Spring Blossom (5 page)

He knew she was crying now. “Maggie,” he
said again as he turned her into his arms and held her lightly
against his chest. “I’m sorry, little one. I’ve been a fool.”

“No!” she returned fiercely, struggling
against her tears because she did not want to disappointment him.
She hated this lack of sophistication. Surely a true woman would
not carry on so. She wanted him to remember her as happy and pretty
and instead he would have a vision of her ugly, damp face. She tore
herself from his arms and stepped back a pace; a pace too far.

As she teetered back, Maggie reached out,
grabbing desperately for his hand. But her sudden, frantic
movements pulled Hunter off balance and they both ended up in the
pond.

Maggie landed on her back, as did Hunter,
who twisted away so as not to fall on top of her and drive her
deeper under the water. Gaining enough control to sit up, Maggie
watched him struggle to right himself. The astonished look on his
face when he turned her way sent her into fits of laughter.

Finally seeing the humor of it all, Hunter
gave in and joined her, even as Maggie threw herself at his chest,
almost choking him when her arms went around his neck. “Oh,
Maggie,” he said, still laughing, “I will miss you.”

Maggie’s cheek settled firmly against his as
she responded. “I’m going to grow up, Hunter Maguire,” she
breathed, “and you are going to miss all of that.”

In that moment, Hunter made the decision he
felt he would never regret; he would speak to Alastair Downing
about the man’s eldest daughter before he left.

CHAPTER 5

Treemont Farm, 1883

The tree-lined road to Treemont mansion had
not changed a great deal. The oaks were older, of course, as was
he. The crushed-stone path was a neat as he remembered and the red
brick edifice in the distance appeared the same. But the columns
and dormers seemed more gray than white as the sun concentrated its
beams there. Beyond the oaks, the brush had sprouted up, adding to
the deep shadows along the lengthy route.

Hunter Maguire pressed the soles of his
booted feet firmly into the stirrups, stretching his long muscular
legs by almost standing in the saddle. The journey from his home
near the James River had been tedious, although not overly long. He
knew what had really made him weary was making the decision to
return to Treemont or not. He had tossed the idea around for weeks.
In fact, the idea had crossed his mind numerous times over the
years since his last visit; mainly because of his ongoing curiosity
about Maggie and how she may have changed. But, being perfectly
honest, he was in the market for a good stallion. So far his trip
had been profitable and he did not doubt that Alastair would have
some good stock to add to those he had already chosen. A great
stallion to match the two excellent mares already on their way to
his home would top off the trip perfectly.

He relaxed once again in the saddle. Soon he
would enjoy a thirst-quenching drink and, he hoped, a long hot
bath.

Over the years Hunter had corresponded with
Alastair Downing occasionally with the result an open invitation to
visit Treemont again had been extended only a few months ago.
Curiosity, as much as the desire to find a champion stallion had
fostered Hunter’s decision to return; obviously if the bright,
delightful Maggie had not totally left his memories during their
time apart, he could not turn his back without knowing the woman
she had become. Clearly Maggie’s spark for living had touched him
in a way no other woman had. Alastair had not mentioned her in all
this time, so she could be married for all he knew. But the sudden
invitation to visit Treemont had raised his curiosity.

Margaret drew herself up as thin and tall as
possible in order to remain unobserved, although she was certain
the thunder of her rapidly beating heart would reveal her
presence.

She’d heard the muted clip-clop of a horse’s
hooves and, though it was childish, she was hiding behind a tree.
She frowned and considered why she was really hiding as Hunter
Maguire rode by her secret place. He had taken her by surprise, of
course. That was the major reason. She just had not expected to see
him so suddenly and she was not prepared for a meeting.

Maggie peered around the tree at his
retreating back. He sat his horse proudly and confidently. His
finely tailored coat moved slightly as he swayed with the rhythm of
the horse’s movements. He was still as fine an equestrian as she
remembered. And that was a problem; she remembered him too well and
too fondly.

She ducked back behind the tree, frowning as
she quickly looked about for an escape route. But when she dared to
look up the road again, he had vanished.

