Five Brothers and a Baby Page 4

  He eyed her a moment, as if wanting to argue, then sighed and gestured to the adjoining bath. "Towels are in the linen closet. Extra pillows and blankets are on the top shelf of the closet. If you're hungry, there's plenty of food left over from the funeral meal in the refrigerator. If you need anything else, you can make a list and give it to me later." He turned for the door. "I'm saddling up and riding out to see if I can locate any of the cattle. Probably be gone most of the afternoon."

  "I'll need Laura's playpen," she called after him. "She'll want a nap soon."

  "It's in my room. I'll get it."

  While Ace went after the playpen, Maggie set the car seat on the bed and lifted the baby out. Unable to resist, she dropped a kiss on the infant's cheek before laying her down on the bed. Cooing softly to the baby, she unwound the receiving blanket from around her legs. Laura kicked and waved at the air, obviously enjoying the freedom of movement, after being confined in the infant carrier for so long. Laughing at her antics, Maggie glanced up as Ace returned, carrying the playpen.

  "Look," she said. "She's doing aerobics."

  He glanced the baby's way, as he set the playpen at the foot of the bed and frowned. "Needs to. I've seen bigger legs on a malnourished bird."

  Maggie caught the baby's foot and placed a kiss on her toes. "Don't you listen to him," she lectured gently. "He's just jealous because your legs are prettier than his."

  "Since you've never seen my legs, how would you know?"

  Smiling down at the baby, Maggie pressed a finger lightly to the end of the infant's nose. "I wouldn't. But I've seen your eyes and Laura's are the same shade of blue."

  "All babies' eyes are blue," he muttered disagreeably, but eased closer for a better look.

  Taking his curiosity as a sign of interest, Maggie decided this might be the perfect time to start establishing a relationship between the two. "Not necessarily. Do your brothers have blue eyes?"

  "Yeah. Except for Whit. His are brown. But he's a stepbrother, so I guess he doesn't count."

  "Stands to reason then that Laura's will be blue, too." Scooping the baby up, she held her along the length of her arms, angling her so that Ace had a better look. "What about her nose?" she asked, studying it thoughtfully. "Do you think she has the Tanner nose?"

  When he didn't immediately reply, she glanced over and saw that he was looking at her and not at the baby. His frown told her that he'd seen right through her act.

  "Don't even try," he warned.

  Feigning innocence, she turned away to lay the baby back on the bed. "Try what?"

  "To make me feel a connection to the kid. It's not going to work. No amount of family resemblance is going to persuade me to keep her."

  When she didn't reply, he hooked a knuckle beneath her chin and forced her face around to his. "Understand?"

  Maggie knew he expected a response from her. But for the life of her, she couldn't seem to push the one-syllable word past her lips. Not when his face was so close to hers she could count the squint lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes.

  Dixie was wrong, was all she could think. There was nothing pretty about this Tanner's face. Pretty was reserved for mild-tempered men, with dimpled cheeks, who spent their evenings playing the piano for their mothers.

  Ace was handsome. Yes. She couldn't argue that. But his was a rugged handsomeness, heightened at the moment by the dark stubble of beard that shadowed his jaw and the steely blue eyes leveled on hers.

  When she didn't immediately respond, he increased the pressure on her chin, tipping her face up a fraction higher, as if to remind her he was waiting for—and expected—an answer. Though the movement was subtle, she sensed the strength behind the finger that held her face to his, the stubbornness in the blue eyes fixed on hers, and knew she was dealing with a man who was accustomed to having his way.

  It would be so easy to knuckle under to him, she thought, feeling herself weakening.

  Easier still to be seduced by him.

  A whimper from the baby reminded her why she could afford to do neither.

  Stiffening her spine, she set her jaw. "I understand perfectly. But you need to understand something, too."

  "And what's that?"

  She closed a hand over his wrist. "No man touches me, without my permission."

  She felt a swell of satisfaction at the surprise she saw flare in his eyes … but it was short-lived.

