Mountain Wild (Harlequin Historical Series) by Stacey Kayne Page A

door, filled with the salted venison and biscuits she’d packed, now topped by his holster and polished gun. He’d since reshoveled the yard and brought in more wood than she’d use in a week. They’d shared a surprisingly silent evening meal and she actually found herself missing the sound of his voice. He’d taken his dog outside for a while afterward, and while Boots now slept in the corner, Garret clearly hadn’t worn himself out.
    His shoulders flexed, bunching beneath his shirt, and Maggie’s thoughts drifted to the varying textures of his body, hard muscles, coarse hair and warm, smooth skin.
    A sharp sting in her finger brought her gaze back to her needlework. Blood swelled from a pinhole on her index finger, the newest among many already dotting her finger. Trying to stitch with such distractions in the room was plainhazardous. Biting back a curse, she stuck her finger in her mouth before she bled on the white apron.
    A burst of cold wind swirled inside, putting a chill in her skin.
    “Do you really think you can stare down the storm?”
    He glanced over his shoulder, his green eyes aglow with frustration. “Four days, Grace, and hardly a reprieve?”
    “You slept through the reprieve. And now you’re wasting my wood by trying to melt snow.”
    His lips twitched with the start of a grin, and Maggie realized she’d snapped at him again. Knowing he found such humor in her sharp tongue increased her annoyance.
    He shut the door, a hard sigh breaking from his chest. “All that snow makes me nervous.”
    She didn’t have to guess why. She’d weathered her share of harsh winters, but nothing so powerful as the late-winter freeze a few years back. It had taken her a few days to dig out and a week before she’d trekked out to the rim. The blizzard had blown clear across the plains, smothering those grasslands and freezing man and cattle alike.
    “This type of storm isn’t uncommon for this elevation,” she said, wanting to ease his worry. “Your place likely hasn’t gotten a foot of snow, if any at all. Your pacing and staring hasn’t helped to clear the weather.”
    He dragged the chair toward the stove and dropped onto the hard surface. “Storm or not, I’m heading out at first light.”
    Maggie looked up as he shoved his hands through his tousled hair, which only seemed to emphasize the span of his chest, the thickness of his arms. His short beard added to his rugged appearance. He looked like a man who could take on a storm.
    “How do you stand it? You just hibernate up here all winter?”
    “I keep busy.”
    He glanced around the room. “In this small space?”
    “I’m used to being snowed in. I venture out and hunt onclear days. I have to keep the fire going and food on my table. And I sew.”
    Garret eased back in the chair, his gaze moving over the tiny woman sitting near the head of her bed, her legs stretched out before her, her sewing basket tucked close beside her. She appeared relaxed, focused on her stitching, but he knew she was subtly watching him. She fluttered around him like a little bird, always managing to keep a few feet between them. No small feat considering the tight space of her cave. She wasn’t obvious in her evasion, which intrigued him. He moved in, she glided back, fluttering to safer ground.
    “You do real fine needlework,” he said, leaning in to look at the tiny pink roses spaced across what appeared to be an apron.
    She glanced up, a smile curving her lips before she looked back at the cloth in her hands. “It passes the time.”
    Her smile hinted at her growing ease with him. Lamplight glinted on the needle she pulled through the fabric. As she repeated the process it was her hands that stole his attention. He leaned in, looking closer at the array of scarring on her tender skin.
    My God. Every finger bared a white mark of some previous injury. Surely that bitty needle didn’t inflict such wounds. Her man likely had her holed up in a mine somewhere. Part of