Читать книгу The Mountain Between Us - Cindy Myers - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

Lucille sat at the old-fashioned dressing table and tried not to notice the lines feathering out from the corners of her eyes and along the sides of her mouth as she put the finishing touches on her makeup. Those lines hadn’t been there the last time she’d been on a date. Then again, she was pretty sure Reagan was president the last time she had a date, and all her dresses and tops had big shoulder pads.

Gerald obviously didn’t mind a few lines. After all, he looked older than she was and he’d asked her out. She picked up a pair of earrings and held them up to her cheek. She’d borrowed them from Olivia’s room, thinking the long beaded dangles matched her outfit, but now she wondered if the long strands of beads emphasized the length of her face—or worse, that they looked too young. As if she was trying too hard.

“What are you doing?”

The mirror reflected Olivia, who was leaning in the doorway, frowning. The girl frowned too much. All right, she was a grown woman, but she’d always be a girl to her mother. “I have a date,” Lucille said. “I was trying to decide if these earrings look ridiculous.”

“Those are my earrings.”

Lucille laid them aside and reached for her usual pearl drops. “Yes, and I think they look much better on you.”

“Who are you going out with?” Olivia moved into the room and stood at Lucille’s shoulder.

“His name is Gerald Pershing. He’s visiting here in town.”

“I know who you’re talking about. He’s been in the Dirty Sally. He drinks scotch. Dewar’s with water, no ice.”

Lucille shouldn’t have been surprised; everyone made it into the town’s only bar eventually. Even teetotalers ventured in to eat burgers or grilled cheese sandwiches on Tuesday nights when the Last Dollar was closed.

“What did you think of him?” She kept her voice light, but held her breath as she waited for the answer, watching Olivia’s face in the mirror.

Olivia wrinkled her nose. “He’s too slick and charming. And those teeth have got to be caps.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a man who cares about his appearance.”

“I guess not. But I don’t trust him.” She looked her mother up and down. “I don’t remember you going out with anyone since I’ve been here.”

“I haven’t dated anyone in years.” She swiveled on the vanity stool to face her daughter. “Any advice?”

“Don’t sleep with him on the first date, but if you do, make him wear a condom. You probably don’t have to worry about getting pregnant at your age, but you don’t want to catch some nasty disease.”

Lucille suspected Olivia was trying to shock her mother. The young woman had certainly dated her share of men in the five months she’d been in town. Maybe she’d slept with a few of them. Though, come to think of it, she hadn’t gone out with anyone since D. J. had arrived in Eureka. “I’ll remember that,” she said drily.

“Where’s Lucas?” Olivia asked.

“Up in his room, reading, I think. Where have you been?” Lucille couldn’t help noticing that Olivia’s truck—D. J.’s truck—hadn’t been parked in its usual place outside the Dirty Sally when she passed on her way home.

“Out.”

Just like that, the wall was up—the one Olivia had always been good at putting between herself and her mother. Lucille knew better than to fight her. She turned back to the mirror and tugged at a stubborn curl over her left eye. “There’s frozen lasagna if you want to fix that for your and Lucas’s dinner. Don’t wait up for me. I might be late.” The smugness she felt in saying these last words was probably immature and unbecoming, but it felt good nonetheless. How many times over the years had Olivia said those words, leaving her mother home to worry and wonder?

Not that Lucille expected her daughter to worry, or even wonder. She doubted Olivia cared much about her mother’s social life.

“If you need anything, call me.”

The words, the ones she herself had spoken countless times—almost always to Olivia’s back as she walked out the door—startled her. She studied her daughter’s reflection in the mirror for any sign of sarcasm but saw none. She swiveled the stool around again and stood. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Gerald’s a nice man.”

“They all seem nice at first.”

She recognized the cynicism, too—one part her own despair after her marriage to Olivia’s father, Mitch, crashed down around her and one part the result of Olivia’s own tumultuous relationships with the men in her life. “When you’re young, it can feel that way,” she said. “Getting older makes you a little more forgiving.”

Olivia straightened, arms uncrossed. “Forgiveness is overrated.”

