by Lisa Jackson
By this time, Amy, curiosity being one of her primary personality traits, was hiding behind her mother like a skittish foal, while peeking around her legs and sizing up Travis, who was still standing on the other side of the threshold.
“So who are you?” Keegan said, bending a knee so that he could look Amy square in the eye.
“Who are you?” Amy repeated, refusing to answer.
“I guess it’s time for formal introductions,” Ronni said. “Travis Keegan, this is my daughter, Amy. And Amy, this is Mr. Keegan. He has a son, Bryan, who was hurt on the mountain a couple of days ago. I helped take Bryan to the clinic.”
“You can call me Travis.”
Amy’s eyebrows drew together in concentration and cold air swirled into the house. “Where’s Bryan?”
“At home,” Travis replied as he straightened and his gaze touched Ronni’s again.
“Come on in before we all freeze.” She stood aside to let him pass, only then noticing that there was no truck or car parked anywhere nearby, though the snow was broken by a steady path of footprints leading into the woods. For the first time, she felt a drip of fear slide down her spine.
Still on the porch, he stomped the snow from his boots while Veronica kicked herself for asking a total stranger into the house, one who’d appeared on her doorstep like a vagabond, one whom she knew nothing about other than he had a son, could afford to go skiing and wore expensive jeans.
“You walked here?” she asked before softly closing the door. Surely she could trust him. If not, there was Hank’s old deer rifle. But it was unloaded and locked in a crate in the attic. Not too handy. But then, Veronica didn’t believe in owning a gun. She just hadn’t been able to sell any of Hank’s beloved personal belongings, including the rifle his father had bought him for his sixteenth birthday.
“It didn’t seem to make much sense to drive,” Keegan said. He opened the bag and withdrew a chilled bottle of wine—chardonnay—which he handed her. “To say thanks,” he explained. “And to get better acquainted, I guess. We’re neighbors.”
“Neighbors? I don’t understand, where do you...?” she asked, but a sense of dread told her she already knew the answer.
“I bought Cyrus Johnson’s old place a few weeks ago. Signed the papers and picked up the keys on the tenth and Bryan and I moved in just last week.”
Chapter Four
TRAVIS WATCHED AS Ronni’s face drained of color.
“Ick!” the little girl, Amy, said, staring up at him with round, horrified eyes. “It’s creepy there!”
“Creepy?” Travis smothered a smile because the imp was so vehement in her appraisal of his new home.
“Shh!” Ronni sent her daughter a glance meant to hold the girl’s tongue, but it didn’t work. The precocious kid had to get in her two cents’ worth.
“It’s scary. Gots bugs and snakes and—”
“Amy! Please.” Forcing a tentative smile, Ronni shook her head as Amy rambled on.
“Probably ghosts, too.”
Some of Travis’s doubts about hiking over here disappeared. He’d argued with himself long and hard about visiting the intriguing woman who had helped save his boy, and in the end rational thought had lost to curiosity and a desire to get to know more about her. No woman had interested him, really interested him, in a long, long while. “Ghosts?” he repeated, raising his eyebrows. “At my house?”
Wide-eyed Amy nodded with the heartfelt conviction of the young. “Lots of ’em!”
Keegan winked at her. “Haven’t seen any yet.”
“So you bought the old Johnson place,” Ronni said, and he imagined a note of discouragement in her voice.
Amy made a big production of rolling her eyes. “You’ll see,” she predicted.
“There are no ghosts!” Ronni said as she set the bottle of wine on a side table in the cozy little house.
“It doesn’t matter if the house is haunted or not,” Travis said as he stuffed his gloves into his jacket pocket. “Even if there was a battalion of ghosts and goblins, Bryan’s in such a black mood these days, he’s probably scared them off.” Frowning to himself, he unzipped his jacket.
“Mommy said no one would buy the old lodge ’cause it was too ’spensive.”
Ronni let out a little gasp, then in an effort to change the subject, said, “Why don’t you tell me how you found me since I don’t remember giving out my address to anyone?”
He felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. “That required all of my detective skills, I’m afraid. It took hours, and I finally was forced to take drastic measures. I had to look you up in the telephone directory.”
Chuckling, she tightened the belt of her robe around her slim waist. “Sometimes I think this town’s too small.” She was nervous and he didn’t blame her. Aside from having to deal with the little girl, she had to make small talk with a virtual stranger who had trudged through the snow and appeared on her doorstep. Walking over here tonight was a mistake, a half-baked idea that had entered his head and wouldn’t be dislodged, no matter how hard he’d tried to talk himself out of it. From the moment he’d seen her leave the clinic, he’d hoped to meet her again. And he wasn’t the kind of man to sit idly by while time slipped away. He was and always had been a man of action.
“I think I should apologize for my daughter,” she said as Amy played with some ornaments on the tree and yawned loudly.
“Why?”
She gazed fondly at the little girl. “Sometimes Amy is a little forward, if you didn’t notice.”
“She’s just a kid,” he observed. “Remember, I’ve got a teenage son.” He offered her a knowing smile. “Believe me, it only gets worse.”
