Montana Maverick Page 4

  She’d felt a similar connection when his fingers straightened the strap of the baby carrier. Or could she blame that zing on the hormones she’d started taking to prepare her nearly forty-year-old body for its upcoming role in the production of a baby?

  A baby. Like the little girl resting against her chest.

  “How are you holding up? She’s heavier than she looks, isn’t she?” Henry asked.

  Meg lifted her head and saw Hank had stopped under the natural protection of three pines clustered beside a twenty-foot escarpment. She shuffled closer, taking care not to overlap his snowshoes.

  “Yes,” she said, a little light-headed from not being able to draw in a full breath of air. She shifted her shoulders to relieve the ache in her lower back.

  He knelt to let Bravo slide off his back, and then he opened his arms to Annie and JJ. The older boy accepted a one-armed hug while the little girl plastered herself to her grandfather’s snowy jacket.

  “How much longer?” JJ asked. “Annie is getting tired.”

  A mewling sound made Meg jump. She would have tripped over her own snowshoes if Hank hadn’t grabbed a hunk of fabric on her sleeve. “Mystic’s waking up. I was afraid of that.”

  Henry looked toward the sled. “She’s probably starving. She spit up the last bottle I gave her.”

  Annie’s face crinkled into a mask of disgust. “It was so gross.”

  “If she has a fever, she’ll need electrolytes,” Meg said, remembering a recent bout of flu that her nephew, Mark, came down with while visiting her cabin after Paul and Bailey’s wedding. “Do you have any pediatric replacement?”

  Hank blinked in surprise as if questioning where she came by that knowledge.

  “I have four nieces and nephews,” she supplied without being asked.

  “Um…yes, actually, I do. A pharmacist in Majorca suggested it, and I found a six-pack of bottles in a box of baby supplies Laurel had me pick up. The tops are made to fit a screw-on nipple.”

  Majorca? For a moment she doubted his sanity, but when he produced a bottle with a brand name she recognized, she tabled her question for later.

  With her back to the rock wall, she tugged off her gloves and loosened the outer shell of the baby carrier. A pair of silvery gray eyes blinked against the red light from her grandfather’s headlamp.

  Meg sucked a gulp of icy air, which helped crystalize the realization that in a nanosecond she’d fallen in love with the sweetest face she’d ever seen. The baby looked away from the light and focused on her. She didn’t smile or express any emotion, but she didn’t cry or fuss, either. It was as if they met on another plane, recognized each other from past travels and agreed that, yes, it would be good to do this dance again.

  After Henry had the plastic nipple affixed, he leaned close to block any wind. “Here, baby girl,” her grandfather said, ending Meg’s and Mystic’s silent communiqué.

  He tapped the nipple to Misty’s slightly chapped, heart-shaped lips. “Have a sip for Grandpa, then we’ll get you somewhere safe and warm.”

  “Oh, she’s warm enough,” Meg said, running her hand under the sweaty neckline where her braided twist had come loose. “This tote thing is like being tied to a mini-sauna.”

  “Can I have a drink, Grandpa?” Bravo asked.

  “Me, too,” Annie chimed in.

  Meg took the bottle from Henry without being asked. Their fingers touched briefly. Not briefly enough. Some sort of electricity passed from his touch to her. The kind she recognized as a man-woman thing. But any possible connection of that nature was such a bad idea she couldn’t begin to go there—hormones or no hormones.

  “You were right. The poor little darling was terribly thirsty.”

  “Don’t let her gulp too fast,” he cautioned. “If it comes back up…”

  Henry made a face that even Meg laughed at.

  Henry Firestone was a nice guy and a good grandfather. These kids were lucky to have him on their side. Something about the way he comforted sweet little Annie made her heart puddle under the mini-furnace strapped to her chest.

  Most men were awkward around little girls, but not Henry Firestone. Although she’d always found him attractive—in a young John Wayne, protector-of-my-castle sort of way, she’d also seen him become intractable, stiff-necked and downright stubborn when he felt his heritage and ranching way of life were under attack.

