by Stacey Kayne
His jaws flexed, his eyes narrowed slightly and Maggie was reminded she spoke to a man of considerable size and strength. And she was demanding he stay? Fear nettled beneath her skin. She’d lost her mind.
“I’ll start digging you out and see how it goes.”
Boots stuck his head in, his sharp barks rattling through the cabin.
“Would you stop shouting at me,” Garret said with exasperation. “I can’t squeeze through a rabbit hole!” Boots moved back and kept barking as Garret dug at the thick snow pack. “All your yapping isn’t helping,” he grumbled, which Boots answered with another series of barks.
Maggie was surprised to find herself grinning as she watched them. The way he talked to Boots, as though talking to a person, had been something she’d always found endearing about him. His wide shoulders shifted in fluid motions as he cleared the doorway with impossible speed, shoveling away snow in minutes that would have taken her half the day. She envied his strength.
He turned back and dragged the flat shovel across the floor, clearing out the hard-packed snow that had slid inside. “I’ll bring in some wood as soon as I uncover the woodpile. You go on and get some sleep,” he said, nodding toward the bed before shutting the door.
Sleep? With him tromping around outside her cabin?
He sure seemed spry this morning for a man who could barely stand the day before. Amazing what a good meal could do. Maggie dried the floor and went to check the stove. She wasn’t pleased to find he’d cleared out all the hot coals, leaving the stove completely cold. She knew better than to let the fire die out during a storm. The way it was snowing, she’d have to go up top and dig out the stovepipe before she could light a fire. The mere thought made her shiver.
Garret came in with an armload of wood as she shrugged into her coat. He dumped the wood into the box, his hands slamming down on his hips as he regarded her for a silent moment.
“What’s wrong?”
“I let the fire die down, which means the pipe likely snowed over. I’ll have to clear it before I build a fire.” She refrained from telling him she never removed all the hot coals from the stove in the dead of winter.
He turned, his gaze following the pipe up through her ceiling. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, tugging his collar up as he headed for the door. “Stay inside.”
The door slammed and she bristled at his parting words. Who was he to be giving her orders?
Biting out a curse, she took off her coat and went back to the stove. As she filled it with kindling and wood, she could hear the scraping sounds coming from up above. The very idea of him knowing her location filled her with unease.
“All clear.” His deep voice carried through the pipe with crystal clarity and caused an annoying stir of ripples in her belly.
If food was what it took to keep him strong, she’d keep cooking until he was gone.
Garret had hoped to get a lay of the land, but could hardly see more than five yards in front of him. Through the distortion of snowflakes none of the surrounding white ridges looked familiar. In this storm, eight miles from his ranch might as well have been a hundred.
Chilled to the bone, he went back to clearing snow from around the woodpile stacked along the front of her cabin, or so it appeared. Wood slats wedged into the mouth of a cave. Even with a wide storage chest built up to one side of the false front for added support and the woodpile stacked on the other side, the upkeep had to be constant. He’d uncovered a large kettle a few yards out she likely used for laundry.
He shook his head, hardly able to believe a man had left his woman in a place like this. A miner should know only trappers, outlaws and renegade Indians frequented these mountains—even they sought more hospitable ground over winter.
Pulling back the heavy tarpaulin covering the woodpile, he collected a few more pieces to take inside. She’d at least stay warm until the end of winter. Hopefully she’d hunkered down in that bed while he uncovered her yard. Despite all his labor, fresh snow continued to pile up, the steady snowfall showing no sign of slowing. Just as Grace had said, he wouldn’t be going anywhere today.
“Come on, Boots. Let’s head in.”
He opened the door to a welcoming burst of heat and a mouthwatering scent that made his stomach roar with hunger. His gaze locked on a steaming pile of golden biscuits at the center of the table.
“Breakfast is ready.”