  "Oh, I'll remember," he assured her, biting back a smile. "But the same doesn't go. In fact," he said, "you can touch me anytime, anywhere and you won't hear a complaint out of me."

  He bumped his knuckle against her chin to close her gaping mouth, then shot her a wink, turned and strode from the room.

  Maggie stood, rooted to the spot, staring after him until he'd disappeared from sight.

  Touch him anytime, anywhere?

  Because the image of doing so came much too easily to mind, she sank down on the side of the bed and buried her face in her hands.

  "Oh, God," she moaned. "What have I gotten myself into?"

  * * *

  Three

  « ^ »

  By the time Maggie had finished feeding the baby and putting her down for her nap, she'd convinced herself that Ace had said what he'd said to drive her crazy.

  …you can touch me anytime, anywhere…

  Why else would he say such a thing, if not to drive her nuts?

  And if that was his purpose, he'd certainly done a good job of it. Twice, while feeding the baby, she'd actually caught herself imagining doing what he'd suggested. Framing her hands at his face and tracing the sharp ridge of his sculpted cheekbones with the tips of her fingers. Smoothing her palms over those strong, broad shoulders. Splaying them over the muscled expanse of his chest, the hard, flat plane of his abdomen.

  The images alone were enough to have her thinking of sweaty bodies and tangled sheets.

  Which was exactly what he'd hoped her reaction would be, she was sure.

  Furious with herself for letting him get to her so easily, she snatched up her duffel and marched to the linen press to unpack.

  It wasn't as if she hadn't known that something like this could happen, she reminded herself as she jerked clothes from her duffel and stuffed them into drawers. She knew that sharing a house with a man required a careful balancing act in order to keep the relationship platonic and the two from toppling into bed together.

  Especially, it seemed, when the man was a Tanner.

  Not that Maggie had had any personal contact with the Tanner brothers prior to delivering Star's baby to their ranch. But she'd certainly heard enough stories about them from the women who hung out at the Longhorn to know they were legends in this part of Texas. According to the gossip, they were all rich, handsome and eligible—three traits that apparently made them irresistible to the female population, considering the number of women who had claimed to have slept with one or more of them.

  But Maggie had no intention of being charmed out of her panties by a Tanner. She'd let lust overrule good sense once in her life and she certainly didn't intend to make that mistake again. Lust she'd learned to deal with. And she'd learn to handle Ace Tanner, too, she promised herself, as she stuffed her empty duffel into the bottom of the linen press. It was just a matter of keeping her mind focused on her purpose for being in his home … and keeping a safe distance from him.

  Confident that she could accomplish both, she changed from her waitress uniform into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. With nothing else to do until the baby awoke, she decided to explore the rest of the house. She felt a moment's unease at snooping around without asking Ace's permission first, but dispensed with it by telling herself that since she'd offered to clean the house, she'd need to be familiar with its layout.

  As she wandered from room to room, she began to understand what had motivated Ace's stepmother to claim a space as a feminine escape for herself. The house did have the look and feel of a hunting lodge, just as Ace had claimed. Though there we
re gorgeous antiques scattered throughout, the bulk of the furnishings and accessories leaned toward a more rustic, western-style. Most of the upholstered pieces were covered in leather, varying in hue from warm golds to dark, distressed browns, while others sported western print fabrics, as did many of the throw pillows tossed about. The art she found displayed on the walls and tabletops ranged from bronze statues of cowboys galloping on horses to priceless oil paintings of Texas landscapes to ornately carved silver objects.

  And over it all lay a thick layer of dust.

  Some might find the prospect of cleaning such a large house daunting, if not depressing. But not Maggie. She'd never had much, and what she did have she'd picked up at garage sales, tag sales and a few successful Dumpster dives. The thought of putting the shine back on a house like the Tanners' … well, for her, it would be more pleasure than work.

  Anxious to get started, she headed for the kitchen. Obviously added on by one of the later generations of Tanners, the kitchen appeared to have undergone a fairly recent remodeling and offered every modern convenience imaginable. A brick arch above a commercial-sized range complemented the home's rustic theme, giving the appliance the look and feel of a working fireplace. Terra-cotta Mexican tiles covered the floor, while dark slabs of slate spanned the countertops. A long island, topped with butcher block on one end and beautifully veined granite on the other, created a convenient food prep area.

