Twice Kissed

  “Your aunt’s husband,” he cut in. “A long time ago. Nice meeting you.” He handed Maggie a blanket.

  “Yeah, right. Me too,” she said, but there wasn’t a ring of sincerity in her words.

  “Let’s take a look at you,” Maggie said. Ignoring Thane, she placed the blanket over Becca’s shoulders, then gently touched her ankle.

  “Ouch. Watch it.” Becca drew in a swift, whistling breath as an owl hooted softly from one of the lodgepole pines that towered high above them. “Jesus, Mom.”

  “Just trying to help.”

  “By killing me?” Becca accused.

  Maggie rocked back on her heels and told herself that Becca’s bad mood was good news. If she was angry, she wasn’t injured all that badly. “I’m not trying to hurt you, honey.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.” Becca offered a faltering smile that fell away as quickly as it appeared.

  Thane leaned down and squatted next to mother and daughter. Pinning Becca with his steady gaze, he asked, “Think you can ride?”

  Becca, expression wary, nodded slowly as she sized him up. “Probably.”

  “Good.” Balancing on one knee, he instructed her to sling an arm around his neck. As she did, he reached under her legs with one arm and clasped the other around her back. “Hang on.” As if she weighed nothing, he lifted Becca off the ground and carried her, wrapped in the blanket, to the pinto. There was a part of Maggie that didn’t want anything to do with Thane Walker, that objected to his touching her daughter, a part of him that made her nervous as hell, but she bit her tongue and reminded herself that, even if he was here for some ulterior motive, he had helped her locate Becca. And that, as they said, was worth something.

  More gently than Maggie thought him capable of, he helped Becca onto the pinto’s back. She let out a yelp as she settled into the saddle, sucked in her breath. Barkley, hidden in the shadows, snarled, and the horses shifted nervously.

  “Okay?” Thane asked, once she was astride.

  “I…I think so.” But she was pale as death.

  “Good. Hold on to the saddle horn.” He placed her hands over the leather knob. “And let me know if you get woozy. I don’t want you falling off.”

  “I won’t.” Bravely she tossed her hair from her eyes.

  “Becca, are you sure you can handle this?” Maggie asked.

  “Have to.” She stiffened her thin shoulders.

  Thane patted the pinto’s thick neck, but looked up at Maggie’s daughter. “Let me know when you need to rest.”

  “I will,” Becca promised.

  “I’ll hold you to it.” Using the pale beam of his flashlight as his guide, Thane started leading the pinto down the hill. Astride the buckskin, Maggie followed slowly behind and sent up a thankful prayer that her daughter was safe.

  It didn’t matter that Thane Walker was involved.

  Or so she tried to convince herself.

  “She’ll live.” The doctor, a petite woman in a lab coat three sizes too large and a name tag that read “Penny Cranston, M.D.,” gazed at Maggie over the tops of half glasses that threatened to slide off her short, straight nose. “The ankle’s sprained, but not too badly and I looked at the X-rays. Nothing broken that I can see. However, just to be on the side of caution, I’ll send them to a specialist in case I missed something.”

  “Thanks.” Maggie was relieved. She’d driven over an hour to an all-night clinic in Lewiston only to discover that Becca, though bruised and scraped, her pride wounded as badly as anything else, would be fine. In the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights, Becca looked small and pale, her eyes wide, the scratches on her skin red but not deep. The dirt had been washed from her face and hands, and, all in all, aside from the knot turning blue around her ankle, she seemed fine.

  “Now.” Dr. Cranston trained her eyes on her patient again. “You need to use crutches for a few days, maybe a week or two, until you’re out of pain. I’ll give you a prescription for the first couple of days, and I want you to rest, elevate the foot, and ice it for twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

  “So, no school, right?” Becca asked eagerly.

  “Wellll…I think you can make it back to class. Maybe not for a couple of days, but then I think you’ll be able to go back.” She winked at Becca, who rolled her eyes theatrically and, with Maggie’s help, hobbled back to the old Jeep, another source of irritation to Becca, who didn’t understand why they had to trade in a perfectly good BMW for a dilapidated, rugged vehicle with four-wheel drive and a dented right fender. But then Becca didn’t understand about an expensive lease as opposed to a vehicle that, though battered, was paid for.

