, laughing. “I’m afraid ole Adam is in for a time of it in about fifteen or so years, because our Miss Becky is going to be a beauty.”

  “Yeah,” Justin concurred softly. “Anyway, you should see Ben. He’s honed down to nothing but muscle and bone. The man needs a break.”

  “So, give him one,” Mitch said. “Tell him to take a vacation, get a little R and R.”

  “I did.” Justin sighed. “He refused at first, but I made it an order and he finally agreed. That’s where the favor from you comes in. Can you arrange a hotel room for him?”

  “He’s coming to Deadwood?”

  “Yeah. Said if he’s got to take a damn vacation, he may as well go there, hang out with you a little when you can spare the time, and lose some of the money he’s stashed away over these past three years.”

  “If he’s hell-bent on losing his money, why not go to Vegas, then?”

  Justin grunted. “Ben said it’s too crowded, too high-tech and too glitzy.”

  “He’s got a point,” Mitch conceded.

  “So, can you arrange a room, say at the Bullock Hotel, on short notice?”

  “Sure.” Mitch hesitated. “How short?”