She left the doorway, her footsteps making a faint, shuffling sound as she retreated down the hallway to the stairs. If Lucille had thought Olivia would listen, she’d have told her forgiveness hurt less than holding a grudge. But she knew sometimes holding a grudge was all that held you up. After Mitch left, the anger was all that kept her going sometimes—the desire to prove to him how much she didn’t need him. It had been years before she realized he hadn’t been watching, that he’d stopped caring long before she did.

Whatever D. J. had done, he’d hurt Olivia badly. Lucille liked the serious young man, and Lucas practically worshiped him, though Olivia could scarcely stand to look at him. But when she did, Lucille recognized the longing there. Her love hadn’t yet burned out. Lucille remembered the words D. J. had said when they’d met—the night Lucas was trapped in the French Mistress Mine. How he’d loved Olivia the first time he saw her.

It was a foolish, romantic notion—that love could bloom from just one glance, like a spark setting a forest fire. But it was an idea Lucille wanted to believe in, for Olivia’s sake and for her own. She was tired of being cynical and scoffing. After so many years alone, she wanted to believe in the possibility of love.

Olivia watched the red convertible pull away, her mom in the passenger seat, laughing at something the silver-haired man behind the wheel had said. Honestly, a convertible! Could this Gerald character be any more of a cliché?

“Where’s Grandma going?” Lucas joined her at the window, watching the retreating car. He’d shot up over the summer, until he was almost as tall as she was. Soon he’d overtake and pass her. His father had been tall. Still was, she guessed. She hadn’t laid eyes on him in eleven years and didn’t care to, but if he’d died, someone would probably have notified her.

“She’s going on a date,” she said.

“A date?” Lucas’s eyes widened behind the round glasses.

She turned and headed for the kitchen. Lucas followed. “Who’s she going on a date with?”

“A guy named Gerald Pershing. He’s visiting in town.”

“Does he know she’s the mayor?”

“I imagine he does.”

“It seems funny to think of Grandma dating.”

“Because she’s the mayor?”

“Because she’s Grandma.” He tilted his head to the side, thinking. He reminded her of an owl, eyes magnified behind the glasses, tufts of blond hair sticking up like feathers. Except he looked less babyish these days, more evidence of the man who’d one day be breaking through. She wanted to shake him and tell him to stop. She’d barely gotten the hang of being a mother to a little boy; she hadn’t the slightest idea how to cope with someone older.

“I guess Grandma is kind of pretty,” he said.

Lucille wasn’t classically pretty; she was too tall and raw-boned for that. But she had a striking quality and an elegance she’d grown into. The face that had looked back at Olivia in the dressing table mirror this evening had indeed been beautiful.

“Yes, I guess she is,” Olivia said. She took the lasagna from the freezer and flipped the package over to read the directions.

“We should eat the fish I caught,” Lucas said.

“Your grandmother can cook the fish tomorrow. Tonight we’re having lasagna.”

“D. J. told me how to cook it. He said to stuff it with lemon and butter and wrap it in foil and bake it.”

When they’d been together, D. J. had done most of the cooking. He was much better at it than she was. “That sounds good,” she said. “I’ll let your grandmother know.”

She set the oven for 400 degrees and slid the block of frozen pasta from the package.

“D. J. is going to teach me how to tie flies. You use real bird feathers and stuff.”

D. J. again. Lucas would talk about nothing else if she didn’t change the subject. “Janelle and Danielle are hiring me to paint a mural on the back wall of the Last Dollar,” she said.

“That’s cool.” Lucas helped himself to a banana from the basket on the counter. She started to tell him he’d spoil his supper but bit back the words. One banana wasn’t going to dull his appetite; he ate everything in sight these days.

“You’re not surprised they asked me instead of some professional artist?” she asked.

“You’re as good as any professional.”

He thought that? Really? She couldn’t hold back a grin. “I’ll need you to help me decide what to draw. I don’t know much about the history of Eureka.”

“You should put in the Native Americans who first settled here—the Uncompahgre. And the gold miners.” He made a face. “ ’Course, Miss Wynock is going to want her family in there somewhere.”

“Miss Wynock?” Olivia couldn’t place the name. Not a patron of the Dirty Sally, then.