“Great!” she said sarcastically. “And I was hoping with maturity, things would improve.”
“Not for a long, long time.” He eyed her speculatively. Her hair, piled onto her head, was damp and curling around her face, her skin flushed as if she’d just stepped out of the shower. The thought of her naked body caused a tightening deep in his gut and he shifted his gaze away from her face and the wicked turn of his mind. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t do too much apologizing for that one.” He motioned toward Amy. “I’d rather meet a kid who wasn’t afraid to talk to adults, to ask questions, to speak his or her mind. It’s the quiet ones I wonder about.”
The little girl yawned again and Ronni took her cue.
“Just let me put her to bed and we can have a glass of wine or, if you’d prefer, hot strawberry lemonade—Amy’s favorite.”
“I’m not tired,” Amy complained, her heavy-lidded eyes belying her words.
“You never are. Come on, I’ll read you a quick story.”
“No night-night.” Amy started to scramble away, but Veronica scooped her up and carried her, protesting loudly, up the stairs. He heard voices, Ronni’s calm and even, the little girl’s louder and more insistent as he removed his boots and jacket. His conscience pricked at him because he knew he was disturbing their nighttime ritual that Ronni, dressed in the soft bathrobe, was ready to settle in for the evening rather than entertain. But he hadn’t been able to keep himself away, especially when he’d learned they were neighbors.
Within minutes, she was hurrying down the stairs, but she’d taken the time to replace her robe with a sweater and pair of black jeans. “You didn’t have to change,” he said, feeling even more like an intruder.
“No problem. I was just being lazy because I took my shower so early. Come on, I’ll get a couple of glasses and we’ll have a drink by the fire.” With a fleeting smile, she padded barefoot into the kitchen area where she searched in a drawer and muttered to herself. “I know it’s in here somewhere. Ah—Voilà! I’ve captured the elusive beast!” With a flourish, she held up the corkscrew. Dark eyes assessed him and her full mouth curved into an easy, heart-stopping sm
ile. “Half the battle is won. You can do the honors while I find glasses.” She tossed him the corkscrew.
As he uncorked the bottle, he wondered if this is what his subconscious had planned when he’d stopped by the little deli down the road and bought the wine.
“I guess I should explain about my daughter’s comments earlier,” Ronni said as he worked the cork free. “Amy and I walked over to the lake last summer and Amy didn’t think much of the lodge. She let her imagination run away with her.”
“The house does need a lot of work.”
“Mmm, but it’s beautiful over there. I remember when the Johnsons lived there. My dad was the caretaker for a while.” Was there a touch of regret in her voice? She stood on tiptoe while trying to reach the wineglasses gathering dust on an upper shelf. “We lived in the cottage on the south side of the lake. It’s still there, but in worse shape than the main house.”
“Here, I’ll get those.” He was close enough to smell the scent of soap clinging to her and noticed the way her sweater hugged her breasts as she reached her hands over her head to pluck the glasses from the shelf. Clearing his throat, he handed her two glasses, which she rinsed quickly in the sink and then dried with a clean cloth.
“I, um, haven’t used these in a while.” A trace of wistfulness crossed her features and he caught her coffee brown gaze in his. Quickly glancing away, she poured the wine, then touched the rim of her glass to his. “To new neighbors?” she asked.
He nodded. “And no more skiing accidents.”
“Amen.” Again that note of muted misery.
As he sipped, he took stock of the house. A tipsy Christmas tree glowed with the colored lights strung through its boughs, and stockings—two of them—hung from the mantel. A fire warmed the grate and Travis, while drinking his wine, looked for signs of a man on the premises. But the coatrack held only two ski jackets—one for a woman of Ronni’s size, the other for a small child. The same was true of the skis mounted near the back door. No oversize male boots warming by the fire, no magazines targeted for men spread on the coffee table, no hunting trophies displayed on the wall or baseball bats or other sporting equipment tucked in any corners, no newspaper lying open to the sports page.
If there was a Mr. Walsh, he’d definitely made himself scarce.
Feeling out of place, Travis sat in an old rocker and she settled into a corner of the couch. “So, you’ve lived here, I mean in Cascadia, a long time,” he remarked, remembering her comment about the caretaker’s house.
“Born and bred here. I’m a native and so’s Amy.”
“Family nearby?”
If she thought his questions were too personal, she didn’t show it. “Just my sister, Shelly. She lives closer to town with her husband, Victor, and their two boys. Twins, a couple of years older than Amy. They keep Shelly hopping.” Leaning back, her dark hair falling in restless tangles that tumbled over her shoulder and curled over the swell of her breast, she studied the wine in her glass as if it held the secrets of the universe. “My folks are both gone,” she said sadly as she twirled the stem of her glass between long, ringless fingers. “Dad had a heart attack years ago and didn’t survive. Mom eventually remarried, moved to California and died a few years later. Breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” she said, growing contemplative. “So am I.”
“What about Amy’s father?”
She started, then stared at him as if he’d trespassed on private property. “Hank?” Sighing softly, she glanced up to the mantel where a photograph was mounted. Captured by the camera’s eye, a handsome blond man in a plaid shirt, worn jeans and hiking boots was holding an infant and grinning proudly as he stood backdropped by snow-laden fir trees.
