Spring Blossom (17 page)

Margaret stared in amazement at the boys’
breeches and shirt he held up for her inspection. She could not
help the small smile that graced her lips. “I never thought she
would dare,” she said. “She always hated when I wore those.”

Hunter’s grin was suddenly complemented by a
fair twinkle in his dark eyes. “I suspect there’s a lot you don’t
know about your sisters.” He draped the garments over the side of
the wagon bed, giving her the option to choose elegance over
comfort, if she so desired. Then he was walking past her and Maggie
turned to watch as he removed the harness from the matched bays.
“These two are gentle enough for you to handle,” he said, holding
out a pair of leads. “If you take them down to the stream to drink,
I’ll follow with Pride and the colt and keep them further
away.”

“What?” she asked, raising disbelieving eyes
to his. She wasn’t a stable boy.

Lesson one, he thought ruefully. “There is
work to be done each evening if you wish to fill your belly and
seek some rest. But the animals come first. Always,” he added
pointedly. “Now these good beasts have earned a drink but I can’t
lead the stallions near these geldings. Please take them.”

Maggie had managed the entire household at
Treemont for years, and she had taken over the management of her
father’s stables almost a year ago; she was used to giving orders,
not taking them. And she knew as well as he that the animals
required care. She was hardly a novice. But he seemed to enjoy
ordering her about and he used vulgar language to boot; fill her
belly, indeed! But, how could she argue when it came to the
animals?

She arrived at the water’s edge, holding her
skirts high and teetering somewhat as she made her way downstream
to where the embankment was not too steep. As the thirsty horses
drank their fill, Maggie realized Hunter had moved farther
downstream with Pride.

“Anna seems to prepare most of the meals at
Treemont,” he called in her direction. “And I didn’t think to ask
you before now…can you cook?”

A slow grin curved her lips. “I make a
wonderful mash,” she called back at him, “hot water, oats and
molasses.”

“I should be a horse,” he grumbled to Pride,
his hand stroking the muscular black neck. “But I guess you’re all
set, old man.”

He tethered Pride on one side of the
encampment, then took the bays from Margaret and led them well away
from the big stallion. “You could start gathering wood while I
settle these two and take the colt for water,” he said
offhandedly.

Margaret looked at him resentfully; let him
get his own wood.

After the bays were settled, he led the colt
toward the stream. “No wood, no fire, Maggie,” he called over his
shoulder. “No fire, no food!”

When he returned, she sat perched on a flat
boulder, glaring at him.

He was not the least bit surprised.

She watched as he calmly, efficiently set up
camp, gathered wood, and started the fire. After bringing water
from the stream, he set a coffee pot on a rock placed strategically
on the edge of flames and on the other side, he placed a cast-iron
frying pan. Soon the wonderful aroma of perking coffee, frying
sweet Virginia ham, and Anna’s molasses brown beans was filling the
air.

Her empty stomach reacted to the sweet odors
with a terrible rumbling that she was certain could be heard clear
back to Treemont.

Hunter, however, had other thoughts in mind.
He heaped ham and beans onto a tin place, poured steaming into a
tin mug, and sat down on a log. He had taken only a mouthful of the
food when he looked across the fire at his dear, sweet wife; her
expression of utter disbelief almost broke down his barrier of
firmness. “Are you hungry?” he asked reasonably.

“Of course I’m hungry,” she snapped.

“Marriage is a partnership, Maggie,” he said
quietly as he scooped beans onto his fork. “When we share the
responsibilities, we can share the results of our labors. But even
though I prepared the campsite and the meal all alone, I’m willing
to share.” His eyes dropped briefly toward the fire where food
remained in the pan. When he raised his eyes again, he was
smiling.

Maggie felt slightly contrite at her own
spitefulness in the face of his patience. Still, it was not easy
for her to withdraw from her current huff. “You are not a
gentlemen,” she announced.