“The librarian. Her family supposedly founded the town. It was all in the play I was supposed to be in at the Hard Rock Days festival.”

Of course—that Miss Wynock. How could Olivia forget? The woman had been a tyrant about that damn play, and she’d practically busted a blood vessel when Lucas had failed to show up to play his part in the Founders’ Day Pageant. He hadn’t made the play because he’d been trapped in the French Mistress Mine up on Mount Garnet. Olivia had been too worried about his absence to pay much attention to the play.

Right now she couldn’t imagine anything more boring than a bunch of historical people painted on a wall. She wanted something bright and interesting—something that captured the wild, beautiful nature of this corner of the world. “If I’m painting this mural, I guess I get to say who’s in it and who isn’t,” Olivia said. “Well . . . and Danielle and Janelle, since they’re paying for it.”

“Then they probably don’t want Miss Wynock’s grandfather in their mural,” Lucas said. “I don’t think they like her much.”

“They don’t?”

Lucas tossed the banana peel in the trash and looked around the room, she suspected for something else to eat. “Nobody much does,” he said. “She’s kind of a grouchy old lady, though she does know a lot about history. She helped me find books about Native Americans and stuff.”

“So she likes you.”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

Olivia was intrigued by the idea of a friendship between the grouchy librarian and her son, whom she’d always thought of as socially awkward. Not that Lucas wasn’t a sweet boy, but he was so damned smart he put people off, spouting knowledge about everything under the sun. And he wasn’t afraid to challenge adults if he thought they were wrong. No one liked their errors pointed out to them this way, especially by a kid.

“Do you like her?” Olivia asked.

“She’s not so bad, really. Just kind of bossy. And I think she’s lonely.”

Olivia’s chest tightened—in sympathy? Or maybe empathy? She’d had her share of lonely nights, but who hadn’t? She knew a lot more people who were alone than together—her mother, Bob, and most of the other regulars at the Dirty Sally, to name a few.

Even D. J., she guessed. Though if he was alone, it was by his own choice. She’d never asked him to run off to Iraq. He could have stayed with her if he’d really wanted.

Better to be alone than with someone she couldn’t depend on.

“You could put Jake Murphy on your mural,” Lucas said.

She forced her thoughts away from D. J. “Who’s Jake Murphy?”

“He’s Maggie Stevens’s father. He owned the French Mistress Mine and lived in that cabin up on Mount Garnet. I guess he was kind of a hermit.”

“Why would I want to put a hermit on the mural?” she asked.

“He won the Hard Rock Mining competition three times, and I guess he did a lot of other stuff.”

“And he was a hermit.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, he lived way up on the mountain by himself. I guess a lot of the pioneers did that kind of thing—came here to get away from the city and people and stuff.”

So much for Bob’s boasting about the sense of community in Eureka. The real driving force behind the town was independence—all those miners who staked their claims on mountaintops and dug for gold. They weren’t banding together for a common dream. They were each out to get their own.

They were all loners. And probably lonely, though maybe that was beside the point. She had a theme for her mural. She’d do a tribute to independence—all those singletons who didn’t need anybody else to succeed.

Eureka’s only steak restaurant closed after Labor Day and the owners returned to Arizona for the winter. So Gerald drove Lucille to Montrose, to a new French bistro off the square. They were one of only two couples in the place on Friday night, which, Lucille reflected, probably had more to do with the economy than the quality of the food. She was sure of this when she saw the prices on the menu. She might have suspected a man from Eureka of trying to impress her, but Gerald probably ate at fancy restaurants every week back home in Texas. He was clearly a man who enjoyed the finer things in life.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said, once they were seated and had placed their orders. He lifted a glass of the French wine he’d chosen. “Not that you aren’t always lovely, but it’s such a pleasure to see you dressed up.”

She resisted the urge to put a hand to the collar of the silk blouse she’d pulled from the back of her closet. “Thank you. I don’t have much occasion in Eureka to wear fancier clothes.” And she never thought of herself as a fancy clothes type of person. Jeans and prairie skirts, flannel shirts and sweaters were both comfortable and practical, and good enough for her.