  Meg had been called stubborn, uncooperative, difficult and unyielding a time or two…or more. The press would have labeled the idea of Meg Zabrinski and Henry Firestone as a couple as utterly ridiculous. Meg had to agree. You’d probably have a less volatile combination if you mixed rocket fuel and dynamite.

  *

  They made it to the cabin half an hour later, but Hank could have sworn the hike took five. Every step for his exhausted grandchildren crucified him. Bravo fell dead asleep on Hank’s back at some point, his weight quadrupling-or so it felt. The thin air was hard on everyone but Meg, apparently. She plugged along in silence, pausing occasionally to offer a word or two of encouragement to JJ and Annie.

  “We’re getting close,” she told them more than once. “The trees are thicker at this elevation. We should see the security light on my barn soon.”

  Eventually, she pointed. “There,” she said. Her arm shook like an aspen leaf in a storm.

  She’s drop dead tired, too, he realized.

  “My back door is about a hundred feet away from that light.”

  The hope of shelter and warmth made everyone pick up the pace.

  They stumbled, half staggering into a clearing.

  Her cabin made what little breath he had left catch in his throat. Holy cripes. You call this a cabin?

  Rook shot past him to investigate the two-story log home. From his vantage point, Hank could see a big porch with snowdrifts reaching nearly to the roof in places. A large, barn-like structure sat off to the right. A turn-of-the-century light pole stood in the middle of the yard between the two buildings like a welcoming beacon.

  Hank didn’t know if it was his imagination or wishful thinking, but the ferocity of the storm seemed to have eased. He could see more than a foot or two in front of his face. In fact, he could see hulking shapes of bushes, a shed or outbuilding of some kind, and a huge stack of firewood protected by a metal-roofed lean-to.

  Everything in sight told him Meg had money. He’d always assumed she made a good living as a university professor, but this mountain compound implied more wealth. Was there a rich husband lurking in the wings? No. What kind of moron would let his wife take off alone in the middle of the night in a storm?

  Hank made a note to find out more about Meg’s situation once they were safe and dry.

  A muffled cry rose above their exhausted breathing. Meg detoured around him. “Baby wants out. Now. Let’s go, kids. We’re home.”

  Hank started at the word. Her home. An innocent remark that nicked the sore spot in his daily existence. Would today be the day some judge in California granted permission to Bravo’s and Mystic’s father and grandmother to take them away, he wondered every morning?

  Laurel had begged him on her deathbed to keep her family together and he damn well intended to do that.

  Unless this escapade tonight torpedoed the last couple of months of peace and stability. He swallowed the golf ball-size lump in his throat.

  “Are you coming? I could use a hand here.”

  She’d reached the porch but obviously needed help removing the snowshoes. Mystic’s wails grew in volume with each breath. Annie, stoic, brave little thing that she was, burst into tears and would have collapsed in a snow bank if her brother hadn’t caught her elbow.

  Hank dug deep for the energy to push past the paralyzing fear of losing the children. He tromped as quickly as possible across the open area to the porch then leaned over to slide the boneless, sleeping child from his back. “Wake up, Bravo. We’re here. You’re safe, boy. As soon as I unhook Meg’s snowshoes, I want you to go inside with her. Okay,
buddy?”

  The little boy nodded, half-awake. He took the hand Meg offered while Hank undid her snowshoes. When she stepped out of them, her knees seemed to give out. He put both hands on her hips until she caught her balance.

  “Sorry. Let down, I guess.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m one step away from crashing myself.”

  The look she gave him was intense but it ended when the baby renewed her cries and Bravo whined, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Grandpa,” JJ called. “Annie won’t move.”

  The sound of Jenny’s sobs bit into him worse than the wind-chill.

  “Bring the kids in. Snow and all. Dump their outer clothes in the mudroom. I’ll add a log to the fire,” Meg called out as she shrugged off her backpack and tossed it on a bench beside the door. No doubt the spot was used to remove shoes and boots before entering the house, but she tapped off some of the snow and walked inside. She had her hands full trying to comfort the upset, starving, unwell baby who was wide-awake and not a bit happy and a little boy who could barely walk for crossing his legs.

