Forever in My Heart Read online

  Behind her, Maggie and Connor exchanged glances. Neither one of them was smiling.

  * * *

  Denver fascinated Maggie. While Connor and Michael barely glanced around as they walked, Maggie looked in every direction, craning her head to see up and down the length of the side streets and into every shop and mercantile along the main thoroughfare. She had imagined the town would be rougher than New York, but she only found it more rough-hewn. The buildings weren't as tall, the storefronts weren't as large, but there was a variety of services and entertainment available including a theatre and an opera house. She had known from Michael's letters that shootouts didn't occur in the heart of Main Street on a daily, or even a monthly, basis, but she realized that secretly she had been expecting something like that. No outlaws came running from the bank they passed; no drunks wandered out of the Lucky Seven saloon. Men tipped their hats as they strode along or nodded and smiled in brisk, friendly greeting. Many of them didn't wear guns and those who did didn't seem particularly anxious to use them. Women and children weren't haunted with fear as if they were expecting an Indian raid or a cattle stampede. It was a warm, sunny day and everyone seemed to be enjoying it.

  Maggie was a little disappointed.

  Michael's house was two blocks from her husband's office. When she let go of Madison's hand the little girl ran alongside the white picket fence bordering the yard until she came to the gate. There, she stood on the gate rail and swung back and forth, doing the very thing she was forbidden to do. She thought having guests would save her the embarrassment of a scolding. It didn't. Michael gave her a severe, knowing look and Madison climbed down, hanging her head with more sheepishness than she actually felt. The adults were hard-pressed not to laugh.

  "Quite the actress," Connor remarked, pulling back his smile. He added innocently, "And whose influence could that be?"

  "Not my side of the family," Michael said with playful haughtiness. She opened the gate and scooted Madison inside the yard. "She gets it from her father. He once pretended to be an outlaw." Michael saw Connor's genuine surprise and interest and looked at Maggie, her feathery brows drawn downward. "Didn't you tell him?" she asked.

  "No, it didn't come up."

  Michael laughed at her assumption. "Of course it didn't come up. I'm sure you had better things to do on your trip here than talk about how I met Ethan."

  Maggie blushed, not quite able to meet her sister's eyes. Connor saved her by giving her a faint squeeze and saying with just the right inflection, "Much better things."

  Michael laughed again. "Let's go inside, shall we?" She nudged Madison up the two wooden steps and across the wide porch front. To the left of the door the porch swing swayed gently as a breeze cornered the white frame house. Michael opened the door and ushered everyone inside.

  There was nothing about the house that reminded Maggie of their palatial home on Broadway and 50th but they hadn't always lived there. Before Jay Mac had moved his mistress and children uptown they had lived in a pleasant, unassuming house near Union Square. Michael had managed to capture the charm of their childhood in her new home.

  Madison had grabbed Connor's hand and was taking him on a solo tour. Maggie hung back with Michael. "It's lovely," she said, wandering into the parlor from the hallway. "It reminds me of—"

  "I know," Michael said, finishing her sister's thought without having to say it aloud. "Rennie thinks the same thing. So did Mama when she came to visit. I didn't do anything intentionally, it just happened. Some of the furniture is like what we had growing up and I suppose it's the colors I've used in the rooms that give that effect."

  "No," Maggie said. Her eyes drifted over the mantelpiece, cluttered with photographs in gilt and pewter frames. The furniture was comfortably plump with pillows scattered across the back of the sofa and chairs and more piled haphazardly on the floor. Copies of the Rocky Mountain News were lying in disarray on one end table and in a stack beside the pillows. "No," Maggie repeated, smiling warmly, "it's more than that. It's a feeling. It's not what's in the room. It's how it's in the room."

  Michael's mouth screwed comically to one side, and she gave her sister a frank, dry look. Her gesture encompassed the room. "You're referring to my housekeeping."

  Maggie looked around again. "I suppose I am," she said, surprised. "How did Mama ever manage with five of us and no Mrs. Cavanaugh?"

