by Stacey Kayne
“Gar—”
His name became a muffled cry as he deepened the kiss. He wasn’t ready to give up this dream. His fingertips lightly skimmed her breast, her waist, her thigh.
A pleasing groan was lost inside his mouth. Her tight hold on his shoulders became an arousing embrace as she shuddered against him. Her fingers slid over his back as she returned his fiery kiss. Triumph roared through him. The rush of passion and the pounding of his pulse forced him to release her mouth. He dragged for breath as he trailed kisses across her throat.
“You’re perfect.” He wanted her; he wanted to know her name.
An intense pain throbbed through his mind, blurring his vision. He gathered his dream lover close, his body aching for her. “Stay,” he said, but her delicate features began to fade. Darkness closed in around him, pulling her out of reach.
Trapped beneath Garret’s unmoving weight, Maggie’s eyes burned with unshed tears as she fought for breath. Her mind spun in a tangle of overwhelming sensation and utter confusion. One moment she’d been dreaming of floating in a hot spring, the soothing heat of the water rippling over her sensitive skin—in the next moment Garret Daines had his lips on her, creating a kind of heat she’d never felt before.
She was sure she’d opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but had only managed a strangled moan as he had flooded her body with sensations she’d never experienced in her life.
“Don’t go,” he whispered against her ear, the vibrations rekindling the wild tingles in all the places he’d touched. His arm tightened over her ribs.
Suddenly she was frightfully aware of her exposed damp skin, the warmth of his thigh wedged between hers, the very male portion of him pressed firmly against her hip.
Damnation!
She shoved his arm away and scrambled for the end of the bed. She stumbled over the trunk and fell to the cold floor. She sprang up, tugging her wool nightshirt closed as she bumped against her table, wobbling the lit oil lamp. Light shifted over shadows and the naked man sprawled in her bed.
She inched toward the stove, grabbed her now dry clothes then backed toward the door. How long had she slept?
Too long, she reminded herself, still trembling from Garret’s touch. She wasn’t about to look away from the man before her to search for signs of daylight seeping around the door. She shoved her feet into her warm buckskin pants and jerked them up. The shift of fabric against her damp flesh made her shudder. What had he done to her? She tugged on her buckskin tunic over the wool shirt. Her shaky fingers cinched the ties.
Ira had warned her about the violent intentions of randy men. He claimed she was his woman to those they encountered to keep her safe from such advances, but she hadn’t always traveled with Ira. She’d been chased more than once by men with such intentions to hold her down and hurt her—they’d never caught her.
Keeping her gaze on Garret, she slid her foot into a tall moccasin. She should have left him in the snow! Shot him, and then left him in the snow!
After lacing both boots she stuffed the bottom of her shirt into her pants. His coloring had returned. The light hair on his legs stood out against the darker skin beneath. Her gaze trailed across his bare backside.
The heated swirls he’d conjured rose up, stealing her breath.
She strapped her arms around her trembling middle and realized her belt and knife were missing.
Her gaze landed on her belt hanging from the bedpost.
Why hadn’t she reached for her blade?
Boots stood up in the corner and stretched. The black shaggy dog trotted toward her and bumped her leg. Keeping her gaze on Garret, she reached down to pat the dog’s head.
“What’s the matter with him?” she whispered. How could he still be sleeping when her pulse hammered erratically from the things he’d done to her?
He hadn’t actually hurt her. He’d kissed her, in ways she’d never imagined a man would kiss a woman. Her teeth clamped down on her trembling lower lip. The memory of his mouth on her breast, his tongue moving against hers added to the violent stir of her pulse. His touch had been tender, his kisses…overwhelming. She recalled the time Morgan and his bride had invaded her old cabin some years back. She hadn’t meant to watch them; she’d been mesmerized by their gentle embraces and tender kisses as Morgan had convinced Cora to marry him.
No wonder they seemed to enjoy themselves. Kissing Garret so intimately…She drew a deep, ragged breath and had to wonder if a man would have courted her with such tenderness, had she been allowed to grow into the proper lady her father always believed she’d become.
