The Mountain Between Us. Cindy Myers

computer screen and ignore him. As soon as he calmed down he’d rescind all previous orders for inflammatory stories and accept whatever she had chosen to write about instead with surprising equanimity.

      He was also a relentless tease who took an inordinate interest in Maggie’s personal life—particularly her romance with Jameso Clark.

      “I just saw Jameso headed out of town on that hog of his,” Rick announced the afternoon following Maggie’s conversation with Jameso at the mine. Rick knew very well that Jameso’s bike wasn’t a Harley. It was a 1948 Indian Chief, a rare and prized model, at least according to Jameso. But since it annoyed him to hear Rick call his beloved vehicle a hog, Rick went out of his way to do so, even when Jameso wasn’t around to hear him.

      Maggie kept her gaze focused on her computer screen. She absolutely would not show she had any interest in what Jameso was up to. Rick would seize on the slightest show of concern on her part and nag her to distraction. He was very like a mad scientist in that respect, dissecting human emotion.

      “Where’s he headed?”

      Where was he headed? Away? When her ex-husband had shown up in town this summer, Jameso had responded by disappearing for two weeks. Running away—he said because his feelings for Maggie scared him. Looking at him, you’d never think a man like Jameso would be a coward, but there you had it. “I have no idea where he was going. I don’t keep up with his schedule.”

      “You don’t?” Rick moved to stand directly behind her computer monitor, the green plaid of his flannel shirt filling her field of vision. “I thought all women kept tabs on their lovers. To make sure they were following the straight and narrow and not getting into trouble.”

      “Since when do you know anything about women?” As far as she knew, Rick had no romantic interests in town. He made a show of ogling pretty tourists, and Maggie was pretty sure he wasn’t gay, but he was also apparently celibate, or incredibly discreet, not an easy feat to accomplish in such a small town.

      “I know enough about women to keep from getting entangled with them,” he said. “Lessons learned the hard way, I might add.”

      “Oh.” This was interesting. Rick rarely talked about himself. “And how is that?”

      “Don’t try to change the subject,” he said. “We were talking about you.”

      “We were? I thought we were talking about Jameso.”

      “Same difference. You and he are a couple. Don’t bother trying to deny it.”

      “I wasn’t going to.” After all, she lived next door to Jameso. They went out together often and regularly spent the night at each other’s houses—things they never tried to hide. They’d had what Maggie saw as a comfortable—and comforting—relationship. Good conversation, great sex, no pressure.

      But a baby had a way of exerting a whole new force on a relationship. Enough to tear them apart? She supposed that was up to Jameso.

      “So when are you two getting married?”

      Her heart lunged like a racehorse at the starting gate. “Married?” The word came out in a squeak. She took a deep breath, struggling to control her emotions. “What makes you think we’re getting married?”

      “Oh, come on, Maggie. You’re not the type to fool around with a guy just for fun. And if you’d wanted to merely live with the guy, you would have moved in with him already and saved on the rent.”

      Part of her suspected Rick was deliberately needling her, but she rose to the bait. “How do you know what type I am?” she snapped. “You hardly know me.”

      “I know you married your first husband at nineteen and you’d probably still be married to him if he hadn’t left you for that heiress or whatever she is. You’re the kind of woman who finds a man and sticks with him like glue.”

      “That doesn’t sound like love—it sounds like desperation.” And desperation was a word that in many ways described her marriage to Carter. She’d been desperate not to lose him and in the process had almost lost herself. A mistake she intended to never make again. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly content being single. I don’t need a man to make me happy.” Even as she said the words her stomach fluttered, as if the baby inside of her—surely not big enough yet for its presence to be felt—was protesting this declaration of independence. Maybe Maggie didn’t need a man, but did her child need a father?

      Of course, Jameso wasn’t rushing to her side to declare his undying devotion to his unborn son or daughter. She hadn’t seen him at all since he’d dropped her off at her house yesterday afternoon with his plea for “time to think.”

      She fixed her boss with a firm stare. “Rick, butt out,” she said. “You’re my boss, not my personal counselor.”

      He held up his hands in a defensive gesture that didn’t fool her for a minute. “Hey, I’m only trying to help. We look after each other around here. It’s the only way to survive.”

      “Meddling in my business is not looking out for me. When I need your help, I’ll ask for it.” And he’d turn blue if he held his breath, waiting for that day.

      “You know where to find me. And speak of the devil . . .”

      She followed his gaze out the front window in time to see Jameso ride past—a man in black leathers, with a black helmet, on a black and silver motorcycle. Dark and sexy. Something out of a romance novel fantasy. She felt betrayed by the warmth that pooled between her thighs at the thought—and the relief that surged through her, knowing he hadn’t left town for good, at least not yet.

      She shut down her computer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rick.”

      “Say hello to Jameso for me.”

      She didn’t dignify this with an answer.

      Jameso’s motorcycle was parked in front of his house. The narrow miner’s cottage was the twin to hers, with a steeply pitched roof and tiny square front porch trimmed in Victorian gingerbread. His house was painted mossy green with white trim, hers pale lavender. A light glowed in his back window—the kitchen. She resisted the urge to walk across the yard and knock on his door. She wouldn’t go to him. He would have to come to her.

      In the house, she changed and surveyed her figure in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Her stomach looked no rounder, her breasts no fuller. If not for the persistent morning sickness and the three positive tests stashed in her dresser drawer, she might have thought the pregnancy was a figment of her imagination.

      A knock on the door startled her. The weight and cadence of the fist striking the wood set her blood to humming with anticipation, even as she hastily tugged on a sweatshirt and yoga pants.

      “Hello, Jameso.”

      He stood in the open doorway, still dressed in his leathers, his shaggy hair windblown, his eyes shadowed in the yellow glow of the porch light. He had looked very much like this the first night she’d encountered him on the front porch of her father’s cabin. She’d been both afraid of him and drawn to him then, just as she was now.

      “Maggie, I’ve been thinking.” He strode past her into the living room, motorcycle boots striking hard against the worn wood floor.

      Well, that’s what he’d said he was going to do, wasn’t it? She faced him, arms crossed, waiting. He wore the grim expression of a man about to make a grave sacrifice. Maybe she should tell him there wasn’t anything romantic about a martyr.

      He ran one hand through his hair, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath. Tension radiated like heat from the taut set of his shoulders and the compressed line of his mouth. If she hadn’t been so annoyed with him right now, she’d have been concerned he was going to stroke out from his obvious anxiety. As it was, she felt he deserved every bit of agitation, considering the distress his attitude had caused her.

      But she was completely unprepared for his next move. The