Mail-Order Millionaire (9 page)

“Can I help?”

She looked at his feet. “Did you bring your boots?”

“No, but I’ve got my long underwear on.”

She didn’t dare meet his gaze. That underwear again, stretched across his broad shoulders and solid muscles. “I’ve got extra rubber boots,” she said, “if you’re sure you’re up for this.”

“Let’s go.”

The temperature was falling quickly, just as it should during sapping season, and an almost full moon had risen and shone on the freshly fallen snow. Miranda pulled an old wooden sled behind her with empty plastic gallon milk containers on it across the field toward the grove of maples. She’d been coming out alone every night that week and it felt strange to have someone with her. A shiver of anticipation went up her spine. Or was it just the cold night air?

“Normally I’d hitch up the horses, but it’s too late,” she explained.

“For them or for you?” he inquired.

“Both of us. They’re old and tired, but I love them. And I couldn’t do without them. Tomorrow we’ll bring them out, you’ll see—” She broke off. Had she really said, “Tomorrow you’ll see?” Tomorrow he’d be gone. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her slip of the tongue.

At the first maple he unhooked the full plastic bucket before she could, set it on the sled and replaced it with an empty one. All with seeming effortlessness, as if he’d lived on a maple sugar farm all his life. They moved on to the next tree, but this time she made the first move. After all, this was her farm and it was her job.

“This is amazing. You put a hole in a tree and out comes pure maple syrup,” he said, watching her.

“Not quite. First you have to choose the southern exposure that yields the most sap. And it takes forty gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup.’’

“Is that what you were doing in the shack, turning sap into syrup?”

“Yes, while you were out throwing snowballs at my nephews.”

“Those kids are ruthless. I had to defend myself. Good thing you came out and rescued me.” He took one of the ropes out of her hands and together they pulled the full sled across the snow toward the shack.

“Sorry I couldn’t rescue you from my sister.”

“Your sister?” He slanted a glance in her direction. “I take it she wasn’t supposed to invite me here tonight.”

“No, that’s not it.” Miranda jerked her end of the rope. “She can invite whoever she wants... but I’ll bet she didn’t give you a chance to say no. When she puts her mind to something, she never quits.”

“That’s funny. That’s what she said about you, that you were very determined. It must run in the family.”

Miranda smiled and pulled the door to the shack open. “You could say that.” The twenty-gallon galvanized wash-tub was already on the stove, so they filled it with the sap, bucket by bucket, waiting and watching for it to come to a boil in silence. “I love her dearly,” Miranda said at last, “but...”

“But you don’t want her meddling in your life. Especially your love life.”

“I don’t have a love life,” She leaned over the tub so he wouldn’t see the flush that rose to the top of her head. “That’s the problem. Her problem, not mine,” she corrected quickly.

“Of course,” he agreed. “Anyone can see you’re the independent type.”

“Thank you.” She looked up and gave him a sharp glance. Wasn’t that the same word she’d used to describe him to Ariel?

“She looks happy. Maybe she just wants to see you married so you can be as happy as she is.”

Miranda gripped the lid on the evaporator. “That’s exactly what she wants. How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess.”

“The point is—” she set the lid down with a clatter “—that, among other things, I came back from New York to get away from men, or a certain type of man that I saw too much of there, and so far I’ve succeeded nicely. Now if I could only be as successful at making this farm pay its way...”

“Everything would be perfect.”

She nodded vigorously. Strange how she’d never realized that blue eyes could be just as warm and understanding as brown, maybe more.

“What happened in New York?” he asked, leaning back against the rough-edged wooden table.

She sighed. “What didn’t happen? I was mugged, harassed and burglarized.”

“So you came back to Northwood.”

“Yes, and I’ve never regretted it. It’s just...” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Sometimes I get so tired.” Before she could open her eyes she felt his arms around her, holding her steady, offering comfort, understanding and maybe more. For a brief moment she wanted to let herself go, give in to the fatigue and longing and let him hold her and see where it would lead to. But the truth hit her like a wet snowball. He feels sorry for you, she told herself, especially after hearing your sad story. And pity is the last thing you want or need.

She raised her head and gave him a shaky smile. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t usually go to pieces like this. It must be late and I’m losing it.” Pulling away from him, she reached for the valve and shut the gas burners off. “We’ll let it freeze overnight, then we can just lift off the ice in the morning and the syrup will be underneath. Simple, yes?”

He put his arm across her shoulder. “Yes,” he said and wished he could capture the feeling again, of holding her in his arms, aware of the lush curves of her breasts under her shirt. But she ducked under his arm and led the way out of the shack and back to the house. They walked single file, boots crunching through the snow in harmony, but without speaking or touching. Her choice, not his.

His choice would have been to go arm in arm, hip against hip, thigh against thigh. Maybe he shouldn’t have come tonight. They were not only back to zero, but they had also regressed a few points below. Because of what, the kiss, the sister, her fatigue? Did she regret inviting him to spend the night? Should he offer to leave?

