This Perfect Stranger. Barbara Ankrum
managed to get her coffee cup to her lips, trying to comprehend her completely carnal reaction to the man. It had been years since a man—any man—had made her think of…sex. But this stranger had managed it in the space of ten seconds. And he hadn’t said more than two words.
Lust at first sight, she thought. It was more than shocking. Ernie was right. She was overwrought. She forced herself to stare at the brownie on the plate in front of her, realizing that she’d lost all interest in it.
Moody crossed the room in the unhurried way she had and set a cup of coffee down in front of him. “Take cream?” she asked.
“Just black,” he replied.
“We’ve got the best hash browns this side of the Rockies and omelettes that’ll make you think you died and went to heaven. How ’bout it?”
Maggie could’ve sworn the man’s gaze slid longingly at the plates of food being cradled by the old roosters at the counter, before returning to his coffee.
“This’ll do,” he said, and pulled a long sip as Moody watched.
“Suit yerself, darlin’. Enjoy.” She breezed by Maggie’s table with a little grin and a wink as she passed. Maggie, who was concentrating on swallowing a bite of brownie, nearly choked.
“Reckon we ain’t seen the last o’ winter by the smell o’ that air,” old Bill Miller announced to no one in particular from his spot at the counter. “Storm’s rollin’ in.”
“Ah,” Bob Tacumsa replied with a shake of his gray head, “Just the leftovers. T’won’t be much.”
“Yeah,” Wit Stacey replied, glancing pointedly at the stranger. “Them Northers blow in all sorts o’ riff raff this time a year.”
Maggie watched the stranger tap his finger against the rim of his cup, trying to ignore them.
Moody slapped at the counter with her damp towel perilously near to Wit’s plate of eggs. “And it mostly accumulates at my counter,” she said sharply. “Mind yer tongue, Wit, or you’ll find yourself wearin’ my best breakfast plate.”
Wit ducked his head and forked in a mouthful of eggs.
Score one for Moody.
Maggie glanced back at the stranger. To her dismay, he was staring right back at her through a sweep of dark lashes. She flashed him an automatic smile, then looked away, tamping down a racing heartbeat.
What was wrong with her anyway? Tightening her hand around her coffee mug, she wished she’d gone straight home from the bank. Instead, she was sitting here fantasizing about a man she didn’t even know, wondering what his smile would feel like against her mouth.
Lord.
The bell above the door jangled again. This time she knew who was coming through the door before she saw him because she heard his voice. The sound of it sent a shiver through her.
Laird Donnelly and two of his men brought the cold air in with them as they swept into the café like they owned the place. Barrel-chested and just as big as the stranger sitting across the room, Laird looked every inch the cattle baron he was. At thirty-five, he owned the biggest operation in northern Montana, not to mention half the men in this town. Maggie slid her eyes shut, wishing she could gracefully slide under the table and disappear.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Maggie Cortland,” Laird said, strolling her way, slipping off his gray felt Stetson. “How ya been, Maggie?”
“Laird.” She sipped her coffee and stared out the window.
“Been keepin’ to yourself a lot lately. Why, we were just talkin’ about you, weren’t we boys?”
The “boys” nodded like good little soldiers.
“That’s right. We were wonderin’ why you hadn’t fixed that fence up on the north pasture yet. A couple of your mares wandered onto my land yesterday.”
Damn him! She’d fixed that fence twice in the last two weeks. Someone had been cutting it, and it didn’t take an rocket scientist to figure out who. “Where are they now?”
Laird smiled magnanimously. “Your mares? Oh, I imagine right about now, they’re happily grazin’ with my best heifers. I planned on bringin’ ’em on by later today.”
Her knee hit the table with a thwack and the old roosters jumped as a single entity. “No!” she said too loudly. “Don’t bother. I’ll come get them later.”
“No hurry,” Laird told her, draping his muscular arm across the high back of her booth. “’Cause from what I hear this hasn’t really been your day.”
“I suppose I have you to thank for that,” she said without a glimmer of a smile.
He did though—a wry, foxlike grin that set her teeth on edge. “Me? Hell, I can take credit for lots of things, but makin’ your day bad isn’t one I’d care to claim.”
Maggie couldn’t actually remember hating anyone the way she did Laird Donnelly. He made her skin crawl. Crowding her the way he was now was something he did for fun. He loved to see the terror leap into her eyes. But she swore she wouldn’t let him do it to her. Not here. Not now.
Thankfully, Moody interceded, nudging Laird out of the way so she could refill Maggie’s coffee cup. “Why don’t you and your boys have a seat, Laird?” she said pointedly. “Maggie’s not in the mood for talkin’.”
“Another time then,” he promised with a wink that sent a shiver through Maggie.
It wasn’t until Laird moved out of the way that she noticed the stranger watching her. Rather, watching Laird watching her. The muscle in his jaw worked rhythmically as his gaze collided with hers, then he looked back at his coffee.
She dragged her purse up from the seat and began rifling through it for money. Moody intercepted her again, setting the coffeepot down on the table. “I told you. It’s on me today. You go on home, honey. Put your feet up. You’re pale as a ghost. You could use a rest.”
Maggie slid an anxious look at Laird and his bunch before sending Moody what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. Okay? I’m just a little tired is all. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure? When you gonna get some help out on your place? Lord knows, you shouldn’t be handling all that on your own.”
“Soon,” Maggie lied. “Thanks, Moody. For everything.”
The older woman just smiled. She was nosy, Maggie thought, but she wasn’t dense. She always knew how far to push, and Maggie had just drawn the line. Gathering up her purse she headed toward the door, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the stranger. He’d disappear in a few hours like the cold wind off the Bitterroots.
And she’d still be spitting into it.
Cain MacCallister made no pretense of ignoring the fragile-looking beauty named Maggie as she unfolded those long legs of hers from the booth and walked by him without a second glance. More to the point, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was her resemblance to Annie that had caught him like a sucker punch to the gut. Slender and pale, with that blond, pinned-up hair and swanlike neck of hers, she could’ve been a dancer. Maybe it was the elegant way she held herself as that cow-chaser hassled her.
Maybe it was the way she smiled—the little flicker of that wide mouth of hers that had nearly stalled his heart. All of which had forced him to reassess the “fragile” description he’d pinned on her. Oh, she was delicate all right. Delicate the way centuries-old bone china was delicate, with a tempered core that belied the translucence.
Damn, he thought, sipping his cooling coffee. What the hell was wrong with him? He had no business thinking about a woman like her. She was probably married with three kids, a picket fence and a dog. He was in the market for something considerably less permanent.
But