“Not even in your duties as Madam Mayor?” His eyes twinkled in amusement. Tonight he wore a western-cut suit of gray wool with black felt lapels and collar, and a cream silk shirt and string tie with a silver and turquoise slide. His black felt hat had a matching silver and turquoise band. He left the hat on while they ate—a habit Lucille had noted in Texans.

“The mayor’s job in Eureka consists mainly of presiding over the town council meetings, juggling paperwork, and wrangling with the state over money.”

“Ah, money.” He nodded sagely. “A concern for everyone these days.”

“Let’s not talk about that right now,” she said. She wanted to believe Gerald was interested in her for herself, that this was a real date, not a business meeting.

“Of course. We’re here to enjoy each other’s company.” He reached across the table and took her hand. His palm was smooth and cool against her flesh. He trailed his thumb across her wrist, a feathery, tingling touch that left her breathless.

“How much longer do you plan to be here?” She wished she could take the words back as soon as they were out of her mouth. At her age, why couldn’t she keep her anxieties to herself? What did it matter if he didn’t plan to stick around? Couldn’t she enjoy being with him right now, without worrying about what might happen later?

But the question didn’t faze him. He continued to stroke his thumb back and forth across her wrist in the hypnotic way. “I’m self-employed,” he said. “I make my own schedule. I can stay as long as I like. As long as there’s something here that interests me. Or someone.”

Surely he could feel the way her pulse raced at his words. And he definitely could see the hot blush she knew stained her cheeks. She tried desperately to think of some casual, even coy reply. Some flirtatious remark to show she played these kinds of games all the time. But words failed her. She had zero experience playing fast and loose with emotions, or pretending her attraction to him was of no consequence. She didn’t do romance anymore and had no idea what was expected of her.

He released her hand and sat back, his expression impassive. She thought at first her silence had offended him, then realized the waiter had arrived with their food. She looked down at what might be the smallest chicken breast she’d ever seen, garnished with a single boiled potato, three spears of asparagus, and an artful swirl of sauce. Her stomach growled and she thought longingly of Janelle and Danielle’s overflowing platters of southern fried chicken or pot roast and gravy.

Gerald’s biftek looked only slightly more substantial, but he sliced into it with gusto. “I’m seriously thinking about relocating to the area,” he said as he dabbed delicately at his lower lip between bites. “Not to Eureka, necessarily, but perhaps to Telluride. The demographics there seem favorable for the investment services I offer.”

In other words, he was looking for rich people with lots of money to invest. Telluride had plenty of those, and she could easily picture Gerald, in his ostrich boots and tailored suits, mingling with the rich and famous who filled what had once been a humble village favored by hippies, but was now a posh ski town and summer retreat for the elite.

So what was he doing having dinner with her? She pushed the thought aside. She wasn’t rich, or one of the beautiful people, but why shouldn’t Gerald be interested in her? She was smart, reasonably attractive, and there was definitely a certain . . . chemistry between them.

She smiled in what she hoped was an alluring fashion. “I hope you do stay around. I’d like to see more of you.”

His expanded grin sent another surge of heat through her. “Do you know what I like about you, Lucille? What attracted me to you from the very first?”

“What is that?” Who wouldn’t want to know the answer to such a question?

“You’re a woman who knows what she wants. You’re strong and independent, and you’re not afraid to take what you need from life. You live on your own terms.”

“How else would I live?” Everything he said about her was true, but it wasn’t as if she’d had a choice to live any other way. Mitch had left her when she was twenty-two, with a daughter to raise and no money or education. She’d had to push forward and make her way the best she could, with no one to depend on but herself.

“In my business I meet plenty of women who are little more than beautiful ornaments. They’re rich men’s trophies who have put aside their own careers and ambitions for the promise of wealth and a secure future.”

“Surely not all rich women are like that.” She felt the need to defend her own sex. “Many of them have successful careers, and their own money.”

“Some, yes, but not the ones I most often deal with.”

“That says more about your clients than the women,” she said.

He inclined his head in agreement and refilled their wineglasses. “Still, it’s not often that I meet a female of your caliber. There’s a definite sex appeal in an independent woman.”