He closed the living-room door behind them. She put a log on the hot coals. The pungent smell of the hickory smoke and the welcome heat from the fire made his decision for him. He’d stay till dawn, and then leave before she woke up, leaving a note on the table. “Sorry to have inconvenienced you,” it would say. “Best of luck, Max.”

She paused on the bottom step of the varnished staircase. “Thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure. I mean it. I enjoyed it. I’ve never been on a farm before.”

She ran her fingers around the carved newel post. “Never?”

“Nope. I’ve been on mountaintops studying weather patterns for the past few years. Before that I lived in Atlanta.”

“Where you broke your leg skiing.”

His gaze met hers. “You remembered.” She looked embarrassed to be caught doing so. “Actually I broke it in North Carolina skiing. We don’t have any mountains in Georgia.”

Like a rag doll she sank down to sit on the second step, wrapping her arms around her knees. “What is it about mountains anyway?”

He sat on the couch, feeling the springs bounce back against his thighs. He stared out the small windowpanes and into the moonlit snowscape, thinking. He knew what it was, but he didn’t know how to put it into words, and it seemed important to explain it to her. “It’s partly the isolation, the feeling that you’re all alone in the world, above the mess and the muck of cities and the people who live there. But it’s more than that.”

“It’s the confrontation with the elements,” she suggested.

“How do you know that?”

“I was there, remember?”

His gaze swiveled toward hers and locked. “I remember. I don’t get that many guests.” He remembered everything about that evening. The way she’d looked sleeping in his chair, wrapped in his blanket.

“Welcome or unwelcome.”

“You were welcome,” he assured her.

“You made me feel that way. With the drinks and the dinner. And I haven’t offered you anything. Not even a glass of Grandma’s mulberry wine.” She stood and went to the cabinet in the corner, took out a cut-glass decanter and two small matching glasses. Noting the bemused look on his face, she smiled and handed him a glass of the dark red wine. “You didn’t think farmers lived like savages, did you?”

He sniffed the wine appreciatively. “I didn’t think about farmers at all until, when was it, two weeks ago?” He leaned back on the couch and crossed his leg over his knee, watching her take her place back on the hard varnished chair step again, her blond hair falling forward against her pale cheek. He put the palm of his hand on the cushion next to him. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable here?”

She smiled. “Knowing that old couch, I doubt it. Besides, I’m on my way up to bed.” As if to prove it, she stood up again, one hand on the railing, the other wrapped around her wineglass.

He wished he could think of something to say, something to keep her there talking, sipping wine and listening to the wood hiss as the sap oozed out of it. But he had never been much good at making small talk.

“I was surprised you came tonight. I didn’t know you liked parties.”

“I don’t usually. But I thought this would be an interesting cultural experience.”

Reflected light from the fire danced in her dark eyes. “I hope you weren’t disappointed.”

He stretched his long legs and stood, then moved deliberately toward her. He put his hand over hers on the banister and looked down at her. “I learned a lot. More than I expected.”

He cupped her chin with his hand and she stared up into his eyes, now pools of dark blue. She swallowed hard and tried to look away but couldn’t. If she didn’t do something soon she’d be back in his arms again, his strength making her feel warm and protected. And if he kissed her she just might, because it was late and she was feeling the effects of the wine, she just might kiss him back.

“There’s something I have to explain to you, Max,” she said, unable to hide the slight tremor in her voice.

He traced his thumb up the side of her cheek to her temple. “Yes?” he asked, his slow drawl stretching the word out into extra syllables.

She took a deep breath. “It’s nothing personal, but I’m really not interested in men at this time.” There, she’d said it.

“Really?” His mouth was so close she could feel his warm breath against her lips. If he got any closer he’d make a liar out of her and she couldn’t have that happen, she just couldn’t. She had her future to think about and the future of this farm. Right now she should be in bed resting up for a full day’s work tomorrow and instead she was drinking and flirting with danger in the form of a tall, handsome weatherman.

“Yes, really,” she said, backing her way up the steps. “But someday when I’ve got the farm in order and I make a go of it on my own, well then maybe...”

“You could give me a call.”

She took another backward step up and away from him. “Yes, sure.” There, what was so hard about that? He understood. She stood looking down at him, trying to read the expression in his eyes.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

She hurried up the remaining stairs. Deep in the depths of her feather bed, she pondered his easy acceptance of her refusal. Maybe he was relieved to know she wasn’t available. Anyway, she felt sure he’d be gone before her alarm went off. She tried to fall asleep, knowing she had work to do the next day, but the images kept running through her mind. His face by firelight, the smell of the wood smoke and the touch of his hand on hers. The feel of fresh snow on her face and the taste of his kiss on her lips. Why couldn’t she put him out of her mind? Why did all thoughts of the party center around Max? Was it because he was the only guest who was still there? She felt like a love-starved teenager, tossing in her old bed under the eaves.