Terry McLaughlin - The Rancher Needs A Wife

Alan was a snob.

“Well,” said Janie, “I don’t suppose I can blame him for that. Tucker doesn’t exactly compare to Chicago.”

“No, it doesn’t.” The soft thunk of a ball in the pocket was followed by a triumphant howl. “But then, Chicago doesn’t compare to Tucker.”

Maggie raised her glass and stared at the pale amber wine. “You and Trace have a good life here,” she said, “and you’re raising a couple of wonderful, beautiful girls.”

“They’re special, all right.” Janie sat back with a smug grin. “And I have to admit, I can’t imagine them being happy anywhere they didn’t have plenty of room to ride their horses.”

“I missed riding like that, when I moved away.” The homesickness for wide open spaces and the freedom to move through them on horseback had been a physical ache those first few weeks in her cramped college dorm room with its stark view of boxy high-rises.

“And now I bet you miss Chicago.” Janie sighed and leaned an elbow on the table. “All the things to do, the shows and the museums and the shopping.”

“Sure.” Maggie caught the eye of the bartender and signaled for refills. “I miss it every day.”

Janie straightened and waved as Trace sauntered into the room. He waved back at his wife, tossed a scowl in Maggie’s direction and stopped by the long, curved bar to engage in what appeared to be a serious conversation with Wayne.

“Wonder what that’s all about?” asked Maggie.

“You can’t guess?” Janie folded her arms on the table. “I have to warn you, you’ve landed on Trace’s shit list for that stunt you pulled at the school board meeting last night.”

“It wasn’t a stunt. Not exactly, anyway.”

“Damn,” muttered Janie. “Looks like girls’ night out is ending early. Here comes a double dose of man.”

Wayne and Trace approached the table, carrying their own drinks and the refills.

“Mind if we join you ladies?” asked Trace. He slipped in beside Janie and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

“If you promise to behave.” Janie flicked a finger against the edge of his hat. “No school board business.”

Maggie shifted to the side to make room for Wayne. He handed her a second glass of wine and then slowly folded his lanky frame into the tight space.

“We were just talking about how much Maggie misses Chicago,” said Janie.

“Figures,” said Trace. “Things around Tucker aren’t half as lively as goings-on in the big city. Not without stirring something up. Umph .”

He jerked slightly and glared at his wife.

“So,” she said, “what do you miss most, Maggie?”

“The shopping, I guess.” She sipped her wine. “About this time of year, I started looking forward to the holidays. All the lights, the crowds. The parties.”

“Parties.” Janie leaned forward. “What were those like? Nothing like the ones around here, I’ll bet.”

“No.” Maggie shook her head, comparing the colorful, stomping, free-for-all fun of a barn dance to the little-black-dress formality of a college reception. “Not the same at all.”

“We can make our own kind of party,” said Trace. He cocked his head toward the dance floor, where a couple of cowhands were shuffling to and fro with the hikers. And then he swiveled out of the booth and turned to face his wife. “Dance with me, Janie,” he said. “Come and rub up against me like you used to.”

“How can a gal resist an invitation like that?” She shot a grin at Maggie and wiggled her way along the long bench seat. “That’s just about the hottest offer I’ve had in weeks.”

Maggie watched them walk to the dance floor, hand in hand, and flow into each other with the practice of a couple that knew each other’s every move. She smiled at Trace’s awkward bear hug of a dance hold and the way Janie’s eyes laughed up at him.

She held on to her smile, floating on her own sentimental mood. And then her smile died, bit by bit, when she glanced at Wayne and found him staring at her.

Those big brown eyes of his could be unsettling when he turned them on something other than the floor. Deeply set, filled with secret shadows, they seemed to bore right into her and probe at her sensitive spots. She waited in vain for the corners of his mouth to gradually tip up in one of his shy smiles to ease the intensity of his expression.

She leveled a challenging look at him, daring him to break away first, willing him to cut her loose so she could suck in the air she suddenly needed so badly. But he pinned her in place with that soul-deep gaze, held her absolutely still as he angled his big frame to the side and slid along the bench to straighten and stand over her, long-limbed and wide-shouldered and blocking out the room behind him, one big, tough hand extended toward hers where it rested on the table.

She hesitated to take it, and in the next moment grasped it to prove that his silent invitation didn’t unnerve her. And then he was slowly leading her toward the other pairs of bodies swaying in the smoke and the music, and guiding her just as slowly toward him, and pulling her smoothly into his arms.

She knew he was a working man, but it was still a shock to feel granite-hard muscle beneath the worn cotton of his shirt. She knew he was tall, but it was still a surprise to feel him rest his chin on top of her head. The feel and the fit of him was an alien thing, so different from the softer, shorter partner she’d grown accustomed to.

Tonight was filled with foreign sensations—the tacky floor clutching at her heels, the tang of pine and leather and yeasty malt, the powerful shoulder beneath her fingertips, the rasp of calluses against her palm, the heat of a wide, long-fingered hand spread low across her back. Foreign, and somehow familiar. A strangely intoxicating blend.

“Are you missing Chicago enough to be thinking about going back?” he asked. His voice rumbled through her.

“I’m not going back.” She lifted her chin and looked at him. “I don’t believe in going back—or backward. I’ll give some other city a try.”

His hand shifted to her waist, pulling her close as Trace and Janie swung into their path. Her chest brushed his shirt front, and her breath backed up in her lungs.

This was crazy. This spine-tingling reaction to a dance with an old school friend was pure foolishness. It was all these strange sensations—they were too much for her to process at once. It was the second glass of wine that was making her a little light-headed, and the thud of the bass from the jukebox that was making her pulse throb. And it might be the fact that she was out of practice with this kind of contact with an adult male. Other than a few brotherly hugs from Will and Fitz, she hadn’t been this close to a man in nearly a year.

He raised his hand again to the spot above her waist, and she was aware of the press of each of his fingers. She tipped her face back to find those deep, dark eyes of his trained on hers. They drifted slowly down to her mouth, and she realized that she’d let him kiss her, that she wanted him to kiss her. It was the light-headed, out-of-practice part of her that willed him to do it, begged him to do it.

With a final twang the music ended, and they parted from each other by slow and reluctant degrees—the subtle retreat of a shoulder, the slight shift of a leg, the long slide of his palm down her back, the soft tug of her fingers from his hand.

“Thank you, Maggie.”

She wanted to speak, to snap off the odd thing sprouting between them with a flip remark, but all she could manage was a nod.

He settled his hand again at her waist and guided her back to the booth where Janie was collecting her jacket and purse.

“I’m heading out,” said Janie with a quick, one-armed hug. “Got to hurry and get the sitter home before time runs out on the hot offer I got out on the dance floor.”