Well, he certainly believed in bringing things out in the open, didn’t he, mentioning sex this early in the evening. She thought ruefully of Olivia’s advice, said only half in jest: Don’t sleep with him on the first date, but if you do, make him wear a condom. She gulped her wine, determined to drive out the images the words brought to mind. She most definitely was not going to sleep with Gerald tonight.

Not yet.

“This chicken is very good,” she said, slicing what was left of the bird into ever-tinier pieces.

“Don’t worry, Lucille. I won’t try to rush you into anything.” Gerald’s voice was a velvety caress. “I merely wanted to make clear my interest in you.”

He was a man. Of course he was interested in sex, she told herself. Still, he had his choice in women and he was telling her he’d chosen her. The knowledge made her feel shaky, as if she’d ventured out onto a thin shelf of rock on the side of a mountain. It had been a very long time since she’d been so daring.

“I’m very flattered,” she managed to say after another sip of wine. “Why don’t we get to know each other a little better first?”

Over the remainder of the meal she learned he was divorced, with one grown son in Dallas and a grandchild on the way. He’d been in business for himself for twenty years, having worked for a large investment firm for fifteen years before that. He liked to sail, and had made several trips to Europe and Japan. He had a house in Dallas and another in Tucson, and made frequent trips to Vegas, where he did well at the poker tables.

“I think I owe my success with investments in my ability to assess risk and my willingness to take chances,” he said as they sipped coffee over dessert. Well, Lucille had a child-sized serving of chocolate mousse while he sipped brandy with his coffee. “It’s why I’ve succeeded—and helped my clients succeed—in spite of the current economic downturn.”

“You mentioned you might be able to help Eureka?” Despite her earlier reluctance to talk business, it seemed a safer subject than the more dangerous—dangerous to her equilibrium, at least—topic that still lurked beneath all their small talk. “Do you work with city governments often?”

“I handle investments for more than a dozen small- to medium-sized communities in Texas and Arizona,” he said. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, expression earnest. “I look at the funds you have available and your financial goals, and match that with investments that will give you a better return than any bank.”

“How do you find such investments? I mean, if they’re out there, why isn’t everyone taking advantage of them?”

“I use my contacts in Europe and Asia. I find emerging industries, as well as successful established firms that are in need of investment capital and are willing to sell stocks with a very favorable rate of return. And there can be tax advantages as well.”

He sat back. “I won’t bore you with the details, but if you’re interested, I’d be happy to make a presentation to your town council. I think you’ll be impressed with what I have to offer.”

Did she imagine the double entendre in his words? She almost laughed but managed to rein in what he might mistake for hysteria. “Why don’t you work up a presentation for our board meeting next week? I’ll put you on the agenda.”

“Wonderful. In the meantime”—he stood and offered her his hand—“let’s go for a drive.”

The night was chilly, so he put the top up on the car. She sat primly on her side of the vehicle, belted in. But he drove with one hand, the other firmly clasping hers. On the outskirts of Eureka, he turned onto the road up Black Mountain Pass and pulled in at the overlook. The valley spread out before them, the lights of Eureka a scattering of glitter amidst the shadows of rocks and trees.

Lucille stared out at the scene, her breathing shallow, anticipation filling her as if she’d swallowed a helium balloon. The tension between what her mind wanted and what her body demanded pulled her taut.

“Look at me, darling.” Gerald spoke in a whisper and caressed her cheek with one finger.

She turned toward him and his lips covered hers, gentle yet firm, leaving no doubt that he wanted her. She gasped with surprise and pleasure at the intense rush of feeling. Oh, God, had anything ever felt this good?

He deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth with his tongue, and she responded in kind, pressing her body to his, blood humming in her ears.

He cupped her breast, massaging gently. She trembled, the intensity of her feelings frightening her a little. What was happening to her? She wasn’t some virgin who didn’t know her own body.

She shifted, trying to put a little distance between them, to clear her head a little. But he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he deftly undid the top button of her blouse.

“Gerald, no.” She pushed him away.

He smiled down at her. “Not very gentlemanly of me, I suppose, bringing you here to neck like a teenager. But you make me feel that way, wanting you so much I can scarcely control myself.”

