Rafe followed her gaze to the crib she preferred and asked, "Is that the one you like?"
"It's beautiful, " she admitted. "The dark oak looks so rich. "
"Dark oak it is, then. "
With that proclamation, he began selecting things for the baby as if he were killing snakes, his raven-black eyebrows drawn into an angry scowl and his voice so clipped and harsh that the clerk was all over herself, trying to pacify him. In the space of five minutes, he chose a cradle, a stroller, a crib, a bureau, and a bathing table, never once looking at Maggie to see if she approved of his choices. Then, as if he hadn't spent enough money, he proceeded to buy a glider rocker with matching ottoman, a Noah's Arc bumper pad and bedding set, several matching contour sheets and blankets; and oodles of toys. He arranged for all the purchases to be delivered to the ranch the next day, except for the cradle, which, he insisted, would fit in the back of the Expedition.
When he left the store, carrying said cradle, Maggie tagged along behind him, so upset she was about to wring her hands. She'd never seen him this angry. When they reached the back of the Expedition, she stood to one side, watching as he shoved the bed in the back storage compartment, gouging one of the side slats in the process. She stared at the scar on the dark oak. It was deep and permanent, representative to her of the wound she had just inflicted on him.
"It's a beautiful cradle, Rafe. " She ran a hand over the gleaming oak. "Something this nice used to be so far beyond my reach, I never even let myself
wish!"
"I'm glad you like it, " he bit out.
He slammed the rear cargo door closed and turned the full blast of his gaze on her, his square chin jutting, a muscle ticking in his lean cheek. His blue-gray eyes glinted so brightly with anger, they reminded her of sparking flint.
Never more than in that moment had Maggie been
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aware of the dangerous edge to this man. He'd put weight back on. He stood with his booted feet apart, his long, powerful legs braced against the buffeting wind that molded his Western-cut leather jacket to his well-muscled torso. The fading afternoon sunlight slanted across him, its soft, muted gold striking a sharp contrast to his darkness. Beneath the brim of his Stetson, his ebony hair lay in breeze-tousled strands over his forehead. He looked elemental, like the brutal peaks that rose in the distance behind him, tall, forceful, and honed to a lethal sharpness.
A month before, Maggie would have quaked in terror. He looked furious, and in her past experience, a furious man was an unpredictable one. Not Rafe, though. He might get so mad he could chew through nails, but he'd never lay a hand on her. She believed that with all her heart.
The knowledge filled Maggie with gladness. It was an inappropriate moment for her to yearn to hug him.
But, oh, how she wanted to. He was such a sweetheart, this man—even when he was glaring at her as if he were inches away from strangling her.
The depth of her trust in him rocked Maggie and made her emotions teeter on a perilous edge between regret and happiness. Oh, God. She didn't just love him. She
adored
him. Over the last few weeks, he had slowly and systematically sneaked past her guard, laying claim to her heart as surely as if he'd grabbed hold of it with one of those brutal fists. And right now, she felt as if he were squeezing it. The pain in her chest knifed like a blade.
"You're very angry at me, " she ventured.
"Yes. " He said the word with such sibilance, he fairly hissed it at her.
"Would you mind telling me why?"
Even as she asked that question, Maggie felt ashamed. Recalling their quarrel at Monique's Boutique, she knew exactly why he was upset with her. Knew and regretted
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having hurt his feelings again with all her heart.
He was dead wrong about her reasons for not wanting him to buy the expensive crib. But to set him straight, she would have to tell him the truth about Lonnie. A public parking lot didn't strike her as an ideal place to have that conversation, especially not when Rafe was already furious with her. Waiting to broach that subject until the timing was right was the only hope she had.
"It's a little hard to say I'm sorry if I don't know what I did, " she settled for saying. "I'm not able to read your mind. "
If it was possible for his already sparking eyes to glint even more dangerously, his did. In a tone completely at odds with the distended, pulsating veins along each side of his throat, he calmly said, "As if you don't damned well know? Let's not play games, Maggie. "
She shoved her freezing hands into the pockets of the warm down parka he'd bought for her. She owed him for so very much. Knowing that she had hurt him made her feel awful, "Good plan. No games. That includes guessing games. Can't you just tell me what I did?"