  Once they were in the Jeep, Becca leaned her bucket seat back as far as possible and closed her eyes. “Why is that Thane guy at our house?” she asked, as Maggie wheeled out of the parking lot and headed east. It was nearly midnight, and clouds had crept in, covering the stars and moon. As the lights of Lewiston faded behind them, the darkness of the night seemed to close in.

  Maggie fiddled with the radio, found a country-and-western station, and recognized a Garth Brooks tune. “He’s here because there’s a problem with Aunt Mary,” Maggie said, hedging a bit until she knew for certain what had happened to Mary Theresa.

  “You mean Marquise,” Becca clarified, her voice taking on a snotty edge.

  “I still think of her as Mary Theresa. Always will.”

  “She changed her name years ago.” Without lifting her head, Becca turned and faced her mother. “The least you could do is respect it.”

  Becca wasn’t going to bait her into this argument. “Old habits are hard to break.”

  “Not if you try, Mom.”

  “Forget it.”

  “So what’s wrong with Marquise?”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie admitted truthfully. She shifted down for a sharp corner and spied a set of taillights winking on the ribbon of road far ahead. “She’s missing.”

  “So? Sometimes she just takes off.”

  “I know.” Maggie should have taken solace in the fact that her sister was flighty and had, in the past, disappeared for a few days. But this time was different. This time the police were involved. And Thane Walker, Mary Theresa’s first husband, was waiting for Maggie at her house. “No one seems to know where she is. No one.”

  “Don’t blame her. Lots of famous people need to get away.”

  “That’s true.”

  Maggie had felt her twin growing further and further away, more distant as the months had passed, but she had been dealing with her own problems and had expected that Mary Theresa would eventually land on her feet again. It had always happened in the past.

  But this time it’s different.

  She couldn’t tell Becca the truth—well, not all of it; not until she was certain of what had happened herself.

  “It’s freezing in here,” Becca complained, and Maggie adjusted the thermostat. True, winter was just around the corner, and as the Jeep climbed higher into the mountains, the temperature dropped. Not surprising since the heater, which needed fixing, was down to two settings—hot as Hades, or cold as death. Take your pick. She opted for Hades as Becca seemed to think she was in danger of contracting frostbite.

  “So you were telling me why the Thane guy’s hanging out?” she asked, opening one eye and staring at Maggie, whose hands clenched over the steering wheel. “He and Marquise were divorced a long time ago.”

  “I guess he’s just concerned about her.” Maggie nodded, preferring not to dwell on Thane or his reasons for being in Idaho.

  “I didn’t think you liked him.”

  “I don’t.” At least that wasn’t a lie. At a fork in the road, she angled south. The terrain was rugged, high bluffs that were sheer and dark in the night. “He just thought I might be able to tell him where Mary—Marquise is.”

  “Why?” she asked thoughtfully. “Is he still in love with her?”

  Undoubtedly. Aren’t they all? “I don’t know,” she said instead,
and refused to acknowledge the ache in her heart when she remembered his betrayal, denied the hot sting of Mary Theresa’s deceit.

  “But he’s waitin’ for us at the house?”

  “I think so. He was going to cool down the horses and lock them away.”

  Becca yawned and sighed. “Is he gonna spend the night?”

  Maggie took in a sharp, quick breath. “No.” She was emphatic.

  “Where, then?”

  Good question, Maggie thought sarcastically and one she wasn’t going to dwell upon. Come hell or high water, Thane Walker wasn’t going to spend the night under her roof.

  Thane patted Diablo on his spotted rump, then switched off the lights of the barn and walked into the night. Clouds had gathered over the moon, and the wind had picked up, bringing with it the first swirling flakes of snow. Hiking his collar around his neck, Thane stared at the little cabin Maggie called home and wished he were anywhere else on earth. Seeing her again had been a mistake—a big one. But it was too late to second-guess himself. Too late for a lot of things.

