Katherine Garbera - Miranda's Outlaw

She found the stream and spent a few minutes picking through the grass and debris left by the storm until she found the perfect spot.

Clean, clear water rustled softly, winding its way downstream. The fish swimming at the bottom were visible and a crisp fresh scent of wildflowers filled the air. She stood perfectly still for a moment letting nature’s beauty soak into the fabric of her being.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself.

The Field and Stream magazine she’d purchased before leaving Atlanta had a few pictures of fishermen—all of them standing in the middle of a stream in hip-high waders. She wanted to cast from the relative safety of the bank.

She’d baited the hook easily, having no trouble imagining the squirmy little worm as her ex-fiancé. It was petty and spiteful, but worked dam well.

She glanced at the book on the ground and then back at her rod and reel. It should be easier than this, she thought. Children do this every day.

She stood, mimicking the stance she saw on the magazine’s glossy page. She raised her arm over her head and tried to copy the wrist-snapping motion she’d seen others use. She hooked something before she landed the line in the water. She started to reel it in, but the line grew taut and wouldn’t budge.

Miranda set the pole on the ground and grimaced at the branch of the tree holding her hook captive. The lowest branches were too high for her grab hold of and swing herself into the tree. She doubted she’d be able to scale the trunk without help. But what kind of help?

She was alone in the forest, miles from civilization and her only neighbor was a man who wanted nothing to do with her. Besides, the role of helpless woman wasn’t one she wanted to play. She tugged on the line, hoping to free the hook, but the lure tightened its grip on the small branch and hung on.

Jumping, she latched onto a sturdy branch and tried to wiggle her way up the trunk. Her sweaty hands slid on the bark and she slid back toward the ground. She hung suspended.

“Great,” she muttered.

“Need some help?”

Miranda screamed and fell to the ground. She braced herself, ready to do battle. Luke Romero stood there looking... she struggled to describe the expression in his eyes. He looked as if he didn’t want to be at this place at this time.

“Can you free my line?”

He rocked back on his heels, staring up at the large tree. The fishing pole swayed with the branches.

“Maybe.” He paced under the branches for a few minutes. “Stand back.”

He leapt, catching the lowest branch and then pulled himself up the tree. Miranda watched the graceful movements with envy and awe. Luke moved like a man sure of himself and his environment.

Today, his hair was held off his neck in a ponytail and his Stetson was nowhere to be found. The bill of a faded baseball cap was tucked into the back pocket of illegally tight jeans. A small hoop earring hung through his ear, enforcing his outlaw image, and the pungent scent of a cigar lingered on his clothes. He looked like a pirate who had been at sea for too long.

He freed her line and joined her on the ground. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” she said, watching his large hands move carefully over the hook, freeing bits of greenery from its teeth. She wondered if they’d handle a woman with the same attention.

“No problem,” he said.

He handed the fishing pole to her, before pulling the baseball cap out of his back pocket and putting it on.

“Thanks for the cookies.”

Miranda blushed, wondering if he’d actually eaten one. “Did you try them?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning suddenly. “Well, you know, they weren’t the greatest cookies I’ve ever had.” His voice was so soft she had a hard time hearing the next words. “But no one’s ever baked anything for me before.”

Miranda felt a tiny clenching around her heart and all her maternal instincts urged her to reach out to the boy inside of Luke and comfort him. Maternal instincts, she thought with a touch of sadness. Was it possible for a woman who couldn’t have kids to be maternal? She’d never thought so until that very moment.

His gaze met hers, his brown eyes full of emotion and pain. She started to touch him, then stopped. Her hand hung awkwardly between them. The tanned shade of his skin made hers look pale.

“It was a first for me, too,” she said at last, dropping her hand.

He smiled. Miranda felt something open up inside of her that she’d thought she’d lost. Something rare and fragile that reminded her of childhood and the days of wonder. Something beautiful and scary but she refused to analyze it now.

Miranda’s soft laughter echoed the sound of the water tripping over the rocks downstream. The rippling effect spread slowly throughout his body. He’d warned himself to stay away from her. Knew that he shouldn’t have left the safety of the north face of the mountain where she would never wander. Knew that he should’ve gotten on the Harley and gone to town. Knew that this was the worst possible thing for him to be doing, but he stayed all the same.

The sunlight dripped through the leaves of the trees that surrounded the bank, bathing Miranda in its golden light. Her skin had the same hue as orange-blossom honey. Soft, light and tempting as hell. The urge to taste her was overwhelming, to lick at her skin until the essence of her was imbedded in his senses. But he fought it.

He groaned, picking up the fishing pole he’d set aside a half hour earlier. Time to put things in their proper perspective. He’d known he was in trouble when he opened the lid on that basket and seen the cookies lying inside. No one ever made cookies for him.

His mother died long before he was able to chew them on his own and his dad’s girlfriends weren’t the type to spend time in the kitchen. The cookies were definitely the worst he’d ever tasted but that didn’t matter. It was the thought that counted.

“Ready to catch your supper?”

She nodded. “I’m guessing you don’t need the magazine to show you how to stand.”

“What magazine?”

She lifted a new issue of Field and Stream, showing him the marked page. “It’s just as well, these instructions got me into trouble the first time.”

“Darlin’, that man is fly-fishing.” The picture reminded him of years earlier when he and his estranged brother Jake had spent a weekend at the river. Luke scowled and pushed the memory aside, ignoring the remembered camaraderie. Jake’s betrayal was all he wanted to associate with his brother.

“I know. I figured I’d better use this pole. Fly-fishing looks very complicated.”

“It is. But you have to use a different stroke with this pole.”

She flushed. It had been a long time since he’d seen a woman color at a suggestive remark. He pretended that her reaction didn’t warm his heart.

“What kind of stroke?” she asked, her voice husky with suppressed emotion.

“A delicate stroke, one that builds anticipation. A teasing stroke that makes the fish think you’ve been there all along. A tempting stroke that’ll lead her right into your trap.”

“Stop it,” she said.

He showed her how to fish, leaving off the words he’d been using to entice her. He demonstrated the casting technique before handing the rod to Miranda. She reeled in her first catch of weeds a few seconds later. The lady simply didn’t have the right swing.

Luke stepped behind her. Her floral perfume wrapped around his senses like a warm breeze on a cool day. He cursed himself as a fool but reached around and took the fishing pole from her hands. She started as his chest brushed against her back. The soft, rounded curves of her hips were a temptation he couldn’t ignore. The urge to drop the fishing pole and sink his fingers into her flesh almost overpowered him. Instead, he forced himself to strip the weeds from the hook.