Christmas Male (18 page)

"Just some decorations," she said sweetly but firmly, because really, facing Christmas again was good for Miles. It was time for him to start living. She could see the toll it was taking on his family. "If you don't like the garlands now, then you will learn."

"Do I need to remind you who owns this house?" He heaved the tree upright, centering it in the stand. Miles arched a brow at her, stepping back, a few pine needles clinging to his coat. "It's not you."

"I'm very aware of that, thank you." She sent him a big smile. "But the tree looks fabulous. Doesn't it, Winston?"

"Couldn't be better," Pa called from the floor where he was fussing with the stand, nearly invisible because of the tree's graceful boughs.

"Careful, Pa, I could evict you." He struggled to keep the corners of his mouth from shooting upward. "Or maybe send you on the next train with Maggie."

"Hey, I'd take him. Winston is a good father." Maggie sparkled up at him, arresting with her hair glinting red-gold in the firelight, her heart-shaped face so dear. The knowing glint in her eyes reminded him of their passionate kiss—and that neither one of them had wanted to stop.

In fact, if not for Chester's interruption, that kiss would have become much more. Heated touches, forbidden caresses and a complete loss of control. His groin thickened, remembering how good she'd felt unabashedly pressing against his erection. His throat went dry and he forced his gaze away from her before he started imagining all those other things he wanted to do to her sweet, curvy body.

How was he going to get through another night with her in this house?

"No more Christmas decorating." It was past time to put his foot down, judging by all the ribbons and bows in his parlor. Christmas made him feel, reminding him of the chump he'd been, a fool to hand over his heart to a careless woman. He'd paid the price for it. "Agreeing to a tree is one thing. That's bad enough, but you're not decorating this whole house."

"Fine, but then why did you agree to the tree in the first place?" Maggie asked, stepping closer, full of caring. "You could have said no when I asked."

"I know. I should have." He glowered, but something was happening to him—he was no longer able to glower as effectively as he had just this morning. Her kiss had changed him—she was changing him—and he didn't like it. "I must have momentarily lost my mind."

"Oh." Her caring toward him remained, a light in her eyes that did not fade.

"My guess, Maggie," Pa chimed in, "is that Miles couldn't say no to you."

Bingo, Miles thought, hating that his father had seen the truth so easily—a truth he could not admit to. What would a woman do with that kind of information? Run roughshod over him, ruin his heart, use it up and throw it away. That's what had happened to him every time he'd risked loving someone. He drew in a breath, steeling his defenses. "I can say no anytime I want to. I can live with the tree, but that's it."

"That's too bad." Pa ducked back down beneath the bows, fiddling with the stand. "Seeing the decorations makes me feel as if your ma is a little closer."

And there was no arguing with that, Miles thought, resigned. "Hell, do what you want."

"This looks excellent." Pops strolled in, his deep baritone sounding thick, as it did when he was emotional, when something meant a great deal to him. "It does my heart good to see Christmas in this room. Too bad my Elma isn't here to see it. She would have loved you, Maggie."

"I would have loved her, too." Maggie's warm answer, full of certainty and kindness, got to Miles like nothing could. His defenses were so weak, they were no good at all.

"What was she like?" Maggie asked, head tilting to one side, waiting intently for the answer.

"She was a spitfire." Pops changed as he talked about his beloved wife. He seemed taller, stronger, and somehow less old. A hint of the young man he'd been decades and decades ago shone through, straight from his soul. "She was the youngest daughter of one of the wealthiest men in this country. I saw her stepping down from a buggy outside a senator's summer home where I'd been invited for a party. Oh, I'll never forget how the sun shone brighter than it ever had the instant Elma sprang down and touched the ground, full of laughter and life. Her black curls were bouncing, her yellow silk dress flouncing around her in the prettiest way. She was just this little dainty thing, so beautiful every eligible bachelor on the estate turned to stare at her. I thought, there's no way, she's out of your league, John, but I was the one she chose."

"She was the sunshine in your life," Maggie said with understanding.

"She lit up everything, even me." John wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "I finally got up the courage to ask her to dance that night. She looked me right in the eye and said, 'Mr. McClintock, there is going to be more than one dance for us. I'm going to marry you one day.' Why, my heart just came to life. When I took her by the hand, I was truly living for the first time."

"Oh, she loved you at first sight, too." Maggie looked transported, as if she knew exactly how rare of a gift that was, the love his grandparents had shared. "What a great thing that you found each other. Something tells me that wherever she is now, she's never far from you."

"That's what I think too." Pops sighed, blinking away the feelings gathered like tears in his eyes.

Since this was getting too emotional for him, Miles cleared his throat, determined to change the subject. He missed his grandmother too, and his mother. Jaw tight, he reached into his coat pocket and hauled out the missive he'd picked up at the train station. "When I was out cutting that tree, Bill's assistant came riding down the road. He had a telegram come in for you. I told him I'd make sure you got it."

"A telegram, for me?" Maggie brightened, breezing toward him. "I can only think of one person who could afford the expense. Certainly Emma would not waste money when the regular mail would do. It's from Callie."

"Looks like it." He handed over the telegram, doing his damned best to resist her allure. But being near to her was like standing in front of the fireplace—radiant heat scorched him, kicked up his blood, made every inch of him thrum.

She ripped it open, gazing hungrily at the words written there and her smile faded. She looked stricken. "Oh, Callie wrote to wish me a happy wedding. I was supposed to get married to Chester tomorrow. It was thoughtful of her."

"I'm sorry, Maggie." He truly was.

She shrugged, hiding a wince of regret, maybe even disappointment before folding the paper and slipping it into her skirt pocket.

