Fated Souls (5 page)

“I didn’t, I was invited.” She took up his question as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “I’d mentioned last night that it has been a couple years since I’ve been able to go out for a ride. Sly suggested I stop by, said he could use a hand exercising some of the stock since you don’t normally work the stables on Saturdays. I apologize for intruding on your land. Please don’t shoot.” She turned and stalked off. She was pissed, she had every right to be, and Aidan knew he should let her just keep on walking.

He was mad at her for not being in the woods last night. It was the first night since she’d come to town that the wolf hadn’t felt her presence. The first night since the chew toy that the wolf hadn’t spent some time with her. The wolf had felt it keenly. Aidan loathed to admit, even to himself, that he had missed her, too. He had assumed she’d given up and gone home. Then he found out she was playing poker all night with his only ranch hand, probably pumping him for information and making moo-cow eyes at Johnnie Carson.

Uttering an oath, he ran out of the barn and toward the driveway. There was no sign of her or her little rental. Then he realized he hadn’t heard her pull away or drive up for that matter. As lost in Sly’s blow-by-blow of the night before as he’d been, he still would have heard a car pull up and park outside his stable.

Looking towards the house, he saw her marching across the meadow, her braid swinging with the force of her pace. He fell into a light jog and caught up with her easily. “Ms. O’Connell. Maggie. I’m sorry. Really, I was an ass and I’m sorry.”

“Go to hell, Gael.” Maggie refused to be softened. “I like you better when you’re all furry. When you can’t talk you are much more pleasant to be around.”

Aidan suppressed the urge to laugh, but when he opened his mouth to deny the implied accusation, instead he blurted out, “Did you go to that poker game to question Sly? Is that why you weren’t in the woods last night, just to pump him for information?”

Maggie stopped and swung around, her finger poking him in his chest. “You are such an ass! I asked him one thing, one goddamn thing, and that was if he knew why they called this the Cherry Farm when I haven’t seen a damn cherry tree anywhere near here. Those wonderful old men asked me more questions than I asked them. And tell Sly, Johnnie’s playing from the bottom of the deck every third hand.”

She turned so fast, her braid nearly whipped him in the face. He could see her car now, parked in the driveway beside his aging truck, and she was making a beeline for it. He stood there fighting the desire to chase her or even call out to her when suddenly she stopped in her tracks. She slowly pivoted and with no small amount of smug strolled back to where he still stood. She placed her fisted hands on her hips and leaned forward. She didn’t look angry any longer. She looked triumphant.

He was scared, which he knew was ridiculous considering her size, but he couldn’t help the little ice-cold spear of fear that streaked down his back. The wolf’s instinct was to flee as well. And yet, Aidan stood his ground.

“How’d you know I wasn’t in the woods last night, Aidan?” She asked. Despite the fear and the chagrin at such an obvious mistake, he loved the way she said his name. He suddenly had a very clear image of her in his arms, naked and sweaty, her auburn hair damp and clinging to them both as she said his name with her husky voice tempered in a plea.

She must have seen something in his expression that worried her, because she took a single step in retreat. But she squared her shoulders, stepped forward in a wide legged stance, as though preparing for battle, and thrust her chin out in a gesture that was so clearly defiant. Aidan swore, cursing them both, even as he reached for her.

Aidan wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and jerked her body the last few inches between them. Maggie’s hands came up out of reflex; they splayed against his chest at the same instant his mouth claimed her. His lips were firm and cool. Maggie parted her lips, taking the kiss deeper. She slid a hand up around his neck; the other snaked around his back to hold him close as she settled her feet between his and leaned in to his strength. Aidan wrapped his arms around her, holding her as though his life depended on it.

• • •

Maggie could feel the sun on her face, smell the hay and horses that clung to Aidan’s skin and clothes, hear birds chirping somewhere nearby, but nothing mattered except the drumbeat of his heart against her breast matching the rhythm of her own and the heat his mouth was generating. She felt it spread down her body like a virus. She squirmed against him instinctually and he groaned, his grip tightening on her waist. Maggie’s tongue darted out to gently taste his upper lip. Aidan trapped it there and used his tongue to caress hers. Maggie felt the world shift under her feet as the kiss neither had expected took them both further down the rabbit hole.