  "Mama asked herself the same thing, but she was very happy to see that I've carried on the tradition. She calls it 'homey chaos.' Jay Mac called it a mess. He wanted Ethan to hire a housekeeper for me."

  Maggie's eyes widened.

  "Oh, it didn't end there," Michael said, picking up newspapers from the end table and dropping them on the floor stack. "Not with Jay Mac. He practically ordered Ethan to order me to quit my position with the Rocky Mountain News. Then he ordered me himself. He also thought it would be more suitable if we built a new home for ourselves in another section of town farther away from Ethan's office and the courthouse. He decided it was too dangerous for a Federal Marshal to be so accessible. Mama couldn't get him to stop. I think there was a twenty-four-hour period when no one was speaking to him."

  "Poor Papa."

  Michael laughed. "That's just it, we all forgive him even if we don't give in." She saw the shadow that briefly clouded Maggie's expression. Michael impulsively grabbed her sister's hand and pulled her toward the kitchen at the back of the house. "Come on, I'll make you some tea and you can tell me everything. Madison has your husband securely in her thrall for the time being."

  Maggie's face crumpled. She was more surprised than Michael when she began to sob.

  Michael pushed out a chair at the kitchen table and sat Maggie down. She didn't rush to comfort. Instead she found a handkerchief for her sister, thrust it in her hand, and set about making tea. By the time she was finished Maggie had regained her composure. Michael put a cup of tea in front of her and joined her at the table. Above stairs she could hear Connor and Madison playing in her daughter's room. "He's doing me a favor by wearing her out," she told Maggie. "I was afraid she'd be too excited to take a nap today."

  Maggie's small smile was still a trifle watery. "He's good with her, isn't he?"

  "Some people have a special knack with children," she said. "Ethan does. I'm catching up."

  Maggie's brows lifted. "You're catching up?"

  "Mm-hmm. Don't misunderstand me. I love Maddie. I always have. But Ethan's more relaxed with her. I suppose I'm afraid I'll do something wrong. Ethan's fearless or confident, I'm never really sure, but she responds like a flower to sunshine around him." She sighed. "Sometimes I wish I had Mama here to help me, or at least reassure me. I don't have her way. You're the one who got that."

  "Me?"

  Michael nodded. "You," she said firmly, but didn't explain. She urged Maggie to drink some of her tea. "So tell me how this marriage came to pass. When I saw Rennie last she was kicking herself for ever mentioning Connor Holiday and his land to Jay Mac. She had no idea that a few off-handed comments about the man would start Jay Mac's interfering wheels in motion. She's afraid you won't forgive her."

  Maggie raised her teacup. Its warmth felt good around her cold hands and the security kept her hands from trembling. She carefully took a deep breath and met her sister's watchful eyes over the rim. "There's nothing to forgive," she said evenly. "Everything's worked out for the best. Connor and I are deeply in love."

  Michael stared at her sister. She was silent for a moment. "I thought that when I first saw you at the depot. I've been wondering ever since."

  Maggie sipped her tea. "It's true," she said quietly. "We began horribly. Neither of us wanted to have anything to do with Jay Mac's suggestions."

  "Suggestions?" Michael scoffed. "You're kinder than I would be in your place."

  "That's because I'm happy to be in my place—now."

  "Then what were those tears about a few minutes ago?" Michael reminded her bluntly. "My God, Maggie, your eyes are still red from
crying."

  Maggie put down her cup and self-consciously made another swipe at her eyes with the handkerchief. "Better?" she asked.

  "A little. Though you won't hide it from Connor. You'll have to think of something to tell him, but I'm coming to believe that you're getting used to covering your real feelings. Not getting much better at it, but at least getting practice."

  "That's not fair, Michael," she said quietly, tucking the handkerchief away. "I'm telling you the truth."

  Michael was not convinced. "Why were you crying then?"

  "I don't know." And because it was very nearly the truth, it had the proper resonance of that quality. "It's all so new to me, I suppose. I'm a little afraid."

  "Does he beat you?"

  "No!"

