eight miles north of your ranch.”
Eight miles? Most of them straight up by the looks of the mountainous terrain he’d glimpsed outside.
She shrugged off her heavy fur. Garret wasn’t sure what he expected to see beneath the long coat, but the vibrant red flowers stitched across the shoulders of her white shirt took him by surprise. The garment hung to mid-thigh, cinched at her narrow waist by a beaded belt. She wasn’t wearing a gun. A leather sheath secured a long bowie knife at her hip.
Tiny but fierce, he thought, noting how her gaze didn’t stray from him as she hung her coat beside the door. Buckskin britches encased her slender legs, the bottoms tucked into her tall Indian-style boots. He only knew of one mountain woman to frequent these ranges, had been close enough to the old woman called Mad Mag to catch her stench, to see the filth on her hands as she had held a rifle to a man’s chest. The wide white cuffs of this woman’s shirt were etched with red thread and hid her hands, revealing just enough of her fingers to see her clean, short fingernails. She smelled as fresh as a spring rain.
“You were caught in the storm,” she said, drawing his gaze back to her young, pretty face.
He remembered a rainstorm, and the cold…waking to a beautiful woman sleeping in his arms. His gaze slid to the bed, a sense of dread tightening his gut.
“Do I have you to thank?” he asked. “Or was it your husband who brought me here?” A husband would be good. He needed some reassurance that the visions in his mind were just that—visions.
“You can thank your dog. If not for him, you likely would have froze before I found you.”
“You found me?”
Her posture stiffened. “That’s right.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but…I don’t recall your name or riding up to this…” His gaze slid over the stone walls. “Cabin.”
“I’m not surprised. You were froze out of your mind when I found you. That was the day before yesterday. Once your chill wore off a fever set in.”
He had the vague memory of a cool, damp cloth stroking his skin, her smooth, husky voice encouraging him to drink. Incapacitated for nearly three days, it wasn’t a wonder he was starving and his bladder about to burst.
His shock wearing off, he was hit by the renewed urge to step outside.
“You’ve been sick,” she said. “You should lie down.”
“What I need are my clothes.” And an outhouse. At this point, his clothes would be a waste of time—he had to go now. He took a step forward.
The woman’s hand went for her blade. The glint in her eyes told him she wouldn’t hesitate to fillet him.
“Easy, honey,” he said, raising his hand, the other gripping the blanket at his hip. “I’m just headin’ for the door. No reason to get jumpy.”
“You can’t leave,” she said, her hand still on the hilt of her long knife.
“I need to step outside for a spell.”
Her stance widened as though she thought she could stop him. “It’s still storming.”
“Lady, I’ve got to take a leak,” he all but shouted, the pressure becoming downright painful.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened, understanding easing her tense expression. God bless her, a pink flush flared into her cheeks. “There’s a chamber pot under the bed.” She rushed past him.
Garret watched her kneel beside the bed and figured she must be out of her pretty little mind. It was bad enough he stood before this woman in nothing but his boots and a blanket. He’d damn well risk the frostbite.
“You can—” A burst of cold air hit Maggie’s face as she sat back. Her guest slammed the door shut behind him.
“Of all the fool notions!”
His dog scampered after him and barked at the closed door.
“He’s going to freeze,” she spat. And this time she was not going to tend to his warming! Boots bumped against her leg as she stood, his tail wagging wildly. He was obviously happy at seeing his master up and around. Maggie reached down to pet him and noticed her hands were shaking.
He’s awake.
She didn’t know why Garret’s size had come as such a shock—but it had. Tending him while unconscious hadn’t prepared her for looking up at those flexing muscles, his eyes clear and alert. The way he’d stared at her…
He remembers.
If her cheeks blazed any hotter they’d catch fire. She pressed her hands to her flushed skin. Hellfire. She was actually blushing. The fact that he’d flustered her so increased her worry. He’d taken one step toward her, his eyes dark and turbulent, and she’d damn near drawn her knife against him.
A natural reflex, she reasoned. For someone who lives in the wild. She’d spent most her life hunting, skinning and shooting at anything that came at her baring teeth, whether it be beast or man. And there’d been plenty of both.
She’d suffered her share of scratches, bite marks and bullet wounds. Even so, she ventured that most folks, sane folks, didn’t greet a request for an outhouse with a knife wound.
Biting out a swear word she grabbed one of the blankets at the end of her bed and dropped it onto the wet floor. It had been too many years since she’d been so close to anyone. She’d never had cause to be cordial with any man since Ira. She wasn’t sure she remembered how. After so much effort to keep Garret alive, she’d sure hate to harm his handsome hide.
I ought to bar the door while I have the chance.
Instead she draped the damp cloth over her chair and hurried to the stack of barrels she’d turned into tall cupboards. Opening the hinged side of the center barrel she took out Garret’s clean shirts and trousers. She pulled his coat from the bottom barrel.
He’ll rest up and be gone by tomorrow.
Her stomach flopping something awful, she tossed the stack of clothes onto the trunk and pressed a hand to her belly. The sight of black braids lying over bright red blossoms made her groan as the heat in her face intensified. She felt foolish wearing the ornate nightdress she’d hemmed, her hair woven into the only style she’d ever done on her own. No respectable townswoman wore braids at the age of twenty-seven, but Maggie didn’t own any hairpins and wouldn’t know what to do with them even if she had. She’d done the best she could to appear feminine, normal.
She hadn’t convinced him. His expression had creased with confusion as his gaze soaked up her attire.
“I don’t give two shakes what he thinks of me,” she muttered as she hung his coat beside hers and went to the stove. So long as he doesn’t think I’m Mad Mag. With Nathan hunting her and wanted posters boasting a reward for her capture, she couldn’t risk anyone knowing where she lived.
She glanced warily at the door. Boots stood vigil, whining as the wood creaked against a gust of wind. Hopefully he hadn’t gotten too close a look at her that day in town.
She dragged in a shaky breath and lifted the lid off her stewpot. Thick brown gravy bubbled around tender meat and potatoes. Her appetite soured at the memory of Nathan grabbing her in that alleyway. Her surprise had paled to his. He’d been shocked to see his little sister alive and well—a shock that had given way to undeniable fear. She’d relished the fear and had spent the weeks before the first heavy snow checking out his new place. Had she caught him alone she would have finished what he started in Bitterroot. But Nathan was a coward. He didn’t take a step out his door without being surrounded by his hired guns.
Before winter had set in she’d taken care to give