His smile broadened into a grin as Hunter
put a piece of ham into this mouth; God, I hope not, he mused, as
he watched her scramble down from the rock in her beautifully
fitted suit. Oh, the outfit flattered her figure to perfection and
he could not find fault with that, but it was purely impractical
and he was certain she knew it. Secretly he was placing mental
wagers as to the length of time it would take her to reach a
maximum level of discomfort. His best educated guess was less than
two hours.

Margaret totally demolished his theory,
however. She had suffered through the heat of the day in a jacket
that made her blouse cling to her skin, and the damned skirt made
it almost impossible to find a comfortable position on the wagon
seat. As for climbing up and down, she felt like an inept ballerina
each time she tried to find her footing. Enough was enough! She
would change as soon as she finished eating; or filled her belly,
as Hunter would say. If her husband cared so little about her
appearance, then why should she worry? If they chanced to encounter
others along the way, he would have to suffer the consequences of
introducing his wife…scarred and in boys’ britches and shirt.

*

They finished their meal in silence, but
Maggie could sense that he frequently raised his eyes to her across
the fire while she ate, as if he were examining every inch of her.
That made her uneasy, and when she dared to look at him, the tender
look he sent her made her feel conspicuous. Instinctively she
turned the right side of her face away, hiding the scar from
him.

Hunter frowned at the action, then placed
his empty plate aside, got to his feet, and slowly circled the
fire.

Maggie raised her head to watch him. She
wasn’t quite sure what he intended to do, but she was ready to bolt
if need be.

Stopping directly in front of her, Hunter
placed his fingertips lightly on the jagged pink line along her
right jaw. When Maggie flinched away, his hand followed. “Never
feel you have to hide this from me,” he said softly.

“You were staring at it,” she said. “It made
me feel self-conscious.”

“I wasn’t staring at it, little one,” he
said, looking directly into her eyes. “I was admiring you.”

Maggie looked away in confusion.

Hunter smiled at her discomfort and stepped
back a pace. “Proud husbands do that, Maggie,” he said.

Her gaze returned to his, after those softly
spoken words. “I’m not used to that kind of attention.”

He continued to smile as he reached for her
plate. She would get used to that kind of attention, given time.
“Are you finished?” he asked and Maggie handed him her plate.
“Would you like to change your clothes now?”

Maggie nodded and scrambled to her feet
before he could assist her from her perch. She hastily snatched the
clothing from the side of the wagon where Hunter had draped them
and dashed off toward the brush in search of some degree of
privacy. This marriage, she decided, was a monstrous mistake. How
was she to remain aloof when he was so insistent about wearing down
her protective guard?

Lunging forward with the red plaid shirt
waving in her hand, Margaret unknowingly ventured too close to
Passion’s Pride. No high-strung creature of any intelligence would
stand still for a frantic woman’s approach in a flash of skirts and
frills, and Pride was an extremely intelligent animal. He sensed
danger in this wild thing racing in his direction and acted
accordingly. His head came up, eyes wide, and he dashed to the end
of his tether. So trapped, the stallion turned to fight, his front
hooves flashing in the air once, and then again, before Hunter
caught Maggie around the waist and pulled her away.

“Dammit, Maggie,” he cursed fearfully. “One
of these days a thoughtless action is going to get you killed.”

“
I was doing just fine,”
she shot back. Although she knew she had been in grave danger.
Anyone who respected the power of a horse would know
that

Hunter reached the fire then angrily turned
her to face him as he placed both hands on her shoulders. “You were
practically under that horse’s hooves.”

“You’re just trying to bolster your silly
male pride,” she returned. “I know that stallion.”

“Don’t you realize that horse was trying to
protect himself in any way he could? Don’t you realize how much
danger you were in?”

She did, now that reality set in. But, at
the moment, facing Hunter, it seemed beside the point. He was
simply too overbearing for her liking. “I was raised around horses,
if you will recall,” she shot back tightly.