  “Don’t forget the dog. He can come in, too,” she hollered as the outer fiberglass storm door closed behind her.

  Hank wasn’t used to taking orders. Normally, he was the one issuing them, but, in this case, he did exactly what Meg wanted because it was the right thing to do.

  He admired her ability to think clearly because his brain was shutting down. PTSD. Exhaustion. The fact he’d been up most of the night before with a sick calf, and then missed more sleep tonight with a sick baby. He was running on fumes—and his SAR training warned that was when people made grievous mistakes…like taking off in a helicopter in a blizzard.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” he said, somehow managing to pick up Annie and help JJ to the porch. He removed their backpacks and boots, tossing everything in a heap beside the high-end, stacked washer and dryer. The room was barely heated, but the respite from the wind made it feel many degrees warmer.

  “We made it,” he said, halfway amazed and a little choked up.

  They were alive. An hour ago he wouldn’t have put their chances of survival much beyond fifty-fifty.

  He took off his outer jacket and pulled both of his elder grandchildren into his arms. “You are the bravest kids I’ve ever known. Your mother would be so proud of you.”

  They obviously were too exhausted and dazed to do more than nod. Jenny’s face was streaked with tears and her bottom lip quivered. JJ looked ready to drop. Hank opened the inner door and hustled them into the warm open space.

  A modern, high-tech kitchen was on their right, a dining room with built-in glass cabinets on the left. Heavy curtains in a neutral shade of taupe covered the abundant stretches of windows. The design was open all the way to the front half of the house, where a grouping of two, light tan leather sofas and matching recliner faced a massive fireplace. Instead of an open fire, an energy-efficient wood-burning stove occupied the space. The warmth reached him clear across the room.

  “Go sit down, kids. I’ve got to call Rook.”

  Bravo stepped out of what obviously was a bathroom before Hank could collect enough energy to move. The little boy stumbled blindly past his sister to curl up on the thick nap of the rug in front of the fire, thumb in mouth. He probably was asleep before his eyelids closed all the way.

  Hank looked around. He didn’t see Meg, but a trail of watery boot prints on the plank flooring, along with discarded hand warmers, gloves, coat and hat would have provided the breadcrumbs to her location had the upset cries of one very hungry baby not told him exactly where to find her. Her bedroom, probably.

  Instead of going to check on his youngest granddaughter, he returned to the back porch and sorted through their bags until he found the one he remembered packing with Mystic’s formula. His fingers balked at the cold, but he managed to grasp the webbed straps. The baby’s need took precedence over his exhaustion.

  “Rook,” he called, squinting toward the barn where he’d last seen the animal.

  A few seconds later, Rook raced up the back steps and gave a hearty, happy shake. He was bred for this kind of weather—the rest of them were not.

  “Come in, boy. You can stay in the laundry room if the house is too warm, but I don’t want you running off and getting lost. We’ve had enough drama tonight.”

  The dog followed him inside. This time, Hank walked straight into the kitchen and poked around until he found what he needed to heat up the formula. The pre-packaged servings made it easy. While it warmed, he broke apart the frozen ties at the base of his knees, so he could unlace the upper part of his snow boots. He kicked them out of the way temporarily then carried the bottle toward the door of the room opposite the fireplace.

  He looked around, taking in more of the decor and design. Not fancy, but quietly elegant and homey. As he exited the kitchen, he noticed a set of stairs leading to an open loft. The cathedral ceiling in the great room made the home feel open and spacious. It was good to know Meg’s home could accommodate all of them overnight without a problem—and she said she was well stocked with provisions, but Hank still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact he’d landed in Meg Z’s backyard and was now in her mountain cabin.

  Thank God. And Laurel.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy,” Laurel had told him shortly before she died. “I will be with you every step of the way. My soul is leaving my body, but I’ll never leave my children.”

  He blinked at the unexpected moisture in his eyes as he knocked at the door of the bedroom suite.

  “Come in,” Meg said, her tone impatient.