Bitter sentiment squelched the thought.
She wasn’t some gentile lady full of ignorant fanciful notions. She didn’t entertain suitors. At twenty-seven she was well into spinsterhood and had put such notions behind her. Garret Daines had no call to touch her in such a manner!
He continued to lie there, his back rising slightly with his deep, even breaths. Could a man put his mouth on her one moment and be unconscious the next?
She moved toward the bed. His dog stayed beside her.
“Garret?”
He didn’t stir. Her stomach dipped at the sight of his sleeping face and flushed lips. Far too handsome. She stepped closer. Heat radiated off his body. She touched his shoulder. His skin fairly scalded her hand. He moaned at her touch.
He’s raging with fever.
“Garret?”
When he didn’t respond, she reached over him, grabbed her belt and quickly strapped it around her waist. She picked up one of the blankets he’d knocked to the floor and draped it over the firm slope of his bare backside. Fever or not, her sensibilities could only handle so much.
“Thaw him out to cool him off,” she muttered on her way to the door. Outside she was stunned to discover nighttime encroaching on a stormy gray sky. She’d slept nearly the whole day.
A short while later she was packing snow into the embroidered hand towels she’d intended to sell. Garret moaned in his sleep as she placed them over his superheated body but didn’t fully rouse. The snow melted quickly against his shoulders and the back of his neck. As she swabbed his flushed skin with the cool cloth a troubling thought increased the unease welling inside her.
He’d been out of his mind with fever, and she’d nearly succumbed to his hallucinations. He’d called her beautiful and she’d lost her mind right along with him.
Thank goodness he’d passed out. She could just imagine his reaction when he awoke to discover it was Mad Mag he’d been kissing in that bed.
Her hands paused on his back, the thought of facing his scorn twisting her stomach into a painful knot. She hadn’t just allowed him to kiss her, she’d reveled in the bursts of pleasing sensation, the shocking intimacy of his deep kiss.
Shame washed through her. Good God. What would he think of her?
Same as everyone else, she supposed. Tears stung her eyes, a reaction that stunned her.
This time she’d finally earned the moniker Mad Mag.
Chapter Four
G arret woke to the aroma of stewed meat and the telltale bubbling of something simmering on the stove. He blinked several times, and still he stared up at a high stone ceiling. His gaze swept over rock walls, a black stove to his right…none of it the slightest bit familiar.
His stomach growled, the tantalizing scent drawing his gaze back to the bubbling kettle. Licking his dry lips he glanced at the wood front of what appeared to be someone’s home. A lamp to his right and another beyond the foot of the bed created soft circles of light, brightening the dank surroundings.
Where the hell am I?
He pushed up onto his elbows and had to stifle a groan. His body ached as though he hadn’t moved in ages. Pain pulsed through his skull, radiating from the left side. He reached up and touched a tender spot above his forehead and discovered a small lump and what felt like a gash beneath his hair. The movement wafted him with a clean, sweet scent. He paused and sniffed his arm.
“Wildflo
wers?”
Sapphire eyes and black hair against delicate ivory skin surfaced in his mind.
The woman. She’d stayed nearby, stroking his skin, encouraging him to drink.
Rest, Garret. You have a fever.
The soft, husky voice tantalized his memory with the alluring scent of her skin, her silky softness beneath his lips.
“A dream,” he muttered. The only safe place to love a woman.
He pushed the wool blanket aside and froze, surprise prickling through him. He wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. His gaze skated around the room, searching every shadowed corner. He was alone. In the corner beside the stove was a rumpled blanket and tooth-scrapped bone. Wherever his caretaker had gone, she’d taken his dog. Why was he here? If he was sick, why wasn’t he in his own bed? And yet…he didn’t recall getting sick. For all he knew some woman had knocked him from his saddle and dragged him to her bed.
Her delicate feminine features surfaced in his mind.
A man could suffer a worse fate.