And she did not like to be challenged.
Hunter understood that. Sighing and running shaking fingers through
his black hair, he said softly, “But your thoughts were elsewhere.
I know you’re facing a lot of changes in your life, but I’m asking
you to have a care for your own safety.” He also understood that he
had reacted with anger because he had been frightened; more
frightened than he had ever been in his life. He could have lost
her then and there, under the destructive hooves of a stallion who
thought he had been fighting for his life.

Once again Maggie found herself reacting to
his tender concern, as irritating as that was. “I didn’t mean to
frighten him,” she muttered.

After a moment’s thought Hunter shook his
head, fighting the urge to smile. “Maggie, you and that horse are
like salt and an open wound. You sting him almost constantly.”

In the back of her mind Maggie knew it was
true; how many times had she and Pride caused him misery? But
because she was feeling guilty about her actions, she turned her
guilt into anger and directed that anger toward Hunter instead of
herself.

“You want to take over my life and order me
around,” she accused, “so that I behave to suit your own needs. You
want to bend me to your own purposes, to use me. I have been used
by a man for his own purposes before, and I will not permit that to
happen to me again. I am my own woman and I can think for myself
without your interference.”

Her words were like direct kicks to his
midsection and he was affected by every one of them. “Oh, Maggie,”
he breathed. “You’re confusing so many things. Sharing burdens does
not constitute taking over one’s life. Requesting help does not
constitute ordering another about. Caring about your safety poses
no threat to you. I don’t want to take over your life, but to
combine both our lives for mutual benefit. A man’s wants and needs
are not so very different from a woman’s; a man needs a soul-mate
and a help-mate, just as most women do. I don’t want to use you,
Maggie, but to be with you. I’ll be sad when you are sad and
rejoice with you as we achieve pinnacles in our lives which,
hopefully, will be many. I want my purpose to become your purpose
and yours to become mine. But I won’t be your slave or your
servant, just as I don’t expect you to be mine. I want us to start
building a life together but it takes the two of us to do
that."

She looked away from him, pondering his
words, guessing at his motives. He was too clever by half, she
thought, and could find no reason to trust him. She was beginning
to realize that she would have to steel herself against his smooth
tongue and his tender words. But she would not buckle so
easily.

“I only want to see you happy again,” Hunter
added as he studied her stiff spine.

She turned and stared at him warily for
several moments; what if she did consider the things he had just
said? He was right in that she did react without thinking on
occasion and, while she had always been somewhat impulsive, the
thought occurred that her thoughtless actions more often stemmed
from a near constant state of anger that had sustained her for the
past year. Did she want a life with him? If so, they were not going
to have much of a life while they were constantly at odds.
Certainly it would be a relief to find some way to be rid of this
anger and enjoy a little inner peace and harmony. But the
difficulty was her initial goal was not to find a life with him on
a continuing basis. She wanted to return to Treemont and her former
life. That had been her plan. Now she was questioning that; along
with too many other things current in her life. She was weary of
thinking, of planning, and of being angry.

“Can you understand my position?” she asked.
“You are taking me from my home, although I did not wish to leave.
You have married me, although I did not wish to marry.” She raised
her eyes, asking for his understanding. “And most of the time you
make me confused.”

"I know I do and I’m sorry. But it was pass.
You’ll come to know me better and it will pass. Be kind to
yourself, love,” he added, the endearment causing her to stiffen in
surprise. “You’re so wary, understandably so, that you fail to see
that you sometimes truly need protection. You make yourself
vulnerable when you do that, Maggie. Just have a care,” he said
again as the palm of his lightly stroked the right side of her
face.

As he moved away, her eyes followed the
long, confident strides that took him across the clearing to where
she had dropped the boys’ clothes. His movements were strong, and
she realized as she watched that, for a large man, he was graceful
in a powerful way. He was tall and proud and each movement seemed
to be efficient and economical; and Margaret felt a surprising
stirring of respect.

When he returned, Hunter stopped beside her
and held out the shirt and britches. “Will you put these on, now?”
he asked reasonably. “I have something I want to show you and your
skirts will get in the way.”