  He paused at his truck, reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, and found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. There was one Marlboro left, his last smoke if he chose to give in and light up. He’d been cutting down over a couple of months, determined that the carton of filter tips he’d purchased at the end of September would be his last. This lone cigarette was all that was left.

  Seeing Maggie again, touching her, smelling that special scent that lingered on his skin, had brought back memories he’d tried like hell to repress.

  He’d failed. Miserably. Once the dam on his recollections had started to crack, there had been no stopping the torrent of emotions and images that crashed through his brain. He remembered the first time he’d set eyes on her, a smart aleck of a high-school girl in cutoff jeans, cotton blouse, and freckles. Her eyes had been wide and green, her cheekbones high, her smile as bright as any he’d ever seen.

  And she hadn’t given him the time of day.

  He’d sensed there was more to her than met the eye, a restless sadness that she’d tried like hell to keep hidden. She’d been a challenge, the first woman he’d had to pursue in years.

  He’d been in lust from the first time she’d turned her back on him and, with a careless toss of mahogany-colored curls in a sassy ponytail, walked away. Things hadn’t changed all that much since then.

  After being with her today, he’d half convinced himself that tonight was the night he needed that final smoky shot of nicotine, but he tucked his last little crutch back into its dilapidated home and shoved the pack back into his pocket. No doubt he’d need a smoke later.

  He checked his watch and figured he had at least an hour before Maggie arrived. Maybe two. Feeling cold snow hit the back of his neck, he headed for the porch and kicked off his boots. He opened the door and ignored a warning growl from the crippled old shepherd lying on a rag rug near an antique rocker. “I’m not gonna hurt anything,” he told the dog.

  Eyeing the cozy cabin with its five small rooms and yellowed pine walls, he pulled a pair of gloves from his back pocket, stretched them over his fingers, and steeled his jaw. Without second-guessing himself, he stole down the short hallway to Maggie’s bedroom.

  At the doorway he paused, felt a tiny jab of guilt, then tossed it aside as he entered. The room was cramped with its double bed, dresser and a desk shoved under the corner windows.

  The scent of Maggie’s perfume lingered in the air and he had to remind himself that he was on a mission; he couldn’t be distracted. According to the old alarm clock sitting on a bedside table, he had just long enough to do what he had to.

  Before all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Three

  Thane was waiting on the porch swing. Huddled in a sheepskin jacket, one booted heel propped on the opposite jeans-clad knee, he glowered into the night, rocking, the swing gently swaying as the wind cut across the valley. Barkley, turncoat that he was, lay docilely near the door.

  Maggie braced herself as she cut the engine. She switched off headlights and radio and told herself that her nerves were shot because of Becca’s accident and Mary Theresa’s disappearance. It had nothing to do with Thane and his innate, earthy sexuality. Nothing. She was just tired. There wasn’t a thing about the man that got to her. She was being a fool. Thane Walker was only a man, and a lying one at that.

  Slowly he climbed to his feet, and his silhouette was cast in stark relief against the porch light. All male. And dangerous. Long legs covered by low-slung battered jeans, and a chest that was wide enough to be interesting without a lot of extra weight.

  Just muscle.

  Great.

  His physique was the last thing she should notice.

  “It’s been too long,” she muttered. Too many months without a man.

  “What?” Becca roused.

  “Nothing, honey. We’re home.” Pocketing her keys, she touched Becca on the shoulder and looked away from the dark sensuality of a man she didn’t trust, a man who’d stolen her heart only to break it.

  Becca blinked and rubbed the sleep from her eyes as snowflakes hit the windshield, collecting on the wipers. She looked at the cabin, lights glowing warmly in the cold night, then rolled her eyes expressively. “Terrific.”

  “I’ll get the crutches.”

  “Don’t need ’em.”

  “Of course you do.” Shouldering open the door, Maggie ducked her head against the flurries of snow and dashed to the back of the Jeep. Over the noise of the wind, she heard Thane’s boot steps steadily approaching, gravel crunching. Stupidly, her heart began to pound. “Get a grip,” she admonished.

  Don’t even think about him.

  “How is she?” he asked, pulling the crutches from the cargo space.