From the edge of her vision, she saw his right hand close into a knotted fist that could have easily flattened a full-grown steer. When he swung that fist toward her face, Maggie stood her ground and kept her hands in her pockets. Her faith in him wasn't misplaced. Instead of hitting her, as she might have expected weeks ago, he thrust a rigid finger at her nose.
"If you don't know, damn it, what good will it do to spell it out for you? I do my best talking with my actions. That doesn't count for shit with you, does it? Nobody does something for someone else without expecting a payback. Right, Maggie? Remember telling me that?"
She remembered, and with a clarity that made her feel sick. A denial welled at the back of her throat, but before she could voice it, he continued railing at her.
"Right now is
not
a good time to discuss this, " he
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informed her in a throbbing voice. "Trust me on that. If I once get started, I'll let you have it with both barrels and say things I shouldn't. So just leave it alone until I calm down. "
With that, he stormed around to the driver's door, jabbing the button on the remote key device with such force that Maggie feared it would never work again. Icy wind gusted around her where she stood at the rear of the vehicle.
After climbing into the Ford, he glanced back at her through the rear window. "Why are you standing there?" he yelled. "Get in the rig!"
Feeling oddly separated from her feet, Maggie moved to obey him, half-afraid he might leave her in the parking lot. The door opened just before she reached it, compliments of her enraged husband. As she started to crawl inside, his deeply tanned hand snaked out to grasp her left arm and lend her unneeded assistance. Even in a snit, he unconsciously made caring gestures.
He turned the key in the ignition and gunned the engine. For seven years, her instinctive response to masculine rage had been to cover her head and duck. Now, here she was with a man who not only didn't start swinging when he got mad, but refused to discuss the problem with her until he calmed down. As if his saying cruel and mean things to her would be the worst thing on earth? Not even close.
As Maggie adjusted her seat and fastened her safety belt, her eyes stung with tears. She blinked them away, not entirely sure why she felt like crying. She only knew there was a lump at the base of her throat that felt the size of a baseball and that her face tingled with scalding heat.
He jerked the gearshift into first and peeled rubber leaving the parking lot, making Maggie worry that he might be one of those men who drove like a maniac when he got angry. But no. Once on the street, he stayed within the speed limit and handled the vehicle with calm
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precision, coming slowly to a stop and then accelerating with exaggerated smoothness.
The tension inside the vehicle was so thick it was almost palpable. He didn't speak, didn't look at her.
Maggie's stomach clenched. It seemed to her that it took hours to maneuver through the busy city streets to reach the highway. After they merged with the eastbound traffic, she could bear the silence no longer.
"Are you going to give me the silent treatment all the way home?"
He ignored the question, sweeping off his hat to lay it on the console between them. Ducking his head slightly to see the rearview mirror, he flashed the turning signal to change lanes.
"Rafe?"
"God
damn
it, Maggie, leave it alone!" he said, baring his teeth in a snarl. "I can't talk to you right now. All right? Be smart and back off. "
She huddled against her door, staring fixedly at the white line ahead of them that divided the two traffic lanes.
Coward,
a small voice at the back of her mind chastised. She
knew
why he was so hurt. Why couldn't she just explain that he had misinterpreted her motives?
She clenched her hand over the shoulder harness that angled across her body, hating herself for remaining silent. But, oh, God, if she opened that can of worms, then what? She would have to tell him the whole ugly truth. Sooner or later, she planned to do that, anyway. But not
now.
Not when he was so mad he wouldn't even look at her.
Engaging in a stint of self-recrimination, she went back over everything that had been said at the infant store. He'd been so sweet all afternoon, escorting her from shop to shop, never once complaining or insisting she make up her mind about a crib. His mood had been mellow. There had been an indulgent smile on his mouth and a twinkle in his eyes every time he looked at her. Then, whammo. She had asked him if there were any
268 CATHERINE ANDERSON
less expensive baby shops in town, and he had detonated.
