his forty-two years than most men do in a
lifetime. He didn't waste a second of it. It's hard to grieve
too much for a man like that."
She looked into his quiet eyes for a long time. "I…I can't
picture you grieving for anyone," she said softly.
" Can't you, honey?" He smiled at her, gently, his
hand smoothing the hair away from her damp cheeks. "Do you still
think I'm invulnerable?"
"I don't know." She studied his dark, quiet face for a long
time. "I don't know very much about you at all. I…I didn't even
know you liked country-western music."
"I like any kind of music. And storms, the wilder the better.
And sensitive young women with liquid jade for eyes," he whispered
deeply. "And if you weren't still cherishing that kiss Masterson
gave you out in the car, I'd take your mouth and make you beg for
mine, little girl."
She blushed to the roots of her hair, and tried to steady her
breathing so that he wouldn't notice the effect those soft words
had on her fragile emotions.
"I…I might not even…even like it."
she replied, struggling for even a small surge of indignation to
use against him.
"You've spent the past four years wondering how my mouth
would feel on yours," he said quietly, his eyes biting into hers.
"We both know that."
Shakily, she got to her feet and moved around him toward the
door.
"When are you going to stop running from me?'' he asked, as her
hand went to the doorknob.
"Goodnight, Clint," she replied, ignoring the
question.
"Don't trip on your way to the nursery," he growled.
She could taste the bitterness in those harsh words, and it
served him right to be thwarted. For pure conceit, he was
unbeatable.
"Margaretta."
The breathless sound of her name on his lips, so strange, so
unfamiliar, made her freeze. She turned to catch an expression on
his face that she couldn't understand.
"Go riding with me tomorrow," he said gently. "I'll take you
down to that little branch of the creek where you and Janna used to
go wading."
She hesitated. "Why?" she asked.
"Maybe I want to get to know you again," he said carelessly.
"Did you ever know me?" she asked him.
He shook his head. "I'm beginning to think I didn't. Will you
come?"
She chewed on her lower lip. "If…if Brent isn't home, I
will."
His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw working. "Brent isn't
coming back," he said tautly. "He called while you were out and
asked me to ship his bull to Mississippi. He's on his way to
Hong Kong."
"Oh." She turned away.
"Don't look so damned lost! My God, Irish, how many men does it
take for you lately?" he growled hotly.
"What does it matter to you?" she shot back.
He still hadn't answered her when she went upstairs.
Five
He was waiting for her at the breakfast table, a red knit shirt
stretched across the broad expanse of his chest with bronzed flesh
and curling dark hair just visible in the V-neck. His pale eyes
searched hers for an instant before they dropped to the eggshell
blue blouse over her blue jeans. They narrowed on the thin ribbon
that bound her hair at the nape of her neck.
"Why did you drag your hair back like that?" he asked
quietly.
"It gets in my eyes when I ride," she replied, taking her seat
at the table.
"How do you want your eggs, sweet?" Emma called from the
kitchen.
"None for me, Emma! Just coffee this morning," she called
back.
"No appetite?" Clint chided.
She looked up into his eyes. "No," she said in a voice that
sounded breathless even to her own ears.
Smiling, he studied her over the rim of his coffee cup. "No
makeup?" he asked gently.
She watched the light catch the silver threads in his hair and
make them burn. "I…I haven't put it on yet."
He held her eyes across the table, his face solemn. "Don't. I
don't like the taste of it."
Her lips parted on a protest, but Emma came in with a steaming cup of coffee and
Maggie gave it her wholehearted attention.
It was a perfect morning for a lazy horseback ride. Even the sweltering heat was unnoticeable under the shade
lifetime. He didn't waste a second of it. It's hard to grieve
too much for a man like that."
She looked into his quiet eyes for a long time. "I…I can't
picture you grieving for anyone," she said softly.
" Can't you, honey?" He smiled at her, gently, his
hand smoothing the hair away from her damp cheeks. "Do you still
think I'm invulnerable?"
"I don't know." She studied his dark, quiet face for a long
time. "I don't know very much about you at all. I…I didn't even
know you liked country-western music."
"I like any kind of music. And storms, the wilder the better.
And sensitive young women with liquid jade for eyes," he whispered
deeply. "And if you weren't still cherishing that kiss Masterson
gave you out in the car, I'd take your mouth and make you beg for
mine, little girl."
She blushed to the roots of her hair, and tried to steady her
breathing so that he wouldn't notice the effect those soft words
had on her fragile emotions.
"I…I might not even…even like it."
she replied, struggling for even a small surge of indignation to
use against him.
"You've spent the past four years wondering how my mouth
would feel on yours," he said quietly, his eyes biting into hers.
"We both know that."
Shakily, she got to her feet and moved around him toward the
door.
"When are you going to stop running from me?'' he asked, as her
hand went to the doorknob.
"Goodnight, Clint," she replied, ignoring the
question.
"Don't trip on your way to the nursery," he growled.
She could taste the bitterness in those harsh words, and it
served him right to be thwarted. For pure conceit, he was
unbeatable.
"Margaretta."
The breathless sound of her name on his lips, so strange, so
unfamiliar, made her freeze. She turned to catch an expression on
his face that she couldn't understand.
"Go riding with me tomorrow," he said gently. "I'll take you
down to that little branch of the creek where you and Janna used to
go wading."
She hesitated. "Why?" she asked.
"Maybe I want to get to know you again," he said carelessly.
"Did you ever know me?" she asked him.
He shook his head. "I'm beginning to think I didn't. Will you
come?"
She chewed on her lower lip. "If…if Brent isn't home, I
will."
His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw working. "Brent isn't
coming back," he said tautly. "He called while you were out and
asked me to ship his bull to Mississippi. He's on his way to
Hong Kong."
"Oh." She turned away.
"Don't look so damned lost! My God, Irish, how many men does it
take for you lately?" he growled hotly.
"What does it matter to you?" she shot back.
He still hadn't answered her when she went upstairs.
Five
He was waiting for her at the breakfast table, a red knit shirt
stretched across the broad expanse of his chest with bronzed flesh
and curling dark hair just visible in the V-neck. His pale eyes
searched hers for an instant before they dropped to the eggshell
blue blouse over her blue jeans. They narrowed on the thin ribbon
that bound her hair at the nape of her neck.
"Why did you drag your hair back like that?" he asked
quietly.
"It gets in my eyes when I ride," she replied, taking her seat
at the table.
"How do you want your eggs, sweet?" Emma called from the
kitchen.
"None for me, Emma! Just coffee this morning," she called
back.
"No appetite?" Clint chided.
She looked up into his eyes. "No," she said in a voice that
sounded breathless even to her own ears.
Smiling, he studied her over the rim of his coffee cup. "No
makeup?" he asked gently.
She watched the light catch the silver threads in his hair and
make them burn. "I…I haven't put it on yet."
He held her eyes across the table, his face solemn. "Don't. I
don't like the taste of it."
Her lips parted on a protest, but Emma came in with a steaming cup of coffee and
Maggie gave it her wholehearted attention.
It was a perfect morning for a lazy horseback ride. Even the sweltering heat was unnoticeable under the shade
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