Sensing danger of exposure, Maggie moved
deeper into the oaks where the shadows were darkest. The last thing
she wanted was to meet him here beside the lane, before she had
time to prepare herself to face him.

She darted to the safety of the next
tree.

*

Hunter had ducked between two giant oaks and
tied his horse at the edge of the high brush. He then backtracked
under cover of the scrub until he could emerge near the spot where
he had spotted the spy. He had caught only a glimpse of a hat brim
as he rode by and had calculated the person to be short…either that
or the man was squatting low as he watched.

Coming out from the thick underbrush,
however, he saw no one as he looked amongst the trees. It appeared
his daylight stalker had moved on.

Hunter cautiously stepped out onto the
gravel surface of the road, his eyes darting from left to right. No
one was in sight. Perhaps he was so tired he was imaging things.
Perhaps what he had thought was a hat brim had been a tree limb or
a clump of shadowed moss.

Shrugging his shoulder, he started walking
back to his mount when suddenly the horse charged out onto the road
from between the trees. Hunter stopped in his tracks, his mouth
falling open in amazement. His horse was being ridden by a man in a
black hat, black breeches and a white shirt!

Horse and rider raced up the road toward the
house, bits of cut stone flying upward in their wake. The man could
be admired for his horsemanship, Hunter thought, as he watched his
transportation fleeing. But then his thoughts turned far less
charitable. He now had one hell of a long walk ahead of him!

As the figure grew smaller, Hunter once
again halted in his tracks. The rider’s hat flew off in the wind
and long, white-blond hair billowed out behind her.

Her!

He grinned slowly as he realized he had been
duped; duped by a small woman, at that. “Maggie,” he said softly.
Strangely, her trick amused him despite his weariness and the long
walk ahead. She’d obviously lost none of her fire.

When he finally reached the house, he
knocked on the door, prepared to wait a moment or two for someone
to traverse the large foyer. He imagined Maggie was still at the
stables, so he didn’t expect anyone to answer promptly. Waiting, he
turned, frowning at the bubbled and split paint on the columns that
supported the roof over Treemont’s wide front porch. The old house
obviously needed painting.

The scraping of wood on wood drew his
attention back to the portal and he turned, smiling down into the
face of a slim young girl who blushed when his eyes met hers.
“Hello,” he said softly.

“Mr. Maguire?” she asked, and he nodded.
“Papa is expecting you,” she added shyly and stepped back, pulling
the door wide in invitation.

She was a girl of about thirteen, he
decided. “Let me see,” he drawled with a teasing note. “You must be
Florence.”

The girl nodded eagerly and dropped her
eyes. “If you will be seated in the parlor, Mr. Maguire, I shall
let Papa know you’ve arrived.”

The entrance to the house was bright, airy
and elegant, its polished rosewood banister and wall panels
reflected in the white tile stairs and floor. Hunter glanced
briefly up at the curved staircase that led to the second floor,
relieved that the interior of the house appeared to be in good
condition. The disrepair of the exterior of the house had concerned
him.

Hunter entered the spacious front parlor,
noticing that little had changed in the décor. But he looked only
briefly around the room for his eyes were drawn once again to the
portrait above the mantel, just as they had been three years
ago.

And he envisioned Maggie looking exactly
like this now.

“If my Margaret were still alive I would
have to keep my eye on her with you about,” Alastair proclaimed
from the doorway.

Hunter laughed and turned around, extending
his hand in greeting as he walked toward the other man. “You would,
Alastair. For a certainty.”

The older man raised his eyes briefly to the
portrait as he always did when he entered this particular room, but
then, in a heartbeat, he gave his full attention to his guest.
“Welcome, Hunter. I hope your journey has been a pleasant one?”

“Profitable so far,” and then he teased,
“We’ll see what you can do to ravage the remainder of it.”

Pretending to be affronted, Alastair Downing
drew himself up to his full, elegant height, which left him half a
head shorter than Hunter. “I understood you were seeking a good
stallion.”