He whipped his gaze toward the all-too-inviting view of Grace lifting a kettle from the stove. Apron strings created a tidy white bow just above the gentle swell of her backside…a shapely backside that had him appreciating her buckskin britches.
Don’t go there, he silently warned, forcing his gaze up to a second white bow securing the silky black hair she’d brushed into a single ponytail. Boots bumped up beside her. Soaked from his morning run, he was about to shake water all over Grace’s cabin.
“Boots.”
His dog froze—so did Grace, her eyes popping wide as he rushed toward them.
Garret grabbed the dog’s blanket from the corner and draped it over him, briskly drying his wet fur. “Miss Grace doesn’t take kindly to a wet floor.”
Or sudden moves from stray cowpunchers, he thought, noting how her slender body had shuddered before she had dragged in a deep breath. She grabbed up the mugs and hurried to the table.
The moment he released Boots his dog shot to the bowl of broken biscuits and meat Grace had placed in his corner. He turned and she stepped back, practically pressing her back to the door.
“I filled the basin with warm water so you could wash up.”
He spotted a fresh towel beside the water-filled basin and realized the pleasing scent of spring mingled with the aroma of breakfast. Glancing back at Grace he noted the fresh shine of her skin. He reached for the buttons on his coat and she instantly fluttered past the foot of her bed, anticipating his move toward the door to hang his jacket.
Her wariness of him stung at his pride—not that he blamed her.
By the time he finished scrubbing up she was rummaging through her shelves, conveniently giving him plenty of clearance to get to the table. His plate had already been served, a stack of broken biscuits smothered with chunks of venison and white gravy. He collected the linen napkin from beside his plate, noting the tiny pink flowers across the bottom as he draped it over his thigh.
She hadn’t set a place for herself. Already back at the stove, she obviously didn’t have plans to join him at the table, so he dug in. Just as the heavenly aroma had hinted, her biscuits and gravy were the best to pass his lips since he’d lived in his sister’s home.
Maggie glanced up from mixing a fresh batch of biscuits as a low, rumbling groan sounded behind her. Garret sat with his eyes closed as he chewed. The coarse stubble along his jaw from a couple of days ago had become smooth fibers with another day of growth. She missed being able to stroke his face, his skin.
I don’t need to be petting on any man, she silently scolded.
His tongue skimmed over his full lips and tingles danced across Maggie’s skin, awakening the memory of his soft mouth pressed to hers, the shocking surge of pleasing sensations stirred by his seeking tongue. His blond lashes lifted and Maggie forced her gaze back to her task.
He didn’t mean to kiss me. No man in his right mind would.
Anger burned away the reverie.
“Grace, that was the best breakfast I’ve ever had.”
She started dropping biscuits into the pan with extra force. “It’s not hard to please a starving man.”
He stepped beside her holding his empty plate, and Maggie wondered how he could spend his morning shoveling snow and still smell of wood smoke and musk.
“You’re a great cook. But I thought you’d be sleeping.”
“And I’d hoped you’d be leaving.”
Realizing the rudeness of her words, she looked up. His blue-green eyes sparked with amusement. Of course he’d find her amusing, and not at all ladylike.
Da
mn it!
“Thank you,” he said, his steady gaze holding hers.
Be normal. She forced a smile. “You’re welcome.”
There, that hadn’t been so hard.
His lips shifted slightly, and the heat blossoming inside Maggie warned her that nothing was going to be easy in his presence.
“Grace, would you mind returning the rest of my gear? If I can’t head out today I’d like to at least get ready and my revolver likely needs cleaning. You can hold on to the bullets.”
Cleaning the gun would keep him busy and stationary. “All right,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron—yet another item sacrificed from her winter bartering supply. “I’ve stored them outside.”
“In the box against the house?”
Her breath stalled. She hadn’t even thought about him digging out the storage chest.
“It was locked,” he said.
Oh, thank God.
“If you want to give me the key—”
“No,” she said, ushering him back as she moved toward the shelf. “Excuse me.”