  Dazzled by the grandeur of it all, Maggie crossed to the built-in refrigerator to check out its contents, assuming she'd be responsible for the cooking, as well as the cleaning. Her chin nearly hit the floor when she saw the number of covered bowls and casserole dishes crammed onto the shelves, apparently the leftovers from the funeral meal Ace had mentioned. Certain that she wouldn't have to cook for a month, she closed the door and rolled up her sleeves, ready to get to work. She attacked the kitchen first, using the cleaning supplies she unearthed from beneath the farm-style sink.

  An hour later, with only the floor left to be mopped, she took a break to check on the baby. Finding the infant still sleeping peacefully, she returned to the kitchen and gave the tile floor a good scrubbing.

  Just as she was putting the mop away in the mudroom, she caught a glimpse of Ace through the window, walking back toward the house. Wondering why he was on foot instead of horseback, she crossed to the window to peer out.

  He certainly doesn't look much like a wealthy playboy, she thought with more than a little resentment, as she watched his approach. He looked more like a rough and tumble cowboy, returning home after a long cattle drive. The slow ambling gait with just a bit of a swagger. The dust-covered boots and jeans. The sweat-stained cowboy hat pulled low over his brow. If his face was visible, she knew it would only enhance the image more. With his flintlike blue eyes and sharply defined features, he could easily play the part of a gunslinger from the Wild West. All that was needed to complete the picture was a holster riding low on his hips and a six-shooter gripped in each hand.

  Finding the sight of him a little too appealing, she turned away with a sniff of disdain. As she did, out of her peripheral vision, she saw him stumble. Frowning, she moved back to the window and watched as he shoved back his hat and dragged his arm across his brow. Noticing that the shirt sleeve was torn, she stepped to the door and pushed it open.

  "Ace?" she called uncertainly. "Are you all right?"

  At the sound of her voice, he dropped his arm and looked up. Her breath caught in her throat, when she saw that blood smeared half his face and dripped from his chin. Forgetting her vow to keep a safe distance, she flung open the door and flew down the steps, across the yard.

  By the time she reached him, he was bent over, his hands braced on his knees, gulping air. Fearing he was about to pass out, she slid an arm around his waist to support him. "What happened?" she asked in alarm.

  He dragged in air through his nose, puffed his cheeks and slowly blew the breath out through his mouth. "Horse spooked. Pitched me off a mile or two back. Had to walk home."

  "Are you hurt?"

  He pressed a hand gingerly against his rib cage. "Don't know," he said, wincing. "Might've busted a rib or two."

  "And you walked home?" she cried in dismay, then clamped her lips together. "Never mind," she said, and urged him into motion. "We need to get you inside before you fall flat on your face."

  He tried to shake free of her hold. "Never fainted in my life," he grumbled.

  She tightened her grip on him. "Well, you better hope you don't start now, because I'm sure as heck not carrying you."

  She managed to get him to the back door and used her hip to hold it open, while she maneuvered him inside. Once in the kitchen, she half pushed, half dragged him to a chair at the table and eased him down. Dropping to her knees between his sprawled legs, she looked up to examine his face more closely. Beneath the dust and blood, high on his left cheek was a puncture-type wound the size of a bullet hole.

  "There's a contusion beneath your left eye."

  He lifted a hand to the spot and flinched, when his finger touched the broken skin. Setting his jaw, he shook his head. "Some antibiotic cream and it'll be okay."

  She pursed her lips. "That's going to need more than antibiotic cream." She reached for his hand. "Let me see your arm."

  He tensed, watching as she carefully peeled back the tattered sleeve, exposing more blood and dirt and two more deep cuts.

  "I must've landed on a rock or something when my horse pitched me," he mumbled.

  She closed her eyes, gulped, then forced them open again. "We need to get you to a doctor."

  He yanked his arm from her grasp. "No way. You're not hauling me to a sawbones over a couple of scrapes."

