Chapter 8

8

Tanner tossed his bedroll to the floor near the stove and tried not to look at the bed, where Maisy was tucked away under the blankets.

He didn't want to ruin things now—not after how well the whole evening had gone. They'd had the one incident at supper when she'd touched his arm, but Maisy had somehow, as she usually did, managed to smooth things over and change the mood.

Her meal had been delicious—even better than some of the fancy meals he'd recently eaten in New York City that had been prepared by expert chefs. After supper, he'd finished cleaning his guns while she'd washed dishes. Then they'd played cards the rest of the night, her enthusiasm and competitive spirit making the time pass quickly.

He was struck again by how adept she was at living in the mountains, how strong and courageous and independent. She didn't really need him staying with her. She would have gotten on just fine by herself. But he felt better being there and making sure she was okay.

At least, he'd felt better until she'd asked him to step outside so that she could get ready for bed. All the while he'd fed and watered his horse, he'd thought of nothing else but the fact that she was inside the cabin shedding her clothes. He'd scrubbed his eyes to take away the picture, but he hadn't been able to stop his mind from wandering back to her.

Ever since he'd come inside, heat had been simmering in his gut. It hadn't helped that she'd been walking around in a nightgown, with bare feet and her hair flowing around her in stunning red waves. And she'd been as oblivious as usual to her beauty and sensuality and appeal.

He was glad he was the one there and not any other man. Because at least he had integrity and wouldn't try to take advantage of her.

A prick of guilt stabbed him as he kicked at his bedroll to flatten it. So much for his integrity. He had taken advantage of her when he'd kissed her earlier in the day. Even though she'd insisted that she'd been the one to start the kiss, he could have made sure it'd never happened or at least put an end to it right away.

Instead, he'd given in and kissed her as though he was a dying man and she was everything he needed to live. Not only had he given in to the kiss once, but he'd kissed her again with even more passion.

As he turned to ready the stove for the coming night, he steeled his shoulders. He may have failed her then, but he wouldn't fail her again.

Smoke's golden eyes were following Tanner. The wolf didn't seem jealous or angry that Tanner was there. Instead, he almost seemed grateful—if that was possible.

"Read to me, Tanner." Maisy's voice was soft—too soft. It seemed to beckon to him so that he couldn't stop himself from stealing a glance her way.

She was sitting propped up with pillows against the log wall, the covers pulled up to her neck, and she was watching his every move just like Smoke.

Of course she was.

He swallowed hard.

Her eyes were so wide and innocent. Her hair was still loose. And her expression was much too welcoming.

What would it be like to slide in beside her and draw her into his arms?

His heart picked up pace, suddenly thudding hard against his chest.

What was wrong with him? He'd been with a beautiful woman for less than twenty-four hours and was acting like a love-crazed fool.

He grabbed a medium-sized log from the wood box, opened the stove door, and added the fuel. Had he been too rash to think he'd never take a wife? He couldn't deny that he had manly desires. And he couldn't deny that they'd been pulsing with full force since he'd pulled Maisy up from the ledge.

Maybe he needed to consider the possibility of having a wife after all. Of course, not Maisy. She deserved someone much better than him—someone who could offer her everything she wanted and more.

He shook his head. No, he couldn't take a wife.

"Why?" Maisy's voice held a pouting note.

"Because I won't subject a wife to this kind of life." He'd already explained his position on the matter, hadn't he?

She released a soft laugh.

He glanced at her again.

Her eyes danced with merriment. "You won't read to me because you don't want to subject a wife to this kind of life?"

His mind scrambled back over the course of the conversation, and he realized his mistake. She'd asked him to read. But his thoughts apparently had only one destination—her.

"We're not married, Tanner." Her voice was filled with teasing. "So I guess you're safe to read to me."

He closed the stove, then palmed the back of his neck, the heat working its way up to his scalp. "That's not what I was talking about."

"Oh?"

"I was just thinking about—" How good she looked in bed? How he wanted to hold her? How his desires were getting away from him?

She lifted her brows, clearly waiting for him to finish.

"Sometimes I think I might need a wife, that's all."

"Really?" Her question rose with a note of surprise.

Blast. He was making a mess of this whole exchange and embarrassing himself in the process. "But in the end, I know I can't have one."

"Why not?"

"I already told you. I agree with you, that this life isn't fair to a woman."

"Then don't do this anymore." She flicked her hand over the room, to the clutter and the ruggedness and the sparseness and all it signified.

"I don't have anything else."

"Sure you do."

He huffed out a frustrated breath. "Not everything is as simple as you'd like to make it, Maisy."

"It doesn't have to be as complicated as you make it. Tanner ."

He loved how smart and outspoken she was. But tonight she didn't know what she was talking about. "I've been wandering these mountains since I moved here. I don't know what else I'd do."