He stepped back as she reached for a cup near the top shelf. She dumped out the slender key. “Wait here,” she said before pulling on her coat.
“Mind if I refill my tea?”
“Tea canister is above the stove. Help yourself.” She slipped outside and shut the door firmly behind her.
What had she been thinking to let him come out here with a shovel? She dropped to her knees before the storage box and brushed the fresh powder from the lid. She lifted the cold lock and tugged it open without use of the key. The temperamental thing wouldn’t always open and she’d gotten used to leaving it unlocked. A partially closed lock was enough to keep out critters. The tap of a shovel would have clicked it open and all her effort would have been wasted. Just as Ira had told her, a safe place wasn’t something that lasted—it was something to be found. With folks crowding her every turn, it was getting harder to find peace, even in the wild.
She glanced at the door, making sure Garret didn’t take a mind to join her as she opened the latch and lifted the lid on her old livelihood. Hinges creaked as the odor of bear hide rolled out into the whip of wind. She pushed the thick brown pelt aside, uncovering traps and snares and various tools. She’d also tucked her rifle inside for good measure. With her shotgun inside for protection, she didn’t want to chance Garret recognizing the Winchester carbine she’d had that day in town. Folks didn’t tend to look too closely at her, but she didn’t doubt Garret had noticed her rifle.
She tugged his chaps and holster out from the far end. Setting the holster aside, she sniffed the buffalo hide, making sure they hadn’t absorbed Mad Mag’s odors. Wasn’t nothing compared to the stench that old coat could give off in the warmth of spring.
“You ever smell a b’ar?” Ira had said to her when she’d first complained about his foul odor. “They don’t smell invitin’ for a reason.”
She sure missed him at times. And he’d been right of course. Folks didn’t come within six feet of her. The few her coat didn’t discourage, her rifle did.
All but Garret. He’d actually touched her. Her eyes burned at the thought of him knowing she’d been the one standing beside him that day.
“Stay in there,” she said, tucking in the telltale signs of Mad Mag before clamping down the lid.
She had him fooled. One more day and he’d be gone.
Chapter Six
G arret stood at the open door. His muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he gripped the door frame overhead and stared out at steady snowfall. Maggie could feel the restless tension rolling off him from her spot on the bed. The entire day he’d been a mess of pent-up energy. The task she’d hoped would keep him busy all day had taken him an hour.
The backpack she’d given him sat beside the door, filled with the salted venison and biscuits she’d packed, now topped by his holster and polished gun. He’d since reshoveled the yard and brought in more wood than she’d use in a week. They’d shared a surprisingly silent evening meal and she actually found herself missing the sound of his voice. He’d taken his dog outside for a while afterward, and while Boots now slept in the corner, Garret clearly hadn’t worn himself out.
His shoulders flexed, bunching beneath his shirt, and Maggie’s thoughts drifted to the varying textures of his body, hard muscles, coarse hair and warm, smooth skin.
A sharp sting in her finger brought her gaze back to her needlework. Blood swelled from a pinhole on her index finger, the newest among many already dotting her finger. Trying to stitch with such distractions in the room was plain hazardous. Biting back a curse, she stuck her finger in her mouth before she bled on the white apron.
A burst of cold wind swirled inside, putting a chill in her skin.
“Do you really think you can stare down the storm?”
He glanced over his shoulder, his green eyes aglow with frustration. “Four days, Grace, and hardly a reprieve?”
“You slept through the reprieve. And now you’re wasting my wood by trying to melt snow.”
His lips twitched with the start of a grin, and Maggie realized she’d snapped at him again. Knowing he found such humor in her sharp tongue increased her annoyance.
He shut the door, a hard sigh breaking from his chest. “All that snow makes me nervous.”
She didn’t have to guess why. She’d weathered her share of harsh winters, but nothing so powerful as the late-winter freeze a few years back. It had taken her a few days to dig out and a week before she’d trekked out to the rim. The blizzard had blown clear across the plains, smothering those grasslands and freezing man and cattle alike.