  “She’ll be okay. The doctor thinks it’s just a sprain. Not a bad one at that.”

  “Good.” He actually seemed relieved. As if he cared. What a joke. Maggie wasn’t going to fall into that particular trap. Not when Thane Walker was involved. But as she slammed the Jeep’s cargo door closed, she caught a glimpse of him helping Becca out of the Jeep. Rather than force her to use the crutches, he lifted her off her feet and, sheltering her body against the cold, carried her swiftly across the snow-dusted lot to the house. A twinge of unwelcome forgiveness tugged at her heart.

  “Don’t be fooled,” she warned herself, as she grabbed the crutches he’d left propped against a fender, then jogged to the porch where Thane, hugging Becca tight, waited until she opened the door. He carried Becca inside.

  Barkley’s back end was wiggling crazily, and he, on his three good legs, trotted through the closing door a minute before Maggie snagged the handle and walked inside too. “Traitor,” she said to the dog, and old Barkley didn’t even have the decency to look abashed. “Fine watchdog you turned out to be.”

  Once inside, she motioned toward the hallway. “She should go right to bed…” Maggie began to instruct, but Thane was already hauling Becca in the right direction.

  Still toting the damned crutches, Maggie marched into the bedroom and watched Thane place her daughter on the single bed tucked into the corner of the chaos Becca unhappily called home. She thawed a little as she saw how tenderly he laid Becca on the old quilt, but she reminded herself that whatever Thane was doing, it was all an act. He was here with a purpose, and it had something to do with Mary Theresa.

  Mary Theresa.

  Dread assailed Maggie once again.

  Where was she? What was that horrible, painful plea she’d heard earlier? Had Mary Theresa tried to contact her, or had it all been in her head, a great blip in the universe, a coincidence that she’d heard from her sister after months of silence?

  Goose bumps rose on her arms as she stacked the crutches in a corner near the bookcase, then opened a wicker chest and pulled out a couple of extra pillows which she used to prop up Becca’s foot. As if sensing mother and daughter should be alone, Thane winked at Becca, whistled to the dog, and sli
pped out of the room.

  “Can I get you anything?” Maggie asked, pulling on the edges of the antique quilt that she’d bought at an estate sale years before. On the table, Becca’s lava lamp was glowing an undulating blue.

  “Nah.” Becca’s eyes were beginning to close. Posters of teen idols adorned the walls, and the scatter rugs on the floor were covered with makeup, CDs, magazines and stuffed animals left over from her younger years.

  “Not even some hot cocoa?” Maggie hovered over the bed. She was caught between wanting to push the wet strands of hair from her daughter’s eyes and knowing it was best to leave her alone. She had a tendency to over-mother. Becca hated it. “Or I’ve got some of that stew—it’s a little burned, but…”

  Rolling her eyes, Becca sighed loudly. “I said I didn’t want anything.”

  Maggie got the message. “Look, I was just trying to help, okay? I’ll get the ice pack and bring it back. If you need anything else, just let me know.”

  Becca didn’t respond, and Maggie held her tongue rather than lash out. Lately she and her daughter had been involved in some kind of struggle she didn’t understand. Of course Becca blamed her for uprooting her in the middle of her last year of junior high and bringing her to some “gawd-awful middle-of-nowhere place where only losers lived.” Well, too bad. Moving here was just what the doctor ordered. At least in Maggie’s opinion.

  Mentally counting to ten, and then on to twenty when she hadn’t cooled off, she walked briskly out of Becca’s room, down the short hallway to the kitchen where she found a Ziploc bag and some hand towels. Ancient pipes creaked as she turned on the hot water, waited and waited until it was steaming. Grabbing a hammer from the odds-and-ends drawer, she placed ice cubes in a plastic bag and beat them into tiny shards.

  Thane, with the old shepherd on his heels, had walked outside again and returned with an armload of firewood. The shoulders of his jacket were dark with melting snow, his hair wet as well. She tried not to notice and continued whacking at the bag of ice.

  “Jesus Christ, Maggie, it’s dead already.” He dropped the firewood into a basket near the hearth.