Outwardly, it might appear that he'd gotten angry over nothing, but Maggie knew better. From the very start, he had been touchy about the money issue. And he'd been completely up front with her about it, admitting that he took it as an insult and that it hurt his feelings. How many men were willing to swallow their pride and admit to a woman when their feelings got hurt?
He did his best talking with his actions? Not entirely. He'd reassured her with words as well, countless times.
No paybacks, Maggie.
And bless his heart, he'd meant it. Night after night, he'd lain in bed beside her, his arms a gentle circle around her, his big frame pressed against her. She wasn't so naive as to believe his restraint hadn't cost him dearly.
Remembering all those nights made her feel so small. It was just so scary to think about telling him the truth about herself.
You are so sweet.
He'd never look at her in the same way once she talked to him.
Never.
Rafe.
He was every hope and dream she'd ever had. He was the answer to every prayer she'd uttered over the last seven years.
Please, God, help me.
How many times had she wept into her pillow, whispering those words to a God she'd long since decided didn't hear her? Her life had been a trap. Toward the end, she had nearly stopped praying. Nearly stopped dreaming. Wishes were for fools, she'd told herself, and she'd been far too busy trying to survive.
Then she'd hit bottom. No way out. No way to fight back. No strength to continue the struggle. So she'd run. Straight into the arms of a boxcar bum. Her frog who had turned out to be a handsome cowboy prince.
She gulped to stifle a sob, the highway a swimming blur before her. Sometimes he called her his little angel face. Well, she had news for him.
He
was the one who was heaven-sent. And if he learned the truth about her, she might lose him. Was it so wrong to hold off and let
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the days pass in silence? He was the only miracle she was ever likely to get. If she lost him, that'd be it.
And, God help her, now that she'd gotten a taste of a life with him, she didn't think she could go on without him, figuratively or literally. Lonnie had nearly killed her the last time he beat her up. Without Rafe to protect her, what was to stop him from having another go? Next time, he might finish the job.
Maggie took a ragged breath, knowing she couldn't allow this to continue. If Rafe had said or done something to hurt her feelings, he wouldn't remain silent and let her go on bleeding. He'd fix things, no matter what the risks to himself. How could she do less? Let the chips fall where they may, she had to tell him.
Not later this evening. Not tomorrow morning. She had to do it now.
Minutes passed. Long, agonizing, excruciating minutes. Then, up ahead, she saw the turnoff to the Rocking K. When he turned off the highway, the Expedition bounced over some ruts, jarring her teeth.
"Rafe?" she managed to squeeze out. "Would you mind pulling over? I need to talk to you, and it's a little hard to have a conversation on rough road. "
He kept driving, his jaw muscle bunched, his lips pressed together in grim silence. Maggie waited. It seemed to her they drove ten miles. In reality, it was probably only two, but every second of quiet seemed years long. If she was going to tell him, she couldn't let it go until they reached the house. She'd die of shame if Becca or Ryan happened to hear snatches of the conversation, and she absolutely couldn't take the chance that Heidi might overhear them. At all costs, Heidi was never to know. Maggie never wanted her to feel guilty or indebted to her for what she had gone through to protect her.
Never.
"Rafe?" she tried again.
He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, shot her a glare, and without slowing down,
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pulled off to the side of the road. When he finally slammed on the brakes, the Ford jounced and rocked to a jarring stop on the snow-packed shoulder edging the bar ditch.
"You just won't let it be, will you?" he raged. "Okay, fine. You wanna talk, Maggie? By God, let's talk. Who starts? You?" He waited a beat. "Oh, that's right. Little Miss Innocent has no idea what the hell I'm pissed about!"
"Shut up!" he snapped, cutting her short. "You wanna play games with me, honey? Well, keep your head down. You're way out of your league. "
"I'm sorry, " she managed to insert, her voice quaking.
"You're sorry. That's supposed to fix everything, right? My heart bleeds. Well, you know what? I'm sick-to-death tired of playing Mr. Nice Guy. So we'll play this crappy little game your way. 'Paybacks are hell. '