Maverick Wild

“You’re so tall,” she said, squeezing him tighter still. “And handsome! I’ve missed you so much. And Tucker. How is Tucker? You can’t imagine…”

As she continued to jiggle and talk, Chance didn’t know what made him dizzier. The woman’s rapid-fire sentences or the soft, supple curves pressed flush against him. The discomforting stir of his body answered his quandary, while bringing about a stark realization.

He may have lived under the same roof as a red-headed tomboy during two years of his childhood, but he didn’t know this shapely woman from Eve. Certainly not well enough to have her rubbing herself all over him, her pretty face gazing up at him as though the sun rose and set in his eyes.

“You’ve heard of Lowell’s Textile?”

Chance nodded and gently pried her arms from his waist and set her away from him. The abrupt shift didn’t slow her excited chatter.

“—but I was so certain I’d find you. And here you are. My goodness gracious, so strong and tall.”

He smiled, her jubilation seeming somewhat contagious as he tried to keep up with her rapid-fire sentences.

“—ornery dickens that you were as a boy, and twice as cunning. Mother was sure you’d perished in the war, but…”

Her rush of words shattered into meaningless fragments at the mention of a name that never failed to put ice in his veins.

Mother.

Her mother, to be precise. The pristine witch who’d made life a living hell before he and Tucker had left home to follow their father into war. He and Tuck hadn’t been the only ones anxious to get away from their vicious stepmother. Their father couldn’t have beaten a trail off that ranch fast enough and had spent countless hours around a Rebel campfire warning the boys about the guiles of fancy women.

“Cora Mae,” he blurted out when she finally paused for breath. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She flinched at his hard-spoken words. Her smile dimmed.

Damn. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I just…can’t imagine what would bring you all this way.”

“I tired of waiting.”

He’d never been one to guess at the mysteries of a woman’s mind. “Waiting for what?”

“For what?” she repeated, planting her fists against sweetly rounded hips. She sure hadn’t turned out anything like her starchy, whip-thin mother. He couldn’t keep his gaze from roving the tight yellow bodice hugging full breasts. The gentle dip at her waist and prominent flare of her hips left no doubt that a man would find a soft, warm landing in her arms.

Lord, have mercy. He was sure he shouldn’t be noticing such things about a woman who used to be his stepsister, once upon a time.

“For you to make good on your promise,” she said, bringing his attention back to where it belonged: on her pretty face.

“My promise?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes growing misty. “To come back for me.”

Old guilt rushed across his conscience, along with a wave of unwanted memories. He recalled Cora Mae’s big brown eyes filled with tears, her frantic plea for him not to leave her behind. He had promised to go back for her. And at the time, he’d meant it. He’d also been twelve years old and hadn’t known war from a Sunday picnic. It was a guilt he’d gotten over a long time ago.

“You promised to go back for her and never did?” Garret asked, sounding outraged.

Chance’s gaze snapped toward the kid. He’d plain forgotten Garret was standing beside him. “I was twelve!”

“I waited,” Cora Mae said, her sad eyes twisting the pain in his gut.

“We couldn’t go back.” He shook his head, trying to shrug off the meaningless memories he’d spent too many years trying to forget. “You might recall there was a war going on. Tucker and I happened to be in the middle of it. Until we managed to get ourselves thrown into a Yankee prison camp.”

“Oh, Chance.” The warmth of her hand closed over his forearm, the light touch burning into his flesh like a fiery brand.

“It was a long time ago,” he said, brushing her hand from his skin. “We survived.” Barely.

Lily-white hands pressed against her full bosom. “I never imagined.”

Of course she hadn’t. She’d been busy with art classes and piano lessons. “You never answered my question,” he said, wondering again what Cora Mae Tindale was doing in Slippery Gulch, fawning all over him.

“What question was that?” she asked, smiling so sweetly, it set his gut on fire.

“What are you doing here?”

“Once I heard of your ranch, I had to come. Surely you’re aware that your ranch is broadly known?”

Damn right it was. He and Tuck had worked their asses off to make their ranch a success. The last thing they needed was Winifred sending her daughter in to sniff things out.

“Hearing that twin brothers by the name of Morgan were the owners, I had to find out if it was really you and Tucker.”

“You could have sent a letter.”

Her eyes widened, hurt registering in those rich brown depths.

“Chance,” Garret said, stepping in between them, “what’s gotten into you? She just finished telling us how she traveled all the way from Massachusetts to see you.”

But Chance hadn’t heard much beyond the roar of his blood as he stared down at the woman resurrecting demons from the past he’d long since put to rest. If Winifred thought she’d worm her way into their business by sending her daughter, she’d be disappointed. He was no longer a little boy who could be hauled out to the woodshed and whipped for the sheer delight of hearing him scream.

“That’s quite all right.” Cora Mae’s jaw stiffened in a way Chance remembered it could. “I know there’s no blood shared between us. If I’m not welcome—”

“Of course you’re welcome,” Garret insisted. “Isn’t she, Chance?”

Chance regarded her for a long moment, certain he wouldn’t have to see her fancy yellow-clad body again if he suggested she wasn’t welcome. He had to remind himself it was never Cora Mae he’d hated. He’d once been as close to her as he had to his twin brother. In some ways, closer. That fact didn’t help to slake his unease.

“Sure you are,” he said, though his tone didn’t carry a note of Garret’s enthusiasm. “It’s just a little hard to believe you’d travel clear across the States all by your lonesome just to see me.”

“And Tucker, of course. How is Tucker?”

“Just fine. How’s your mother?” he asked, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

Her bright expression blanched. He couldn’t blame her for that. Thoughts of Winifred made him downright ill.

“I…I haven’t seen her in years. Not since I went to work at the mill.”

Cora Mae had been a lousy liar at the age of nine. It seemed some things hadn’t changed. The tightness in her delicate features told Chance she was lying through her pearly white teeth. “Cora Mae, if Winifred sent you here—”

“Oh, no. She didn’t. She’s…dead.”

His eyebrows kicked up. He wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. Over the years he’d envisioned Winifred Morgan choking on her own meanness and dying a very slow and painful death.