"Not this time. Perhaps later on tomorrow, if things work out."
"I see. Father can give you directions to Ladyslipper Landing, and you can come on out yourself with your dogs or drive Father's wagon out. It seems a shame your sister will have to fend for herself for lunch tomorrow, though, since it will take you some time to see our facilities. I've even got some training trails laid out, which I'd like your opinion on if you have time." She turned to David. "Why don't you see that Cristy and Tracie have an escort for lunch, David? You wouldn't mind, would you?"
"Uh . . . no, of course not," he replied. He clumsily grabbed his water glass, barely managing to keep from overturning it and drenching the tablecloth.
"I'm sure my sister will appreciate it," Sandy courteously told David, ignoring the bumbling. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, Miss Goodman."
He made his way across the room and stopped at the cashier's desk outside the dining room door, and Laura noticed several women's gazes following him. Even two women whom she knew were married till-death-do-they-part regarded him in an appreciative manner.
Huh. David's just as good looking as Sandy, she mused. But she'd never noticed women in town giving David looks saying they might be interested in getting to know him a lot better. But then, she and David had been a couple for simply forever. The women could have felt they were wasting their time.
Sandy reached into his back pocket for his wallet, his actions snugging the white shirt tighter on his chest. A lot of men who spent hours on their sleds had better developed lower bodies than upper. Their leg muscles got the better workout when they sometimes ran alongside the sleds, both to expend some energy and lighten the loads for their dogs. But Sandy Montdulac's chest and flat stomach appeared in perfect condition.
He retrieved his change from the cashier and looked straight into her face. Her cheeks heated immediately at being caught studying him, and she grabbed her water glass. Land sakes, she wondered if any of the other women in the room had noticed her watching Sandy as closely as they were? But if she looked up now, he might still be standing there.
Before she could decide what to do, Rosalyn hurried over to their table. "Is something wrong with your trout, Miss Goodman?" she asked in a worried voice. "And yours, Mr. Hudson? Oh, my, I hope not. Cook said it was an especially fine mess of fish this time."
From the corner of her eye, Laura noticed David jerk his head around from staring out the window. His own half-eaten trout was also growing cold on his plate.
"Everything is fine," David assured Rosalyn. He picked up his fork, and Laura followed suit, giving the waitress a huge smile.
Laura added her hearty praise for the meal. "Tell Cook it's perfect." Cutting off a chunk of fillet, she popped it in her mouth.
***
Chapter 3
Another dusting of snow fell overnight, less than two inches but enough to make it possible for Sandy to give his Malamutes a run the next morning. After their lengthy confinement, they itched to keep moving, but each and every one of them obeyed his command when he ordered them to "whoa" as soon as they broke through a line of blue spruce.
Hardly any wind blew this morning, and what did blew toward him, touching his face, which was warm from his exertion of the uphill run. The Ladyslipper Landing dogs didn't catch his and his dogs' scents at first, and Sandy remained on the sled runners, studying what he would soon accept as his new home.
The two-story log house just ahead of him, with a porch along the front, was evidently the Goodman's residence. On past it, on the left, he saw Laura's dogs and their wooden doghouses. Off to the right were several unoccupied doghouses, evidently recently built since their white paint glowed in the sunlight. He assumed they had been readied for his dogs after Tom Goodman learned he'd be bringing at least part of his team along. He'd only been able to afford to bring eleven dogs, enough for a full team, and he counted at least that many doghouses.
The kennel building must be hidden behind the house. He saw a log cabin set back behind the empty doghouses on the edge of the cleared area. A lot smaller than the main house and only one story, he decided it was probably his quarters. It looked big enough to have at least three bedrooms, and he'd be willing to bet Cristy would enjoy the multitude of windows, especially the two large ones in the front of the house. His sister could set her easel up right there and have plenty of light. He didn't know much about Cristy's painting, but he recalled her complaining many times about either the lack of light or a change in it.
Smoke feathered from the chimney of the smaller cabin — from both chimneys, he realized. There were obviously two fireplaces, another fact to delight his sister, who didn't tolerate the cold all that well.
He remembered Laura Goodman mentioning her own lack of endurance for cold, and her tiny hands. It stuck in his mind both from their first meeting yesterday and last night's dream. Her small hands looked extremely delicate on the reins of the dog harness in his dream, but were more than adequate on his bare skin when the dream shifted, as dreams are wont to do.
That was another reason he ought to get the hell out of town and settle somewhere else — a damned critical reason. The woman stirred his libido for the first time since Colleen had died.
He'd figured his sexual urges would return some day, but not this soon. He hadn't even had an inkling of the slumbering sensations stirring to life until they slam-banged him last night. Way too much worry prowled his mind this past year to fret about how long that part of his life — granted, an important one — would remain in abeyance. It took him an hour's walk in the falling snow at two a.m. before he could even attempt to return to his room and fall back asleep.