Though he’d probably intended the words as a compliment to fuel her passion, they reminded her of the boys of her youth, trying to convince her they’d die if she didn’t give them what they wanted. Even then, she’d known there was no real emotion behind the words. The thought was enough to quell her passion. “It’s getting late,” she said. “I think you should take me home.”

His smile didn’t waver. He started the car. “Or we could go to my place instead. I have a very comfortable bed.”

She laughed. Give the man points for frankness. “We hardly know each other.”

“Never on a first date, is that it?” He winked at her. “The older I get, the more impatient I become, I suppose. But I won’t rush you. I merely wanted to make my feelings clear.”

“You have.” She buckled her seat belt with a decisive snap! “I prefer to take things more slowly.” When she did decide to welcome a man into her bed again, it would be one she knew well enough to be comfortable showing off her less-than-perfect body and rusty technique.

Which didn’t mean Gerald wasn’t a strong candidate for the privilege. But if he intended to stay in town for a while, they had plenty of time. Time for her to lose a few pounds.

And to buy a box of condoms.

Of all the men in Maggie’s life at the moment, the one who was at the same time the most aggravating and the easiest to deal with was her boss at the Eureka Miner, Rick Otis. Within two days of taking the job as the paper’s only reporter, she’d sized him up as bombastic, antagonistic, sarcastic, chauvinistic, and completely harmless. A thin man with a tonsure of graying hair and a slight paunch, he nevertheless managed to fill a space with his presence. Several times a week he ranted around the office about one issue or another, running his fingers through his hair until he resembled a demented professor. He swore and fussed and demanded Maggie write this preposterous story or that. She’d learned to focus on her computer screen and ignore him. As soon as he calmed down he’d rescind all previous orders for inflammatory stories and accept whatever she had chosen to write about instead with surprising equanimity.

He was also a relentless tease who took an inordinate interest in Maggie’s personal life—particularly her romance with Jameso Clark.

“I just saw Jameso headed out of town on that hog of his,” Rick announced the afternoon following Maggie’s conversation with Jameso at the mine. Rick knew very well that Jameso’s bike wasn’t a Harley. It was a 1948 Indian Chief, a rare and prized model, at least according to Jameso. But since it annoyed him to hear Rick call his beloved vehicle a hog, Rick went out of his way to do so, even when Jameso wasn’t around to hear him.

Maggie kept her gaze focused on her computer screen. She absolutely would not show she had any interest in what Jameso was up to. Rick would seize on the slightest show of concern on her part and nag her to distraction. He was very like a mad scientist in that respect, dissecting human emotion.

“Where’s he headed?”

Where was he headed? Away? When her ex-husband had shown up in town this summer, Jameso had responded by disappearing for two weeks. Running away—he said because his feelings for Maggie scared him. Looking at him, you’d never think a man like Jameso would be a coward, but there you had it. “I have no idea where he was going. I don’t keep up with his schedule.”

“You don’t?” Rick moved to stand directly behind her computer monitor, the green plaid of his flannel shirt filling her field of vision. “I thought all women kept tabs on their lovers. To make sure they were following the straight and narrow and not getting into trouble.”

“Since when do you know anything about women?” As far as she knew, Rick had no romantic interests in town. He made a show of ogling pretty tourists, and Maggie was pretty sure he wasn’t gay, but he was also apparently celibate, or incredibly discreet, not an easy feat to accomplish in such a small town.

“I know enough about women to keep from getting entangled with them,” he said. “Lessons learned the hard way, I might add.”

“Oh.” This was interesting. Rick rarely talked about himself. “And how is that?”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” he said. “We were talking about you.”

“We were? I thought we were talking about Jameso.”

“Same difference. You and he are a couple. Don’t bother trying to deny it.”

“I wasn’t going to.” After all, she lived next door to Jameso. They went out together often and regularly spent the night at each other’s houses—things they never tried to hide. They’d had what Maggie saw as a comfortable—and comforting—relationship. Good conversation, great sex, no pressure.

But a baby had a way of exerting a whole new force on a relationship. Enough to tear them apart? She supposed that was up to Jameso.