  "These are more serious than scrapes," she argued. "You have two lacerations on your arm, one of which will likely require stitches. And that gash on your cheek might, too," she added, shifting her gaze to frown at it. "Plus, you said you might've broken a couple of ribs. You'll need X-rays to be sure."

  He reared back in the chair, lengthening his chest in an obvious effort to relieve the pressure on his ribs. "Probably just bruised. There's a first aid kit in the mudroom. Top drawer of the chest. Get it for me, would you?"

  She wavered uncertainly, wanting to refuse, but finally pushed to her feet, knowing it would be a waste of her time.

  "You have to be the stubbornest man I've ever had the misfortune to meet," she muttered, as she strode for the mudroom.

  "If you'd met my brother Woodrow," he called after her, "You wouldn't say that. Woodrow, now he wrote the book on stubborn."

  She returned with the first aid kit. "If he did," she said, as she passed by him on her way to the sink, "he had a handy case study in you." After filling a bowl with water, she knelt in front of him again, positioning the bowl and first aid kit on the floor beside her. "Take off your shirt."

  "Is that an invitation or an order?"

  She glanced up, surprised by the teasing in his voice. But she saw the shadow of pain that clouded his blue eyes, the deep lines of it that etched his mouth and knew that his teasing was nothing but a ruse to hide how much he was truly hurting.

  It was in Maggie's nature to soothe, to heal. If he were anyone else, she would have reached up and brushed back the lock of damp hair that had fallen across his forehead, gently thumbed away the dust that had gathered in the squint lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes and teased him right back.

  But this was Ace Tanner she was dealing with. The man who had given her his permission to touch him anytime, anywhere. Remembering that—as well as how tempting she found that offer—she dropped her gaze and opened the first aid kit.

  "An order," she replied stiffly, as she began to lay out the supplies she'd need.

  Eyeing her warily, he tugged the tail of his shirt from his jeans. "I hope the hell you know what you're doing."

  "I'm training to be a nurse, so I've had some experience dealing with scrapes and bruises."

  He shrugg
ed the shirt from his shoulders, grimacing as he eased his injured arm from the tattered sleeve. "A nurse, huh?" he said, sweat popping out on his brow. "What is it they say about nurses? They do it with patients?"

  Maggie recognized his need to keep talking as yet another means of distracting himself from the pain. She might have responded to that need, if he hadn't chosen that moment to drop his shirt, exposing the most incredible chest she'd ever seen in her life. A mat of dark hair swirled tightly around his nipples and arrowed down his flat stomach to disappear behind the waist of his jeans.

  Tearing her gaze away from the tempting sight, she plunged a cloth into the bowl of water, struggling to find the detachment she needed to respond.

  "'Nurses call the shots.' 'Nurses do it with gloves on.'" She looked up and gave him what she hoped was a patronizing smile. "You can save the jokes. I've heard them all."

  "I'll bet you haven't heard this one. 'Nurses are here to save your ass, not kiss it.'"

  Kiss his ass? Oh, Lord, she thought. She didn't dare even think about that! Sure that her cheeks were flaming, she dropped her gaze to his arm and frantically began to cleanse the dirt and debris that clung to the wound. When she was sure she could speak without stammering like a fool, she laid the cloth aside and picked up the bottle of antiseptic. "As a matter of fact, I've considered having that one embroidered on my nurse's cap when I graduate."

  He snorted a laugh, then choked on it when she tipped the bottle over his arm, flushing out the cuts. "Damn!" he swore. "That stuff burns like hell."

  She blew to cool the stinging sensation. "Better a little discomfort than an infection."

  He closed his free hand over the edge of the chair's seat as if prepared to endure whatever tortures she had planned for him. "Spoken like a true medical professional," he grumbled.

  "It's a required class for all nursing students. Handy Retorts for Whiners 101."

  Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes. "Handy Retorts for Whiners," he mumbled, then chuckled weakly. "If it isn't a class, it ought to be. I'd imagine a nurse takes a lot of grief from her patients."