Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [46]
“I’ll get her myself,” Maggie insisted, though why it was so important that she appear grown-up, an adult woman, to this man, she didn’t understand. But she did realize that he put her on edge, made her nervous. She swatted at a pesky yellow jacket, then made her way through the gate.
Thane didn’t follow her, just leaned on the top rail of the fence with his elbows, while hooking one boot over the lowest board. Maggie could almost feel him squint as he stared at her with unabashed interest, as if she amused him, as if she was some kind of city girl who didn’t know up from sideways when it came to horses.
Not that he was too far from the truth.
“Hey, girl. Come on,” she cooed quietly, and reached into her pocket for a bit of apple she’d squirreled away after breakfast that morning.
Ink Spot tossed her head, snorting, her muscles quivering beneath her mottled black-and-white coat. For a second Maggie thought she might bolt, further embarrassing her, but greed won out over independence, and, as the mare’s neck stretched forward and her soft lips brushed Maggie’s palm, Maggie slipped the lead rope around her neck, then slid the halter into place. “Good girl,” she whispered, stroking Ink Spot’s silky muzzle. Feeling inordinately proud, Maggie turned on her heel and felt an unlikely disappointment. Thane wasn’t anywhere near the fence. In fact, he wasn’t within sight.
Like a fool, she blushed and tugged on the rope. It was only half an hour later when, astride the piebald, Maggie realized she hadn’t thought of Mary Theresa and Mitch since meeting Thane Walker.
“So, you need a ride into town?”
Thane’s voice jolted her, and she nearly dropped the currycomb as she brushed Ink Spot’s gleaming coat. “I’m okay,” she said automatically as she glanced over her shoulder and found Thane returning a pitchfork to the spot where it usually hung just inside the doorway of the stable.
“Well, if you need one, I’m runnin’ to the feed store. I could give you a lift.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But I can call…” Who? Her mother, who was probably already three sheets to the wind? Her father at work? Mary Theresa, who was at her dance lessons? Or Mitch? Inwardly she shuddered. No, she’d walk home if she had to. It wasn’t that far, and she didn’t want to look like an adolescent who had to phone for rides. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Just let me know.”
“I will,” she said, surprisingly tongue-tied. There was something about him, an underlying current of electricity, that she sensed was dangerous—a little wild, and though she found that part of him darkly fascinating, she refused to think about it or explore it any further.
Later, she was walking home along the shoulder of the county road when she heard the truck behind her. She’d already tuned in to the distinctive rumble of its engine. “Maggie?”
She glanced in his direction. One arm was resting on the driver’s door, the other on the wheel as he allowed the pickup to slow.
“Yeah?”
“Hop in. I’ll give you a ride.”
“I don’t need one.”
His smile faded. “I’d feel better about it.” Through his mirrored aviator glasses he looked at her. Hard. “I don’t bite. Leastwise not usually.”
She hesitated, but couldn’t resist. Though he seemed about as harmless as a coiled rattlesnake, there was something she found intrinsically fascinating, a hint of raw masculinity that she wanted to know more about though it frightened her just the same. She sensed that he was a dichotomy, this man, one minute a kind, decent-enough guy, the next a wild man, one who probably smoked and drank too much and had women waiting for him all the way from here to Montana.
He leaned over, opened the door, and, before common sense got the better of her, she climbed inside. She slammed the door shut and saw the ghost of a smile flit across his lips as he forced the rig into first and headed into town. Maggie was sweating, her T-shirt clinging to her back, her hairline damp. Without air-conditioning the cab sweltered, and she licked her lips nervously. She didn’t know