“Maggie?” His peremptory tone stopped her midway across the living room, her Stetson swinging in her hand. She looked tired and flushed from her ride. When she turned, he noticed the way her high breasts pushed out the front of the cotton blouse. “Would you come in here a minute? I want to talk to you.”
She agreed in that quiet, concise manner that provoked him with its aloofness. “Of course.” She came toward him, combing a hand through her hair that curled nearly to her shoulders.
He waited until she was at the door before he turned to escort her to the desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the first tremor of shock and turned to observe her reaction. She had halted, her widened gaze locked on the miniature noose while her face turned ghostly pale. That was a reaction no actress could fake. She hadn’t known it was there, he realized, or she would have been better prepared. What anger remained in him was directed toward himself for doing this to her.
“Maggie.” His voice was sharp to break the morbid spell of the noose.
Her gaze jerked to him, tears welling in her eyes. “Is this your idea of some cruel practical joke?” She choked on the bitter words.
“I had to find out if you knew about it.” He walked to the bar to pour her a drink and she followed him partway.
“If I knew about it?” Her fingers were pressed to her breastbone, emphasizing her words as she demanded an explanation.
“Yes. That was left on the desk for me to find—not you. Drink this.” He extended a shot glass of whiskey to her.
She waved it aside with an impatient gesture. “I don’t want it. You mean someone—” She frowned and didn’t complete the sentence.
“Yes.”
“But who could have—” She stopped again.
“The list of possibilities is very short.” Chase studied the shot glass still in his hand, lifting his gaze to catch hers. “Have you seen your brother lately?”
She moved to a window, staring out of it and clasping her hands in front of her. “Yes, I’ve seen him.”
“Do you remember anything he said?”
“He said a lot of wild things, but he’s always talked about getting even. Even in his letters, he was always mentioning it. He never did anything, though—not in all this time.”
“That hangman’s rope is more than just talk.”
“I know.” She looked down at her hands. “He’s my brother, Chase. I’m worried about him.”
“His scare tactics—or whatever he wants to call them—won’t work. You can tell him that for me,” he said grimly.
She turned her head to look at him, a certain desperation in her otherwise calm expression. “I don’t want anything to happen to him.”
His nostrils flared in contained anger. “Do you give a damn what happens to me?”
“Of course I do!” The blazing fires in her eyes burned him. For a minute Chase thought he had gotten through to the old Maggie. Then they were contained with cool control. “I care about any human being.”
“Do you?” he mocked as she looked out the window again. “Sometimes I wonder.” He caught the movement of her hands and glanced down to see her turning her wedding band around and around on her finger. “Is the ring too loose?” His symbolic thought was to make it tighter and cut off all circulation.
“No.” She glanced down, as if not previously realizing what she was doing. “I’m just used to my husband’s ring.”
“I am your husband.” His mouth was a tight white line.
A stillness settled over her. “Yes.” It was a quiet affirmation. Then she was lifting her head, so cool and poised that he wanted to shake her. “Excuse me. I need to shower and change before I fix your dinner.” She moved away without looking at him and left the room.
Chase listened to the footsteps carrying her away from him. As Maggie climbed the stairs, he drank down the shot of whiskey he’d poured for her and gripped the empty glass. In a surge of anger, he hurled it at the fireplace, where it crashed and splintered in the blackened hearth.
The next morning, Maggie was dusting the furniture in the living room while Ruth ran the dustmop over the tiled floor. She heard Chase come in but didn’t look around, presuming he would go to the den. It was several seconds before she felt the touch of his gaze on her and realized he was watching her. She turned suddenly, surprising him and catching the hard-biting hunger in his look before he wiped it away. There was a swift, hot rise of her pulse, disturbed by that glimpse of his needs.
“I’ll be away from the ranch today, so I won’t be here for lunch,” he said. “I may be late coming home. If I’m not here by seven, don’t hold up dinner for me.”
“All right.” She kept her voice even. Instead of the regular ranch clothes, he was dressed in a Western-cut suit and white shirt, tailored to fit his long, muscled frame. The effect was one of power and authority—and an ease in shouldering it.
He seemed on the verge of saying