"You know ranching and horses—"

"I tried to be content on the ranch. I tried to be interested in the horses and the cattle and all the other responsibilities. But I never enjoyed it the way Ryder did. I always got restless if I stayed too long."

"You can take up another trade."

During the train ride back from New York City, he'd considered every possibility, had gone over every trade and job one by one. And he hadn't been able to see himself settling down and doing any of them—at least, not for long.

"I think I have to accept the fact that I'll never be content in just one place."

"You're skilled at so many things."

"Like what?"

"You can fix just about anything that's broken."

He shrugged.

"And you can track just about anyone or anything."

"Which is good for a mountain man but doesn't do much good elsewhere."

"What about being a lawman or detective?"

"Not interested in either." He'd thought about both. He'd even contemplated becoming a soldier. But in the end, none of it appealed to him. Maybe nothing ever would.

"Hmmm..." She was still staring at him with her keen gaze, as though trying to see deep inside his soul. "What do you enjoy doing the most?"

His thoughts went immediately to the few journals at his cabin as well as the box of journals in a closet back at High Country Ranch—which had been shortened by most folks to High C Ranch. Ever since he'd learned to read and write, he'd recorded his daily thoughts and activities onto paper. He'd wanted—almost needed—to keep a record of his life, maybe because he'd already lost a part of it and never wanted to lose his memories again. Now, after so many years, he loved his writing time every evening. It was one thing he looked forward to every day.

"I can see that you're thinking of something," Maisy persisted.

His family knew that he journaled. They'd given him blank notebooks over the years as gifts. He'd never been embarrassed about his writing with them, and he didn't need to be with Maisy now either. She was like family. So why was it hard to talk about?

She pushed up to her knees. "Tell me." Perched in the center of the bed with her nightgown pooled around her, she was ethereal, the glow of the lantern on the table highlighting her face and all its lovely curves.

Why did she have to be so pretty all the time?

He wanted to cross to the table to extinguish the light so that he could also snuff out his wandering thoughts, but instead, he made his way to the lone shelf on the wall.

"C'mon. Spit it out."

"You're so bossy." He picked up the worn copy of Swiss Family Robinson that had belonged to Cleveland's late wife.

"Yep." Maisy's tone held the hint of a smile. "At least I have no trouble admitting what I enjoy doing most."

"What's that?"

"Bossing you around."

He couldn't hold back a smile. "You're good at it."

"Course I am. It's one of my best skills."

He swiped at the layer of dust on the cover. The book probably hadn't been touched since the last time he'd read it. When had that been? Probably earlier in the summer when he'd come up to check on Nelly and Maisy—one of the times when he'd spent the night and had read to the two before retiring to the stable.

He'd considered staying out in the stable this time, but the nights were growing too cold to allow that, and there was nothing wrong with him bedding down on the floor. He'd done it plenty of times in the past... except that in the past, Nelly had always been there.

He'd never been in the cabin alone with Maisy.

"So, will you tell me or not?" Her question held a hopeful note.

He pulled out a bench at the table and sat down. He flipped open the book, hesitating. But what did he have to lose by sharing something more personal with her? Nothing that he could think of. "I enjoy writing in my journal."

She was silent for a heartbeat, as if processing his revelation.

"It's not a big deal," he continued quickly. "I mostly write down where I travel and what I do."

"I can see you doing that."

"I know it sounds weird—"

"Not at all. I love that you do it."

"You do?" His gaze shot to her.

Her eyes brimmed with interest. "You've always been an amazing storyteller, regaling us with all your adventures. I'm sure they're just as interesting to read."

"I don't know about that."

"Read one to me."

"I don't have my journal with me." He'd come up to the cabin without anything except what filled his saddlebags, which hadn't been much—his bedroll, a clean shirt, extra ammunition, and a variety of metal parts and tools he might need for fixing traps. "Even if I had it, I wouldn't read it to you."

"Why not?"

"It's private."

"Like a diary?"

"No, but I don't let random people read my journal."

"I'm not random."

She was right—she was far from random. In fact, at times like this, he felt closer to her than he did anyone else, even Ryder.

He just shook his head and flipped through Swiss Family Robinson to the dog-eared page where he'd finished reading last time. He scanned the page, looking for a good place to start up the story again, perhaps rereading a couple paragraphs.

As he bent his head, something thwacked against his back. Even though it was soft, the force took him by surprise, and he toppled forward, the book slipping from his grip. Before he could turn around, the same item thudded into him again.

Was it a pillow?

He pivoted on the bench, and this time, the soft mound slapped him in the face. On the other side, Maisy stood a short distance from him. She swung the pillow away from him and held it motionless above her head while her blue-green eyes flashed at him.

"I won't stand for it." She jutted her chin adorably.

