Brenda Harlen - The Maverick's Thanksgiving Baby

“I need to talk to you.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

“Please, Jesse. Can we go somewhere a little more private?”

He wanted to refuse. He definitely didn’t want to be alone with her, because that would undoubtedly remind him of the last time he’d been alone with her—the night they’d made love.

“I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important,” she said.

“Do you know where The Shooting Star is?” he asked, naming his family’s ranch.

She nodded.

“My house is the first one on the left, after the driveway splits. Can you meet me there in an hour?”

She nodded without hesitation. “That would be good.”

No, good would’ve been if she’d come back three months sooner and asked to be alone with him. Then he would have been sure that they both wanted the same thing. Now, after so much time had passed, he had no idea what she wanted, what she thought they needed to talk about.

But he knew she’d been gone 119 days, and wasn’t that pathetic? He’d actually been counting the days. At first, he’d been counting in anticipation of her return. More recently, he’d been counting in the hope that with each day that passed he would be one day closer to forgetting about her.

And he’d been certain he was getting there—but only five minutes in her company had him all churned up inside again, wanting what he knew he couldn’t have.

* * *

What was she going to do for an hour?

She slid behind the wheel of her rental car and considered her options. She was less than five minutes away from Gage and Lissa’s house, but she didn’t want to go back there. Her cousin hadn’t stopped nagging her since she’d got into town the night before. Not that Lissa had said anything Maggie hadn’t already thought herself.

She pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the road, heading toward town. She drove down Falls Street, turned onto Sawmill, crossing over the bridge without any destination in mind. She was only killing time, watching the minutes tick away until the allotted hour had passed.

Her phone buzzed to indicate receipt of a text message, so she turned onto Main and pulled into an empty parking spot by Crawford’s General Store to dig her phone out of her purse.

Have you seen him yet?

The message, not surprisingly, was from Lissa.

Mtg him at SS @ 4, she texted back.

Good luck! her cousin replied.

Maggie was afraid she was going to need it.

Since she had her phone in hand, she decided to check her email from work. There wasn’t anything urgent, but responding to the messages helped her kill some more time.

She knew that she was stalling, thinking about anything but the imminent conversation with Jesse. Now that there were less than twenty minutes before their scheduled meeting, she should be focused on that, thinking about what she was going to say, how to share her news.

She’d hoped to take her cue from him—but the few words that they’d exchanged at Traub Stables hadn’t given her a hint about what he was thinking. His gaze had been shuttered, but the coolness of his tone had been a strong indication that he was finished with her. It wasn’t even that he was over her—it was as if they’d never been.

Maybe she shouldn’t have come back. Maybe this was a monumental mistake. It was obvious that he felt nothing for her—maybe he never had. Maybe the magic of that night had only ever existed in her imagination.

But she didn’t really believe that. She certainly hadn’t imagined the numerous phone calls, text messages and emails they’d exchanged every single day for the first couple of weeks. And during those early weeks, he’d seemed eager for her to come back to Rust Creek Falls, as anxious to be with her again as she was to be with him.

She’d originally planned to return in the middle of August, but only two days before her scheduled trip one of the senior partners had asked for her help with an emergency injunction for an important client threatened by a hostile takeover. Of course, that injunction had only been the first step in a long process of corporate restructuring, and Maggie had been tapped for assistance every step of the way.

She’d enjoyed the challenge and the work and knew it had been good for her career. Unfortunately, it had consumed almost every waking minute and had signaled the beginning of the end of her relationship with Jesse. Four months was a long time to be apart, and he’d obviously moved on.

She rubbed a hand over her chest, where her heart was beating dully against her breastbone. The possibility that their passionate lovemaking could have been so readily forgotten cut her to the quick. Maybe it was irrational and unreasonable, but she’d started to fall in love with him that night. Even when she’d said goodbye to him the next day, she didn’t think it was the end of their relationship but only the beginning.

Of course, her emotions were her responsibility. He’d never made her any promises; he’d certainly never said that he was in love with her. But the way he’d kissed her and touched her and loved her—with his body if not his heart—she’d been certain there was something special between them, something more than a one-night affair. She didn’t think she’d imagined that, but even if the connection had been real, it was obviously gone now, and the pain of that loss made her eyes fill with tears.

Blinking them away, she pulled from the curb and headed toward The Shooting Star.

Jesse’s house was a beautiful if modest two-story with white siding, a wide front porch and lots of windows flanked by deep green shutters.

His truck in the driveway confirmed that he was home, and he opened the door before she even had a chance to knock.

“You’re punctual,” he said, stepping back so that she could enter.

“I appreciate you making the time to see me.”

He shrugged. “You said it was important.”

“It is,” she confirmed.

She continued to stand just inside the door, looking at him, wanting to memorize all the little details she was afraid she might have forgotten over the past four months.

The breadth of his shoulders beneath the flannel shirt he wore, the rippling strength of his abdominal muscles, the strength of those wide-palmed hands. The way his mouth curved just a little higher on the left side when he smiled; the almost-imperceptible scar on his chin, the result of a misstep as he’d climbed over a fence when he was eight years old. His hair was damp, as if he’d recently stepped out of the shower, and his jaw was freshly shaven, tempting her to reach up and touch the smooth skin.

“Do you want to take your coat off?”

“Sure.” But she pulled off her mittens and hat first, tucking them into the pockets of the long coat she’d borrowed from her cousin. When she finally stripped off the heavy garment, he took it from her, hanging it on a hook by the door, beside his Sherpa-lined leather jacket.

“Keep your boots on,” he said when she reached down to untie them. “The floor’s probably cold.”

It might have been true, but the abruptness of his tone suggested that he didn’t want her to get too comfortable or stay for too long. She kept her boots on, but wiped them carefully on the mat before stepping off it.

The main floor plan was open, with a dining area on one side and a living room on the other. The furniture was distressed leather with nail-head trim, oversize and masculine in design but perfect for the open space. Flames were crackling inside the river-rock fireplace, providing the room with both warmth and ambience. Jesse had moved to the kitchen, separated from the dining room by a long, granite-topped counter.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” he asked, already filling the kettle.