  There wasn’t anything frilly about the decor but he sensed straight out there wasn’t a husband in the picture. Subtle lighting mounted on the massive ceiling beams highlighted the same tongue and groove rustic pine he’d noticed in the living room.

  The vaulted configuration gave the place a spacious feel, which was augmented by the buttercream sheetrock walls and heavy, mocha-colored curtains at the far end of the room. A native rock fireplace made the room pleasantly warm.

  He shucked his heavy outer coat, tossing it on a chair on his way to the bed, where Meg sat, bouncing and rocking the upset baby. Head bowed she murmured something low and comforting. A Christmas carol? he wondered, trying to make out the words.

  “Food,” Meg exclaimed, looking up. “Here you go, baby girl. Now, you’ll feel better.”

  Without her stocking cap and the heavy, fur-lined hood, Hank could see Meg’s blond hair, which had come undone from the clip she’d used to hold it back. Thick and wavy, it spilled down her back. Bits stuck out wildly with a few damp strands plastered to her cheek. Her blue eyes were intense and alive. He’d always figured she was the kind of person who could rise to any challenge—even unexpected guests who dropped out of the sky on Christmas Eve.

  She jumped to her feet. “You should feed her. I think part of the reason she’s so upset is because she doesn’t know me.”

  Hank didn’t feel right about sitting on Meg’s bed in his damp snow pants, so he took Mystic from her arms and walked to a leather and wood armchair adjacent to the fireplace. “Hey, Misty Girl, are you looking for this?”

  Mystic turned her cheek inward as if seeking her mother’s breast. Instinct, he guessed, because Laurel had been too weak to nurse her baby after giving birth by cesarean section. She’d managed to hold Mystic and whisper whatever truths and words of love she hoped would last a lifetime before letting go of her tenuous hold on life. Her body took a few more days to shut down, but Hank didn’t need to see the heart monitor flat line to know his precious daughter was gone, having delivered her final gift to the world.

  He blinked back the moisture in his eyes and focused on the infant eagerly gulping down her formula. Although he couldn’t be sure without a thermometer, he felt certain her fever had broken. Her cheeks weren’t as red as before. Her eyes had lost that glassy, feverish look.

  “She’s better.”

  M
eg let out a sigh of obvious relief. “I’m so glad. My eldest niece used to get really bad ear infections when she was a baby. She’d spike a fever out of the blue and everyone would panic. It’s human nature. I can’t tell you how many frantic telephone calls my mother and I fielded from my sister, Mia.”

  Hank appreciated her kind understanding. He doubted Mystic’s grandmother was going to be that sympathetic.

  “Can I bring you anything, Henry? Water? Coffee? Cocoa?”

  He closed his eyes, giving in momentarily to the massive weight of fatigue bearing down on him. “Got anything stronger?”

  Her soft chuckle made a flutter of something different and interesting blossom in his nether regions. “As a matter of fact, I do. My future brother-in-law gave me a bottle of French brandy for Christmas. He said it warms the cockles of your heart…whatever a cockle is.”

  The smile she gave him seemed oddly intimate, as if they were old friends—not old enemies.

  Before exiting the room, she picked up his jacket, which had fallen to the floor. “I’ll toss all our coats in the dryer while we still have electricity,” she said.

  Once she was gone, he grinned. Fussy and neat. The way some people who lived alone liked to keep their place. He’d been the same until his small, manageable existence exploded with a dying, pregnant daughter and three youngsters. Now, his house was a mess, despite hiring a housekeeper who came in three days a week. Mrs. Weston, God bless her soul, was the only way he could stay on top of the mountain of laundry these kids produced.

  He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the back of the chair. The greedy sucking sound of the baby masked the furious wind gusts that still pelted the house.

  We made it.

  Thanks to Meg Zabrinski. The irony continued to beguile him.

  When he’d sat across from her at those, at times, tedious meetings, he often wondered about her life. He’d pictured her in a cluttered office surrounded by floor-to-ceiling books and wolf pelts and indigenous people’s masks. This beautifully rustic home was so far from that scholarly stereotype he couldn’t stop staring.