“So when are you two getting married?”

Her heart lunged like a racehorse at the starting gate. “Married?” The word came out in a squeak. She took a deep breath, struggling to control her emotions. “What makes you think we’re getting married?”

“Oh, come on, Maggie. You’re not the type to fool around with a guy just for fun. And if you’d wanted to merely live with the guy, you would have moved in with him already and saved on the rent.”

Part of her suspected Rick was deliberately needling her, but she rose to the bait. “How do you know what type I am?” she snapped. “You hardly know me.”

“I know you married your first husband at nineteen and you’d probably still be married to him if he hadn’t left you for that heiress or whatever she is. You’re the kind of woman who finds a man and sticks with him like glue.”

“That doesn’t sound like love—it sounds like desperation.” And desperation was a word that in many ways described her marriage to Carter. She’d been desperate not to lose him and in the process had almost lost herself. A mistake she intended to never make again. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly content being single. I don’t need a man to make me happy.” Even as she said the words her stomach fluttered, as if the baby inside of her—surely not big enough yet for its presence to be felt—was protesting this declaration of independence. Maybe Maggie didn’t need a man, but did her child need a father?

Of course, Jameso wasn’t rushing to her side to declare his undying devotion to his unborn son or daughter. She hadn’t seen him at all since he’d dropped her off at her house yesterday afternoon with his plea for “time to think.”

She fixed her boss with a firm stare. “Rick, butt out,” she said. “You’re my boss, not my personal counselor.”

He held up his hands in a defensive gesture that didn’t fool her for a minute. “Hey, I’m only trying to help. We look after each other around here. It’s the only way to survive.”

“Meddling in my business is not looking out for me. When I need your help, I’ll ask for it.” And he’d turn blue if he held his breath, waiting for that day.

“You know where to find me. And speak of the devil . . .”

She followed his gaze out the front window in time to see Jameso ride past—a man in black leathers, with a black helmet, on a black and silver motorcycle. Dark and sexy. Something out of a romance novel fantasy. She felt betrayed by the warmth that pooled between her thighs at the thought—and the relief that surged through her, knowing he hadn’t left town for good, at least not yet.

She shut down her computer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rick.”

“Say hello to Jameso for me.”

She didn’t dignify this with an answer.

Jameso’s motorcycle was parked in front of his house. The narrow miner’s cottage was the twin to hers, with a steeply pitched roof and tiny square front porch trimmed in Victorian gingerbread. His house was painted mossy green with white trim, hers pale lavender. A light glowed in his back window—the kitchen. She resisted the urge to walk across the yard and knock on his door. She wouldn’t go to him. He would have to come to her.

In the house, she changed and surveyed her figure in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Her stomach looked no rounder, her breasts no fuller. If not for the persistent morning sickness and the three positive tests stashed in her dresser drawer, she might have thought the pregnancy was a figment of her imagination.

A knock on the door startled her. The weight and cadence of the fist striking the wood set her blood to humming with anticipation, even as she hastily tugged on a sweatshirt and yoga pants.

“Hello, Jameso.”

He stood in the open doorway, still dressed in his leathers, his shaggy hair windblown, his eyes shadowed in the yellow glow of the porch light. He had looked very much like this the first night she’d encountered him on the front porch of her father’s cabin. She’d been both afraid of him and drawn to him then, just as she was now.

“Maggie, I’ve been thinking.” He strode past her into the living room, motorcycle boots striking hard against the worn wood floor.

Well, that’s what he’d said he was going to do, wasn’t it? She faced him, arms crossed, waiting. He wore the grim expression of a man about to make a grave sacrifice. Maybe she should tell him there wasn’t anything romantic about a martyr.

He ran one hand through his hair, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath. Tension radiated like heat from the taut set of his shoulders and the compressed line of his mouth. If she hadn’t been so annoyed with him right now, she’d have been concerned he was going to stroke out from his obvious anxiety. As it was, she felt he deserved every bit of agitation, considering the distress his attitude had caused her.

But she was completely unprepared for his next move. The floor shook as he dropped to one knee in front of her and gazed up at her with a determined expression. “Maggie, will you marry me?” he asked.