  "Because if he does—"

  "No!" Maggie's teacup rattled in the saucer as she jerked away from the table. "Never! He wouldn't—"

  "All right," Michael said calmly. She tapped the table lightly, encouraging Maggie to sit again. "That, at least, I believe." She paused. "What about your dreams, Maggie? Have you given up medicine to be Connor Holiday's wife?"

  "You've got it backward," Maggie said. "I became Connor's wife because medicine gave up on me. I wasn't accepted by the medical school."

  Michael's expressive eyes communicated her sympathy. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mag. I didn't know."

  "It's all right. Everything's happened so quickly, there wasn't time to write it all to you."

  "So tell me now," she prodded gently.

  * * *

  Upstairs Connor sat with Madison until she fell asleep. The youngster had surrendered reluctantly, yawning so hard at times that Connor had difficulty not following suit. Smiling, his expression not at all remote, he touched her small bright head, tousling the curls with the tips of his fingers. Would his child with Maggie have had those same flame curls?

  He deliberately pushed the thought away and rose from the bed. He straightened a few of the things their play had disrupted then left the child's room quietly. He poked his head into the adjoining room and saw it belonged to Ethan and Michael. Their personal items were strewn across the top of the dresser and the open door to the wardrobe revealed their clothes. Connor moved along the hallway. The next door opened to a narrow, treacherously steep and winding staircase that led to the attic. Looking at it, he shook his head. He'd need Ethan's help or a pulley system to get Maggie's trunks up there. The final door along the hallway opened to the guest room and Connor walked inside.

  His first thought was to wonder why he hadn't thought of it before. His second thought was the realization that Maggie probably hadn't considered it either.

  Hell, he thought, they'd managed to avoid each other for nearly two thousand miles, but the next two nights didn't look so promising.

  "Maggie," he called from the top of the steps. "I need to see you for a minute." And because he remembered where he was, he added significantly, "Alone, please."

  Chapter 9

  Maggie put off going to bed as long as she could. It was the middle of the night when she and Michael had finished trading every piece of information they could think of. Madison had climbed into bed shortly after dusk, and Connor had retired at midnight. Maggie had promised she would join him soon, but it hadn't been difficult to keep Michael engaged in conversation. Their discussion may have been prompted by Maggie's desire to avoid the bedroom, but it was perpetuated by her desire to share.

  Michael yawned hugely, not even bothering to cover her mouth. "Is there anyone we haven't talked about?" she asked, collapsing dramatically against the pillows scattered around her. "What time is it?"

  Maggie glanced at the clock on the mantel behind her sister. There was no chance she could avoid the inevitable any longer. "Twenty minutes after three." There was every reason to expect that Connor was sleeping soundly. She remembered he'd been resigned by the prospect; she had been frustrated. "I didn't mean to keep you up so long."

  "I don't know which one of us is at fault," Michael said. She yawned abruptly, laughed at herself, and jumped to her feet with more energy than she'd shown two minutes earlier. She held out her hand to Maggie. "Up with you, Mag." Maggie came to her feet in a fluid, graceful motion. "I wish I could move like you," Michael said enviously.

  Maggie's dark brows lifted. "You're the one who can dance, not me. I have two left feet."

  "When you're self-conscious, you have two left feet," Michael told her. "When you're not, you're like a deer."

  Maggie was too tired to think about that. She helped Michael turn back the lamps, then climbed the stairs ahead of her sister. They hugged briefly at the top. "Good night," Maggie said softly.

  Michael ducked into her room. "Good night." She shut the door.

  There was no more avoiding. Maggie went inside.

  Except for moonlight filtering through the lacy curtains the bedroom was dark. After a moment Maggie's eyes adjusted enough to move without bumping into things. Connor was lying on the bed, turned on his side away from her. She knew that's where he would be because there really was no other choice. Between the washbasin, the highboy, the armoire, and the rocker, there was virtually no floor. A cat would have had trouble finding space to curl on the braided rug. There was no possibility that Connor or Maggie could.