"Well, there's a silver lining here. This means you can still find the love of your life," Pops said. His words held sympathy but a touch of trouble too. He glanced Miles's way and winked. "Say, Maggie, I can smell supper cooking away in the kitchen. Isn't the meal you whipped up supposed to come out at five o'clock? It's minutes away."

"Is it that time already? Then I'd better get to the kitchen." She bustled toward the door. She could have been a princess with her slim, straight back, graceful gait, gleaming hair. Even in a plain calico dress, she dazzled. She glanced over her shoulder at him, tossing him a knowing smile. "I made chicken and dumplings. I hear it's your favorite."

"It is." His voice cracked when he answered, sounding raw and thick. As he watched her twirl from the room, listening to the soft pad of her shoes in the hallway, he was at a loss. She mattered to him. There wasn't enough scotch in the world to help him deal with that.

Miles was taking this pretty well, she thought as she slipped on a pair of oven mitts and lifted the cooking dish from the top of the stove. Steam rolled off the top of the chicken and dumplings, the delicious aroma wafting up to tickle her nose.

Yum. Her mouth watered, her stomach growled and she lifted the dish, careful not to spill any of the bubbling goodness as she carried it from the kitchen to the dining room. She hoped Miles would be happy. She'd worked hard to prepare his favorite meal. Winston had dropped the hint after he'd brought in the evergreen boughs for her earlier and she'd been more than happy to do it.

"I told you to wait for me to carry that for you, missy!" John rushed up from the table.

"Too late, I didn't need any help," she said breezily, setting the dish in the center of the exquisite cherry wood table. Boiled potatoes steamed in their bowl, and green beans glinted in their butter sauce. "Supper is served. I feel as if I've forgotten something."

"It's Miles." Winston entered the room, not looking surprised at all. "He's not here and he refuses to come to the table. He says he's busy, but I think he's just avoiding us."

You mean, me, Maggie thought, knowing it was the truth. Miles had been troubled ever since their kiss. Not that she could blame him. It troubled her too, but in an entirely different way. She wanted more of them—lots and lots more. "I can fix a plate and take it to him."

"No, if he doesn't show up, he doesn't eat." Winston winked as he ambled across the room and into the light of the fireplace crackling in the big hearth in the end wall. He drew out a chair. "We're trying to fix you two up, you know. The least he can do is show up and cooperate."

"He doesn't want to be fixed up and neither do I, not like this." Maggie lifted Miles's plate from his spot at the table and scooped a generous helping of chicken from the baking dish. "I want a certain kind of man for a husband. While I appreciate your efforts, Miles is not that man."

"Why not?" John wanted to know as he settled into his chair. "Miles is good looking."

"I can't argue with that." She sighed. Miles's good looks certainly had something to do with her physical reaction to him. She scooped up a few dumplings and added them to the plate. "But I want more in a husband. A better attitude, for instance."

"He
does
have a surly attitude," Winston admitted as he took charge of the spoon just as Maggie let go of it. "But that can be changed. Give him a chance. I know you plan to leave, but you could always come back and visit. You'd be good for Miles."

"And we'd like to have you in our family," John added with a dashing wink. He must have been a stunner in his day. No wonder Elma had fallen for him at first sight.

"I'd like that too, but who says I would want Miles?" Okay, that was a joke, and while she laughed at it (Winston and John did too), there was a large truth she couldn't avoid. Her heart had chosen Miles, but his had not chosen her.

But he'd been aroused by her, and he'd wanted her. Remembering, a heady rush beat through her and she blushed, embarrassed to be thinking these things while standing in front of Miles' father and grandfather.

But the truth was, it felt wonderful to know a man as handsome and virile as Miles desired her—her, the dried up spinster from Holbrook. The one a man would be foolish to waste his time wanting. Miles didn't feel that way and she felt a little floaty as she added a pile of perfectly cooked potatoes to his plate.

"I'll just take this to him and be right back," she said when she was done dishing up. Remembering to take his empty wine glass and silverware, she whisked out of the room, anticipation thrumming through her.

She padded down the hallway, through the other wing of the house to the double doors of his den. One door stood ajar, giving her a glimpse of him inside. Seated at his desk, a pen in his hand, his thick black hair tumbled over his forehead as he frowned, writing away. The fire crackling in its hearth was the only sound in the room.

"Knock, knock," she said, giving the door a push. "I brought you something to eat."

"I'm working," he said succinctly, keeping his eyes on the page, his pen making little scratching sounds as it traveled across the paper. "Just leave it on the desk."

"Of course." She slipped into the room, taking in the high, coved ceilings, the generous windows looking out over the mountains and forest, the comfortable, expensive looking furniture holding down the corners of a luxurious tapestry rug. "I hope this is enough. I just guessed when I was dishing up. Is there anything else you need?"

"No." Cords stood out in his neck as his pen stilled. Finally, he raised his gaze to hers. "It smells really good. Thank you, Maggie."

"It was my pleasure." She meant it. Every word. She wished he would warm to her, let down his guards, open up his heart and choose to love her. But that was only wishful thinking on her part. All the longing in the world couldn't change another person or make them want a life with you.

So she turned away from him, when she wanted to reach out to him. She forced her feet to take her away, when she wanted to stay. "I didn't know what you wanted to drink. John said he would open a wine bottle. I could bring it in and pour you a glass if you want."

"No, I've got scotch here." He set down his pen and reached for a bottle sitting on the far corner of his desk. He opened it, tipping it over the rim of the wine glass and let it pour. Apparently he was thirsty.

"Okay, then." She hesitated at the doorway, taking in one last look of him. He really did care for her—just not enough or in the way she wanted him to care. But, she would survive that. She was grateful to him for changing her life. He'd made her feel like a woman, desired by a man who cared for her. She felt young again—twenty-two-years young instead of that spinster no one wanted. She would always be grateful to him for that.