Aidan growled when Maggie ran her nails down the back of his neck. Suddenly, he pushed her away, holding her out at arm’s length, his eyes cast downward. She was confused, trembling with a need stronger than any she’d ever experienced, and fought against his grip, wanting to step back into the embrace. He wouldn’t allow it.

“Aidan?” She whispered it, uncertainty ringing through the simple word. He looked up at her then and she saw pain, desire, and disgust race across his face before his eyes went blank and he dropped his hands from her arms. It was that look of utter disgust that would stick with her, that wounded.

“Get away from me.” He ground out as though chewing through glass. He passed her without another glance and walked towards his home, his stance military straight. Maggie felt the pain of rejection, followed quickly by anger at his dismissal. She quietly stalked him, enraged. She entered behind him through the double glass doors before he had the chance to close them. He backed away, leaving the door open rather than get near her again. “Don’t you ever listen?”

“No, you listen.” Maggie hissed with barely restrained anger. Insult warred with injury, anger, and frustration. Aidan rocked back on his heels, his arms crossed on his chest, his expression guarded. “You kissed me,” she ground out. “Not the other way around. How dare you just scrape me off as though I’m some piece of horse shit you found stuck to the bottom of your boot? You kissed me. Remember that.” She turned and stalked back to the door, hesitated in the opening, keeping her back to him, and uttered miserably, “Uninvited, I might add.”

She left and he didn’t stop her. He didn’t stop her as she circled the house, got into her rental, started it up, and pulled out of the driveway. Not that she’d really expected him to, she’d just kind of hoped that he would, that he would at least apologize for kissing her senseless and then pushing her away. I don’t want an apology for the kiss, she sniffled indignantly as she backed onto the road.
I want him to apologize for not following through with everything the kiss had promised.

She glanced back at the house as she put the car into drive and saw him standing at the front window, his expression unreadable. On impulse, Maggie flipped her middle finger up at him and punched the gas. As was her habit, Maggie hit the radio on and turned the volume up. She liked her music hot and loud, and the country twanging through her rental’s speakers was the musical equivalent of nails on a blackboard. She hit the CD button and Josh Todd’s screaming vocals filled the car, the song easily matching her violent mood. She sang along, as was also her habit, fingers drumming on the steering wheel to the beat, and vented her anger in the healthiest way she knew how. By the time she’d reached the town proper, she felt only rejected and mildly depressed.

She passed the inn that was currently her home and eating into her savings and pulled into the parking lot of the town’s best, and only, diner. Ice cream therapy was in definite order. Maggie preferred to wallow with alcohol and dancing when she had friends with her; she self-treated with chocolate milkshakes and key lime pie when left to her own devices. Luckily for her, she knew Ma Stevens kept both in stock at the tiny diner.

Maggie loved the look of the place. It was so nostalgic Americana it would have been clichéd except it wasn’t contrived like those idiotic fast food imitations. No, Maggie had a feeling that Ma Stevens kept the place much as it had been in the 1950s and this is the way it would stay until she took her last breath. In addition to the red vinyl booths and swiveling counter stools, there was Ma Stevens herself. She wore the traditional pink uniform of a diner waitress, with a doily name pin proudly displayed on her ample and square neckline — Stella, it said, but Maggie wondered why it didn’t just say Ma. Her hair was teased into a white blond cloud around her face that belied the age and laugh lines that scored her overly made-up face. She ruled over the diner and her husband, the cook, known affectionately as Old Man Stevens, like a big, fat cherry on top of a hot fudge sundae. They were easily Maggie’s favorite two people in Trappers’ Cove.

Maggie chose a booth when she normally sat at the counter because she wanted to sulk, and you couldn’t get a good sulk on if you were busy enjoying the local chatter and gossip delivered among the little nuggets of sage advice Ma served along with the pie. She finished her shake and was halfway through the extra large slice of pie when she sensed someone standing next to her. She slid the empty glass over. “Keep ‘em coming, Ma.”

“I think you’re flagged.” Maggie had known it was Aidan, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him. Without looking up from her dessert she threw his earlier words back at him.