“Yes. But not at the expense of you owning
my last shirt!”

Alastair cuffed his guest on the shoulder.
“Ungrateful pup!” But then he laughed. “Come to my study. Perhaps I
can soften you up before we strike any bargains.”

Once seated comfortably, brandy in hand,
Hunter took a moment to study his host; Alastair was still a fine
looking man, but some of his former vibrancy was missing.

Alastair settled back in his chair, crossing
his knees as his gaze traveled quickly over his guest in a like
inspection. Hunter hand changed little; he had matured, perhaps but
the man was as strong and fit-looking as ever, and his features had
become almost aristocratic. The one change Alastair did note was a
certain sadness in the dark eyes; or perhaps it was something that
came with maturity. “All is right with you?” he asked.

Hunter smiled. “Fine, Alastair. And
you?”

The older man nodded, smiling ruefully, but
Hunter had an odd sense that something was not at all right with
his friend.

“Times are good, and my daughters are
driving me mad,” Alastair said lightly, belying Hunter’s concerns.
“All appears right with the world.”

Hunter laughed at the derisiveness in his
friend’s voice. “The girls cannot be as bad as that. They are
practically grown by now.”

Alastair leaned forward, as if in
conspiracy. “Trust me, my friend; if you ever have daughters, you
should know that they become more difficult with each passing
year.”

Chuckling, Hunter said, “I’ll remember
that.”

Settling back, Alastair studied the younger
man. “Perhaps you do have a daughter or two by now? I failed to
ask.”

Hunter shook his head.

“No sons? No daughters? A wife,
perhaps?”

“No.”

“Well, your time will come, without
doubt.”

Obviously they were both skirting the issue
of Maggie.

Suddenly Alastair’s tone changed abruptly as
another thought struck and he knew he had to speak on the matter.
“I was sorry to learn of your mother’s passing, Hunter. She was a
fine woman.”

Hunter sat forward, studying the glass that
rested loosely between his cupped hands. “She was a remarkable
woman, and I am not the only one who misses her.” He straightened
then, determined to lighten the mood. “I believe her only regret
was that I had not married and given her grandchildren.” He smiled
at the thought, for he and his mother had engaged in some heated
discussions on the matter. But all of Rebecca’s attempts at
matchmaking had failed, for Hunter had been too intent on his work
and improving their lot in life.

“And who is minding your affairs while you
gallivant around the country?” Alastair asked.

More relaxed now, Hunter sat back. “A good
and very old friend of my parents. You may have heard them mention
Jason Longstreet. He managed the farm for Mother for years while I
was in England. He stayed on after I returned home, at my
request.”

“And you’ve waited too long to visit us
again,” Alastair said sincerely.

“It’s been three years. I recall our last
discussion. We agreed…” Hunter stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly
aware that Alastair had paled and seemed to be having difficulty
breathing. Alarmed, he set his glass aside and sat forward in his
chair. “Are you all right, man?”

But Alastair was shaking his head, holding
up one hand to signal that Hunter should remain seated. “Fine,” he
said, forcing himself to remain calm. “It’s just that…perhaps I
should have written to you, but…” Looking directly into the young
man’s eyes, he blurted guiltily, “You will find Margaret greatly
changed, Hunter.”

Frowning, Hunter reached for his snifter of
brandy again. “I expected her to change, Alastair. She hadn’t
reached her sixteenth birthday when I last visited.”

Alastair was now looking decidedly
uncomfortable.

When the man did not immediately respond,
Hunter prodded, “I expect Maggie has become a very beautiful young
woman by now.” But his smile disappeared when Alastair looked at
him sadly.

“Indeed she has,” he said softly. “Almost as
beautiful as her dear mother. But…” He took a hearty pull of brandy
before staring directly at Hunter again. “I believe I should warn
you; Margaret was involved in an…accident of sorts, about a year
ago.”

Hunter was growing concerned about the
direction this conversation was taking, and his frustration level
was not particularly stable, either. “I don’t understand. What are
you trying to tell me? What sort of accident?”