Mountain Wild (Harlequin Historical Series) by Stacey Kayne

eight nieces?” he asked, delivering that bit of information as though it pained him. “They’ve taken great pride in teaching their uncle the finerpoints of tea parties and needlepoint. I’ll have you know I can knit a fine scarf— while under proper guidance.”
    She could just picture him surrounded by eight little Morgan girls, the image widening her smile.
    “I’ve never stitched flowers,” he said, leaning over, his shoulder brushing hers as he looked at her design. “But I’m not afraid to try somethin’ new.”
    Maggie swallowed hard. She doubted Garret feared much of anything. And yet he wasn’t a hard man. She wasn’t afraid of him, that admission alone was enough to terrify her. She knew more about Garret than she wanted to admit to herself.
    “I want to help you out,” he said. “It’s the least I can do when you saved my life.”
    After the way his big hands had moved so gently over her body, she didn’t doubt those callused fingers could likely handle a needle.
    “Okay.”
    Stunned by her quick acceptance, Garret watched her scamper off the bed and over to her trunk.
    Well, hell.
    He likely couldn’t stitch anything resembling a flower—he’d just enjoyed sitting by her. She shocked him again by reclaiming her spot on the bed, her eyes bright with a smile. Lingering on her blue eyes conjured images he had no right remembering.
    He watched as she placed a small hoop beneath a fresh white dish towel and clamped another hoop over the top of the fabric, trapping the towel between the two, the circular portion of cloth stretched tight and ready for stitching.
    “Any particular design you’d like to sew?”
    The clear amusement in her sweet expression made him smile. She didn’t truly expect him to sew a decent flower any more than he did. But, hell, to keep her smiling, he’d give it a shot.
    “You choose.”
    She plucked a pencil from her sewing basket and began drawing at the center of the tight circle.
    “You don’t draw your designs.”
    “I do if I’m trying something new or if it’s a large pattern. There you go,” she said, passing his project over.
    Garret held up the circle and frowned. The faint crisscrossed lines at the center didn’t resemble any flower he’d ever seen.
    “What is it?”
    Grace looked up from her basket, a needle protruding from her lips, and his smile was back.
    “You’re holding it upside down. It’s your brand.”
    He turned the hoop and gooseflesh prickled across his skin. Sure enough, the lines across the circle created an off-kilter L leaning over a slanted J. His gaze strayed back to the woman busily pulling brown thread through a needle.
    How the hell did she know his brand? Had her man been a rancher? Knowing she wouldn’t answer his questions, he held his tongue—and nearly swallowed it as she scooted up beside him, taking the cloth from his hands.
    “You want to start at the bottom,” she said, placing his hand on the hoop as she drove the needle up from underneath. “Up, then back,” she said.
    Garret tried not to notice the gentle brush of her breast against his arm as he breathed in her intoxicating floral scent.
    “Each stitch should be the same size. See?” She smiled and held the needle out to him.
    He didn’t see much beyond the sparkling blue eyes of a mighty sweet woman. “Thank you, Grace.”
    She stiffened, as though just realizing she was practically on his lap. “Just…follow the lines,” she said, sliding back against the headboard. She shifted her basket into the space between them.
    He studied the few stitches she’d done for him. He’dalready violated her, and here she was starting to trust him and all he could think about during her lesson were the perfect breasts he’d had no right touching, or kissing.
    Oh hell.
    Forcing himself to focus on the cloth, he gauged the length of stitches she’d started and he poked the needle through to the backside. Trying to get the tip to come back up at the base of the