“Get away from me.” She scooped a big forkful of pie into her mouth and ignored him as he sat across from her.

“You didn’t listen to me then, why shouldn’t I return the favor now? Hello, Mrs. Stevens, how are you?” As Aidan made polite but distant small talk with the waitress, Maggie let her eyes shift from her plate to his face. She knew she was behaving immaturely, but he’d hurt her feelings. She wondered if he felt badly enough to actually answer some of her questions. “I’ll have whatever our intrepid reporter here is enjoying.”

Maggie watched his eyes return to hers as Ma briskly walked away with their order. “Did you know that I’ve lived in this town, or right outside it anyway, for more than ten years now and this is the first time I’ve eaten here rather than taking it to go?” he said.

“No. I didn’t know that. You realize that’s only going to serve as further fuel for the gossip fire about to blaze a trail all over Trappers’ Cove.” Aidan’s mouth tilted upward, flirting with a smile.

“Consider that my punishment then, if you will, Maggie, for earlier. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. And I shouldn’t have treated you that way after.”

“Well, at least you got the second part right.” His eyebrows lifted at her response. She scooped more pie into her mouth and arched a brow in imitation. He waited patiently for her to respond, which for some reason amused Maggie into elaborating. “In case you didn’t notice I liked the kissing part. In fact, for future reference, that was me liking it a whole lot.”

This time Aidan did smile; it was the first time Maggie had seen him truly smile and it made his handsome face breathtaking. The only response she was capable of was an equally happy smile of her own. Ma quietly set the pie and two milkshakes down on their table and nearly ran to the kitchen, no doubt to call Alice Black.

“Did you know her name isn’t Stella?” Aidan asked her as they both heard Ma scurry away.

“No, I didn’t.” She watched as he slowly indulged in the pie, seeming to linger over each bite. Maggie’s cheeks flushed as she wondered if he did everything just as purposefully.

“Mmm, hmm. Her name is Karen and Old Man’s is Mike. Would you like to hear the story behind the name tag?” Maggie nodded, sipping her milkshake trying to cool her libido. “The story goes that back when they were sweethearts working at the diner, he told her she looked just like Kim Hunter in the movie
Streetcar Named Desire
and one day when her shift started after his, she came into find he’d change her name tag to Stella. And she’s kept it that way ever since.”

“That’s really sweet.” Aidan nodded and washed down another forkful of key lime with his milkshake.

“But that’s not the only version I’ve heard.” Maggie looked at him, brow arched, silently waiting as he’d done to her moments before. Aidan chuckled and continued. “The other story I heard was that when they were a young married couple Old Man took to stepping out with a city girl named Stella who was somehow related to Red. The day after this city girl mysteriously disappeared never to be seen or heard from again, Ma showed up for her shift wearing the name tag. And has worn it ever since.”

Maggie laughed and enjoyed the flummoxed mix of lust and fear that swept across his face almost as much as she had the story. “I can totally see Ma taking some hussy out into the backwoods and doing away with her, protecting what’s hers, and then wearing a reminder to Old Man every day after; but I’d bet the first version is the accurate one.”

“Why is that?” He sipped the milkshake and watched her over the rim of his glass.

“I’ve played poker with the man and he doesn’t strike me as brave enough to risk crossing Ma even if he was the cheating sort, which he isn’t.”

“You get that from playing poker?” Aidan asked. Maggie smiled before answering. People always underestimated what could be learned at a quiet game of Texas Hold’em.

“Sure. Johnnie Carson is reckless, can’t bluff to save his life, shoots for the moon on every hand, and cheats to compensate. Red plays the odds, his risks aren’t as risky as they seem; he keeps it close to the vest and bluffs like a pro. Barry’s ego is his downfall. He’s too busy playing at being better than everyone else to bother playing better than anyone else. Old Man is cautious; he bets small even when he’s got the best hand. He gains the least but loses the least and seems all the happier for it. And Sly,” Maggie’s smile grew from ear to ear, “is aptly named. That man is one sly card player. Honest to a fault too, except when he’s bluffing of course. But that’s not dishonest, that’s just strategy.”