Another glance around the rough rock walls snuffed that thought. He doubted the delicate creature of his dreams would live in such desolate surroundings. Had he dreamed up her pretty face to match the soothing voice and gentle hands that had been caring for him?
He shifted his feet to the floor with silent caution. His bare toes touched down on a cold, smooth surface.
Polished wood? He glanced again at the tidy space, noting the canisters, boxes and stacked dishes lined up all nicelike on the wide-set shelves, the stack of blankets folded at the foot of the bed. He’d known a couple of miners who’d carved out similar dwellings—but he’d never known any miner to be quite so tidy. Every breath drew in a clean floral scent and the mouthwatering aroma of stew.
How the hell had he gotten here? He closed his eyes, trying to remember. Last he could recall he’d been riding range…he’d ridden home at noon and—Duce. He’d been looking for Duce. His business partner hadn’t made it in for the noontime meal. The way the countryside had been strewn with violence and mishaps lately, too many ranchers turning up dead and a storm rolling in…
Chills prickled his skin as he recalled the cold, whipping rain washing out horse tracks he’d followed into the hills—old panic clenched his chest.
He hadn’t found Duce.
Garret shot to his feet, pulling the blanket around his waist as he stood. The quick movement made him light-headed and wafted him with the scent of spring flowers, reminding him that whoever lived here had done more than simply tend his fever. He’d been bathed.
He moved toward the door, each step a slow stretch of tense muscles. The way his head and body ached, he could have been struck by lightning. Maybe Duce had found him and brought him to this place.
Spotting his boots tucked beneath the small table beside the rickety door, he pulled them out and stepped into the tall leather shafts. His clothes were nowhere in sight. Surely he’d been fully dressed when he’d arrived. He scanned three large barrels stacked on top of the other in the far corner and a large chest at the foot of the bed. He was tempted to search their contents for his britches. A pinch in his bladder urged him to search out a privy first. After he relieved himself, he’d find whoever had taken his clothes and his dog and demand some answers.
He pulled open the door and had to shield his face from a flurry of snowflakes. Cold wind buffeted against his bare chest, sending an instant chill shivering across his skin. He stared gap-jawed at the snow piled some three feet high on either side of the door, a path having been recently shoveled.
“What the hell?”
Through the haze of swirling flakes tall timbers reached toward a gray sky. White-topped mountain peaks rose up from all sides.
He was in the high country. He wouldn’t have ridden into these snow-packed mountains.
A familiar bark echoed over the rush of wind and Garret stepped into the brisk cold. “Boots!”
Snow burst from the embankment up ahead as his dog bounded onto the shoveled path. Garret grinned, relieved to see his shaggy friend.
“Hey, boy,” he said, reaching down to pat his furry head while keeping his gaze on movement near the end of the path. He narrowed his eyes, trying to peer through the falling snow as the stranger drew near. The small form slowly emerged through the flurry of flakes, a white hooded coat blending with the winter landscape. He couldn’t make out more than a faint outline and a shotgun clutched in the left hand.
Caution tensed his muscles as the stranger drew close.
Mad Mag was the first thought to his mind, until she looked up. The deep blue eyes and delicate, feminine features lurking beneath that hood stole his breath.
She’s real. The passionate woman from his dream.
“You should be inside.”
Her voice was low, husky, and flooded his mind with the sounds of breathy moans, the image of her rose-tipped breast straining toward his mouth.
“Move.”
Her harsh tone and stern gaze jarred him from the tantalizing vision. He stepped back, allowing her to rush him through the doorway. She quickly shut out the wind and wisps of snow.
“Go lay down.” She pointed toward the far wall, her stern tone commanding as she stared him right in the eyes.
Maybe this bitty thing had clubbed him over the head and dragged him to her bed. Shock rippled through him…along with an undeniable stir of attraction.