“He died.” Amy’s voice floated down from her hiding spot on the landing. Clutching a beat-up stuffed animal that might have—considering the yellow-and-black stripes—once been a tiger, she peered through the rails.
“What are you doing up?” Veronica asked, her voice firm as she cleared her throat and seemed to chase away the melancholy thoughts that had gathered around her at the mention of her husband. But the sight of her child caused her eyes to twinkle and Travis suspected that the imp could get away with murder.
“He asked about Daddy.”
“I know,” Ronni said quickly.
Amy pointed a chubby finger in Travis’s general direction. “Mommy misses Daddy. She cries sometimes—”
“Amy!” Horrified, Ronni set her glass on the table. “It’s way past your bedtime. Tell Mr. Keegan good-night.” Her cheeks burned bright and she blinked rapidly as she hurried up the stairs. Amy scrambled ahead of her and Travis was left with a half-full glass of wine and an inkling that he’d stepped over an invisible and very private line, one he should never have crossed.
“I don’t want to sleep!” Amy cried, her voice trailing down the stairs.
“I know, but it’s time. Settle down, honey.”
Restless, Travis climbed to his feet. He walked to the tree, lit so brightly and decorated with unique ornaments that were, for the most part, hand-crafted. Strings of popcorn and cranberries were woven between the branches, so unlike the trees they’d had in Seattle.
Sylvia had always called an interior decorating company that had supplied the tree—usually a gargantuan noble fir decorated with a theme and sporting shiny ornaments, metallic bows and glittery tinsel. One year, every decoration had been gold on a white flocked tree; the next year had been red balls and ribbons on snow-dusted bows. But the most memorable had been a flocked blue tree with navy and silver ornaments that had fascinated Bryan when he was about six. He’d played with the ornaments until several broke and then he wasn’t allowed in the living room until Christmas morning, after the annual office staff party where everyone from the company was invited to their house to ooh and aah over the elaborate decor and pick at catered trays of hors d’oeuvres and fill their rented glasses from fountains of champagne.
As Travis thought about it now, he cringed. The holidays had come and gone but they’d held no soul. Christmas had been a time for spending a lot of money and putting on a show. New Year’s Eve had been a day to hand out bonuses and party long into the night. All that was about to change. This year was going to be different. In the extreme.
Veronica, blowing her bangs from her eyes, hurried down the stairs. “It’s official. Amy’s down for the night. Exhaustion won over curiosity, thank God.”
“I should probably get a move on, anyway.” Standing, he reached for his jacket. “I don’t want to leave Bryan alone too long.”
She didn’t argue, just walked him to the door. “Thanks for the wine,” she said after he’d slid into his boots and zipped his jacket. “It wasn’t necessary.”
“I know, but, to tell you the truth, I wanted to see you again.”
“You did? Why?”
He stared at her a moment and her brown eyes seemed to reach into his and search past his soul. “I wish I knew,” he admitted with a shake of his head. “I wish to God I knew.” He grabbed hold of the doorknob, then hesitated. “Stop by sometime. I’ll give you the grand tour and maybe then we’ll be able to show Amy that the lodge isn’t haunted.”
She laughed softly. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Wrong, Veronica,” he said, thrusting open the door. “Haven’t you learned yet that anything’s possible?”
* * *
“Keegan? Travis Keegan?” She shook her head. “You know, that name sounds familiar...but...no, I’ve never heard of him.” Shelly said as she poured another cup of coffee from the pot on Ronni’s counter. This morning they’d shipped out a few late orders that had to be rushed to the nearest express mail company and were taking a break at the kitchen table.
“He’s not from around here.” Ronni straightened the napkin h
older and salt and pepper shakers—Christmas elves in honor of the season.
“Oh.” Shelly eyed her sister skeptically. “You—and a new guy?”
“Don’t get any ideas. He’s just someone I met and you’ll get to meet him, too. He bought the Johnson place.”
“Bought it? But I thought you were interested.”
“I was.”
“Wasn’t the real estate agent supposed to call you if anyone had a serious offer?”
“Taffy told me she would, but it’s not like I could have bought it if I’d known anyone was interested. I couldn’t scrape up a down payment if my life depended upon it.”
“Still, she should have phoned. Taffy LeMar was always a flake. A flirt and a flake. Even in high school. I never liked her much.”
“She wasn’t obligated to let me know about the house selling, she was just going to call as a favor. Besides, it was probably just a pipe dream, anyway.”
“I believe in pipe dreams.” Shelly walked to the refrigerator, pulled out a carton of cream and added a thin stream to her cup. “But then, I guess I have to.” Biting her lower lip, she shoved the carton back onto the shelf and closed the fridge door. “I have some news of my own.”
“Good or bad?” Ronni asked, puzzled by her sister’s change in attitude. Shelly was always so happy-go-lucky, a person who was known to fly by the seat of her pants and somehow make everything turn out right. Now her brown eyes were dark and serious.
“Depends upon who you ask. Me or Vic.”
Ronni’s stomach knotted in apprehension. “What?”