  Although he had been sleeping soundly, Connor was aware of Maggie the moment she entered the room. He lay very still, conscious of his breathing and his heartbeat as she prepared to join him in bed. She was trying hard not to disturb him, moving almost stealthily as she gathered her nightclothes and performed her evening ablutions. He couldn't watch her in the course of undressing or washing, but his imagination filled in the movements that were hidden from his eyes. After a few minutes of that he began wishing he could see her, reasoning there was no possibility the reality could be as interesting as what he was imagining.

  As Maggie washed at the basin, she found herself glancing over her shoulder to make certain Connor still had his back to her. She breathed shallowly, quietly, conscious of making any noise that might inadvertently wake him. She tiptoed across the braided rug to her side of the bed. Each time the floor creaked she paused and waited, nearly faint with anxiety that he would turn over and grin at her and announce he'd been awake all the time. When that never happened, Maggie cautiously turned down the covers on her side.

  Even under her slight weight the bed dipped as Maggie pressed one knee on the mattress. She slipped under the covers rather awkwardly and made no attempt to get comfortable. Instead she lay stiffly on the very edge of the mattress, the sheet and comforter drawn protectively to her chin. She realized, somewhat unhappily, that unless sheer exhaustion took its toll there wasn't the slightest chance that she was going to be able to close her eyes.

  After several minutes Connor understood that Maggie wasn't going to fall asleep. In that same breadth of time Maggie became aware that Connor was awake.

  Without a word passing between them they turned simultaneously to face each other and stared.

  "I'm not going to attack you," Connor said quietly.

  "I know."

  "Do you?"

  She didn't. Not really. She was surprised when her thoughts were given a voice. "I'm afraid of you," she said. Maggie wished she could take it back, more afraid now that she had given him something so powerful to use against her.

  "Are you?" he asked. "Or are you afraid of what you want from me?"

  "I don't want anything from you."

  For several long moments he simply looked at her. A pale wash of moonshine caressed her features, the curve of her cheek, the pared line of her nose, the fullness of her mouth. "Be honest about that at least," he said finally. "Do you think I like it any better than you?"

  Maggie bit her lower lip as Connor turned on his side away from her. He punched his pillow, slipped an arm under it, and yanked the comforter up to his shoulders. "I don't understand," she whispered when he had quieted. "What is it you don't like? That you think I want something from you?
All I want from you is a divorce."

  "Go to sleep, Maggie," he said tiredly. "I'm not going to touch you."

  As Maggie had suspected, it was sheer exhaustion that finally made her close her eyes.

  * * *

  Under the covers her legs tangled with his. The hem of her nightgown had slid to her hips and the length of her bare leg lay flush to his, a sensual contrast of texture and warmth. One of her arms rested across his chest, the other had slipped under his pillow and helped to prop both their heads. His palm curved over her hip. His fingers pressed against the soft skin of her bottom. Her breath mingled with his. Her movement stirred the sweet fragrance of lavender in her hair. His heartbeat accelerated. Sensation seem to gather in his groin. Fullness followed, an aching heaviness that was neither pleasure nor pain but made him long for release.

  She rubbed against him when he moved. Her back arched, then her throat. His lips were light on her neck, his tongue damp on the outline of her jaw. Her mouth opened when his came across it. Their lips pressed, tasted, explored with sucking hunger.

  His kisses seemed to steal her breath. Her head twisted as she gasped for air. His hand closed over her breast and it swelled in the gentle hollow of his palm. Her mouth was greedy, her tongue pushing, surging against his, playing out a sweetly urgent battle. Her fingers moved to his hair and held him captive while her lips touched the corner of his mouth, his jaw, and teased the lobe of his ear.

  She lay more fully against him and her movements became more insistent, more frantic, as if she were trying to get under his skin and feel what it was he was feeling, as if she needed to know everything, feel everything.

  His mouth was hot on her neck, moist where he touched the hollow of her throat. His tongue trailed across her collarbone then dipped, spiraling around her breast to the dusky rose tip. His teeth gently worried the nipple, each tug shooting crackling sparks of sensation across the surface of her skin, then more deeply beneath her skin, where they moved in waves that pulled at the center of her as they receded.