“This type of storm isn’t uncommon for this elevation,” she said, wanting to ease his worry. “Your place likely hasn’t gotten a foot of snow, if any at all. Your pacing and staring hasn’t helped to clear the weather.”
He dragged the chair toward the stove and dropped onto the hard surface. “Storm or not, I’m heading out at first light.”
Maggie looked up as he shoved his hands through his tousled hair, which only seemed to emphasize the span of his chest, the thickness of his arms. His short beard added to his rugged appearance. He looked like a man who could take on a storm.
“How do you stand it? You just hibernate up here all winter?”
“I keep busy.”
He glanced around the room. “In this small space?”
“I’m used to being snowed in. I venture out and hunt on clear days. I have to keep the fire going and food on my table. And I sew.”
Garret eased back in the chair, his gaze moving over the tiny woman sitting near the head of her bed, her legs stretched out before her, her sewing basket tucked close beside her. She appeared relaxed, focused on her stitching, but he knew she was subtly watching him. She fluttered around him like a little bird, always managing to keep a few feet between them. No small feat considering the tight space of her cave. She wasn’t obvious in her evasion, which intrigued him. He moved in, she glided back, fluttering to safer ground.
“You do real fine needlework,” he said, leaning in to look at the tiny pink roses spaced across what appeared to be an apron.
She glanced up, a smile curving her lips before she looked back at the cloth in her hands. “It passes the time.”
Her smile hinted at her growing ease with him. Lamplight glinted on the needle she pulled through the fabric. As she repeated the process it was her hands that stole his attention. He leaned in, looking closer at the array of scarring on her tender skin.
My God. Every finger bared a white mark of some previous injury. Surely that bitty needle didn’t inflict such wounds. Her man likely had her holed up in a mine somewhere. Part of him hoped her husband had left her a widow instead of abandoning her. The fact that she was too embarrassed to tell him her full name suggested otherwise. He didn’t doubt she’d been mistreated. Beneath all her apprehension was a gentle and giving woman. He wished she’d tell him her husband’s name so he could find him
and beat the living hell out of him.
“You’ve got a real talent and a mess of patience to sew such tiny things. You must have a hundred little pink flowers on that apron.”
“There about.” She met his inquisitive stare over her needlework. “Maybe you ought to give it a try? I could show you how to darn socks.”
He enjoyed sarcasm. She had knack for answering his questions without telling him a damn thing about herself—other than she had a quick mind and a stubborn nature. “I’m game if you are. That is, unless you have a deck of cards?”
“No.”
“Checker board?”
“With whom would I play checkers? My shadow?”
Garret grinned, liking how she’d said that. Seemed to him most folks dropped a swear word or two when their guard was down. Even his sister had been known to slip on occasion despite her efforts to keep a clean mouth in front of her youngens. Yet the more relaxed Grace seemed around him, the more pristine her word choice became. Which told him she’d most likely been raised in a strict and fancy household.
“How long have you lived up here, Grace?”
“Long enough to know you can’t fight the weather.”
“I’m not trying to pry,” he hedged.
“Uh-huh,” she countered, her disbelieving eyes briefly meeting his gaze. “Must be why you ask so many questions.”
“I’m going a little stir-crazy, Grace. I hate being away from my ranch and not knowing…anything. For all I know, my ranch is under siege. One of my ranch hands, his folks were burned out of their place last year—burned their house and barn to the ground. They lost everything.”
“Did they catch the raiders?”
“His own neighbor.” Garret shook his head. As if the freeze hadn’t been bad enough, desperation had turned folks plumb crazy. “Those hangings haven’t slowed the number of rustlers springing up all over these hills, hitting ranchers still trying to recover from the freeze.”
“That’s the nature of folks. Vultures. Attracted by the weak and the dying.”