"Stand for what?"

"You telling me I'm random."

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the table, watching her through narrowed slits but still unable to keep from taking her in from her messy hair down to her bare toes.

Strange anticipation coursed through him.

She gripped the pillow as if she intended to swing it at him again. "Take it back."

"Or what?"

"Or this." She brought the pillow down on his head.

Before it connected, he blocked it and wrenched it from her grip. He bunched the pillow in his hand and stood. He'd always loved this playfulness between them. He loved that she was so unpredictable and endearing and unafraid of him.

Her eyes rounded upon the pillow in his hand.

He lifted it. Of course, he would never hit her hard. But he couldn't resist joining in the pillow fight. As he brought the mound down lightly toward her, she squealed and then ducked out of his reach.

At his miss, she laughed and scampered away from him toward the bed. "I just figured out something you're not skilled at," she taunted as she swiped up a second pillow.

"And what's that?" He advanced upon her.

"Pillow fights." She spun and clobbered him with the second pillow, then laughing again, she darted past him and out of his reach. She didn't stop until she was on the opposite side of the table.

He started after her, his blood racing faster. "Maybe I'm going easy on you. Did you think of that?"

She held her pillow up, her face alight with a beautiful smile—one he never wanted to forget. "Maybe I'm going easy on you too."

"I doubt it." He crept closer. When he was within reach, he swung his pillow at her.

She spun away from him and in the next instant pummeled her pillow against his back.

He grabbed for her pillow, intending to pull it from her and disarm her, but she slipped from his reach and raced away. He chased after her, going around the table several times before trapping her in a corner—or at least, he'd thought he'd trapped her, until she jabbed him with her pillow and got away again.

She was nimble and sharp, and by the time he finally got a handful of her pillow, they were both breathless and laughing. As he started to tug her closer, she released her pillow altogether, throwing him off balance so that he tumbled backward and fell on the bed.

Somehow she managed to gain possession of both pillows, whacking him and flattening him. He wrestled for control, but again, she proved herself strong and quick, and before he knew what was happening, she'd pinned both his arms to the bed.

"Take it back." She knelt over him and peered down at him with her bright smile and laughing eyes.

"Take what back?" He didn't care that he'd lost as long as he could see her happy face.

"That I'm random." She shoved his arms, then she sat down on him.

The moment her backside landed against his thighs, every coherent thought fled, and all he could think about was that Maisy was on top of him, straddling him, on the bed.

Heat speared him swiftly, and he stopped struggling.

Her red hair hung in a curtain around them, so thick and long and vibrant. And her nightgown had fallen off one shoulder, revealing miles of bare skin along her collar bone.

His throat dried up, and his smile and laughter fell away. His mind was stuck on one thought—Maisy was right there, her luscious body fitting against his. It would be so easy to lift a hand, tangle it in her hair, and pull her face down so that he could kiss her.

But he suspected that if he started kissing her now, he might not want to stop—not with how much his own body was suddenly aching for her.

As if sensing his drifting thoughts, or perhaps seeing his fading humor, her own smile disappeared. Her gaze dropped right to his mouth, and her eyes darkened. Her fingers on his arms dug into his flesh, and she sucked in a quick breath, drawing his attention to her chest, where the bodice of her nightgown was pulled tight and low, revealing a hint of her womanly figure.

Lord in heaven above. This was going from bad to worse, and he needed to put an end to their indecent situation before he lost every rational thought.

With all the strength he could muster, he rolled away from her, scrambled off the bed, and crossed to the table.

He braced both hands on the edge, partially to hold himself up and partially so that he could prevent himself from turning around. He was afraid if he took one look at her—even just a glimpse—he wouldn't be able to stop from walking back to her, throwing himself down beside her, and drawing her into his arms.

She was silent and motionless, as if she, too, sensed that the fire had ignited into scorching flames between them. It had gone from banked embers to forest-fire force in mere seconds. Even now, the air crackled with the sparks.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of her from seconds ago when she'd been kneeling over him, smiling down at him, her beauty beyond words. But the image was seared into his memory. It was coursing through his veins. And he had the feeling it always would be—that no other woman would ever be able to compare to her.

He'd made a mistake in staying. That was clear. Because obviously, he couldn't keep from lusting after her.

Rapidly, before he could allow himself another look at her, he turned off the lantern, plunging the cabin into darkness. Then he sidled around the table and felt for the place he'd dropped his bedroll. It was shoved aside from all their running during the pillow fight. He made quick work of straightening it and then lying down and covering himself.

Only when he was on the hard, cold floor did he finally allow himself a full breath. And only after she was sleeping a short while later did he unclench his hands from his bedroll.

He didn't understand what was happening to him and Maisy, but one thing was certain: her pa needed to return real soon before he did something he'd regret.