Boots brushed his leg on his way to the corner, and Garret realized she was talking to his dog, not him. He scrubbed a hand over his stubble-coated jaw. He obviously wasn’t working with a full deck. His brain struggled to take hold of the notion that his dream lover stood before him. He stared at her, his mind lost somewhere between reality and a really good dream.
She propped her gun beside the door and glanced briefly at the floor. Her supple pink lips pressed to a firm line as her gaze moved over puddles of melting snow. He’d left the door wide-open.
“Sorry about that.”
Sharp blue eyes narrowed, her expression bordering on lethal. Not quite the passionate woman from his memory—his dreams, he silently amended. He eased back toward the warmth of the stove, his instincts warning him not to crowd the little filly. Her soft, delicate features were a clear contradiction to the hard blue eyes watching him with calculating caution.
She stayed beside the door, her posture stiff, defensive. The hand hovering near her waist made him wonder if she wore a gun beneath her coat. She pushed her hood back, revealing silky black braids tucked behind her ears. In his mind her hair was loose, fanned out across his arm, his chest—
“How do you feel?” she asked, her smooth voice washing over him like a sensual caress.
Uncomfortably aroused. He shifted his hold on the blanket and had to remind himself he didn’t know this woman. Other than the alluring images in his mind, he’d never seen her before.
“Alive, I suppose,” he answered. At the moment he wasn’t certain of anything else. His dreams blended with reality, distracting him from the questions he should be asking. Like why he’d awakened in the high country, where were his clothes and…had he actually bedded this woman? Best to start with something simple.
“Where am I?”
“About eight miles north of your ranch.”
Eight miles? Most of them straight up by the looks of the mountainous terrain he’d glimpsed outside.
She shrugged off her heavy fur. Garret wasn’t sure what he expected to see beneath the long coat, but the vibrant red flowers stitched across the shoulders of her white shirt took him by surprise. The garment hung to mid-thigh, cinched at her narrow waist by a beaded belt. She wasn’t wearing a gun. A leather sheath secured a long bowie knife at her hip.
Tiny but fierce, he thought, noting how her gaze didn’t stray from him as she hung her coat beside the door. Buckskin britches encased her slender legs, the bottoms tucked into her tall Indian-style boots. He only knew of one mountain woman to frequent these ranges, had been close enough to the ol
d woman called Mad Mag to catch her stench, to see the filth on her hands as she had held a rifle to a man’s chest. The wide white cuffs of this woman’s shirt were etched with red thread and hid her hands, revealing just enough of her fingers to see her clean, short fingernails. She smelled as fresh as a spring rain.
“You were caught in the storm,” she said, drawing his gaze back to her young, pretty face.
He remembered a rainstorm, and the cold…waking to a beautiful woman sleeping in his arms. His gaze slid to the bed, a sense of dread tightening his gut.
“Do I have you to thank?” he asked. “Or was it your husband who brought me here?” A husband would be good. He needed some reassurance that the visions in his mind were just that—visions.
“You can thank your dog. If not for him, you likely would have froze before I found you.”
“You found me?”
Her posture stiffened. “That’s right.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but…I don’t recall your name or riding up to this…” His gaze slid over the stone walls. “Cabin.”
“I’m not surprised. You were froze out of your mind when I found you. That was the day before yesterday. Once your chill wore off a fever set in.”
He had the vague memory of a cool, damp cloth stroking his skin, her smooth, husky voice encouraging him to drink. Incapacitated for nearly three days, it wasn’t a wonder he was starving and his bladder about to burst.
His shock wearing off, he was hit by the renewed urge to step outside.
“You’ve been sick,” she said. “You should lie down.”
“What I need are my clothes.” And an outhouse. At this point, his clothes would be a waste of time—he had to go now. He took a step forward.
The woman’s hand went for her blade. The glint in her eyes told him she wouldn’t hesitate to fillet him.
“Easy, honey,” he said, raising his hand, the other gripping the blanket at his hip. “I’m just headin’ for the door. No reason to get jumpy.”
“You can’t leave,” she said, her hand still on the hilt of her long knife.
“I need to step outside for a spell.”