Funny, he thought as he saw Laura round the corner of the two-story house and shade her eyes, as though watching for his approach. As much as Laura resembled Colleen, it hadn't been a case of mistaken identity in the dream. That he knew for sure. Laura Goodman's hands had trailed fire across his skin and down to —
Laura raised that same hand just then and waved at him. Still Sandy didn't start his team moving. He'd met Laura barely twenty-four hours ago, and she'd already crowded into his thoughts — and his dreams — slam-banged into his life. She wasn't one of those voluptuous women men talked about among each other after a few drinks, yet there was an obvious sensuality packed into her tiny frame. Mostly what attracted him, though, was her self-confident demeanor.
He'd never met a woman who had such grandiose plans. And even while he scoffed at her, worried about her safety, which he would be responsible for, Sandy admired her. He wondered if the man with her last night appreciated what he had? He hadn't seemed to. David and she hadn't appeared to be a pair of lovers dining together. Hudson had stared out the window instead of acting like a man besotted with his fiancée.
He called a curt halt to his musings, but not before a thankfulness for Laura being safely engaged flashed across his mind. He never trespassed on another man's domain. Among other reasons, her engagement put a firm halt to contemplation of anything further with her besides teaching her how to handle a racing team — an entirely different situation from a team on the trail solely for transportation or pleasure.
He growled a low word of disgust, both at himself for his thoughts and the cacophony of sound, which broke out just then. That darned white Husky trotted around the side of the house, ears perked to sharp points and tail curling aggressively over its back as soon as it looked up the rise toward him and his dogs. Immediately, the Husky roared a confrontational bark.
Laura's other Huskies picked it up and joined in. Sandy's own lead dog, Keever, returned the less-than-welcoming greeting, backed up without delay by his teammates.
Hardly ever did Sandy resort to the twenty-five foot whip every sled dog driver carried, but his hand fell on it now. Why the hell did Laura have that dog running loose this morning, when she expected him to arrive for their appointment? Maybe she assumed he would drive out in the wagon Tom Goodman had offered him, but any musher worth his salt knew f
resh snow called for a run with his dogs.
Her salt and her dogs, Sandy's mind corrected. He thinned his lips.
Blancheur headed out to confront the violators of his territory, getting several yards from Laura before she called him back. After only a brief hesitation, the Husky obeyed, and Laura disappeared around the house, Blancheur obediently trailing after her. The noise level, however, stayed steady.
"Quiet!" Sandy picked up the whip, but his dogs whined and calmed down in response to the verbal command. The most the whip would do anyway was get their attention when he cracked it over their heads. Not one of his dogs feared it, knowing from experience he would sooner use it on himself than them. It did come in handy to direct the dogs in severe weather if the wind blew too hard for his words to reach Keever. A pop on the ground on one side or the other of his lead Malamute would make Keever swerve in that direction, leading the team with him.
"Kra!" he ordered, using the Inuit word to mush, which each member of his team responded to. The dogs surged forward. By the time Laura returned to the front of her house without Blancheur, he had anchored his sled and knelt beside Keever.
"Good morning, and I'm sorry," Laura said breathlessly. "I got busy and forgot the time, or I'd have had Blancheur tied back up."
That same darned breeze carried a scent of wildflowers to him, out of place in this fall weather. He savored it for a few seconds before realizing she probably thought him rude for not rising in her presence. A glance at her face showed her frown, but she didn't voice a reason for the scowl. He got to his feet.
"My dogs won't attack you, like yours did me yesterday," he said. "So don't worry about them."
She rolled those sea-green eyes skyward. "Welcome to Ladyslipper Landing, Mr. Montdulac. And thank you for your good morning to me, too. Yes, yes, I do believe it's a fine day. Would you like to come in and have something warm to drink before we start our inspection?"
At her sarcastic comment on his lack of manners, the corner of his mouth twitched wryly and a heat of embarrassment flushed his cheeks. Darn her, she could make him feel small enough to track a snake's trail in the dark. Still it would be best if he didn't let her know she'd gotten to him.
As if his being on the run and her being engaged weren't enough, one look at the huge home in which she lived had reinforced his judgment. By the time he made back even a portion of the money he'd been cheated out of in Alaska after Colleen's death, Laura would be walking with a cane. Besides, he had about as much chance to rebuild any financial security in his position now as of it not snowing in Alaska for an entire winter. He'd be lucky to take care of Tracie and Cristy on the wages he earned, which were probably less than Laura Goodman's monthly spending allowance.
He took the dream last night as a warning. He intended to start off their association on a strictly business-type basis and keep it that way the entire term they worked together. Given the pull of attraction he admitted, even a slight friendship wasn't possible, and he aimed to keep the barriers firm between them.
"In a race, where there's a pile of money waiting at the end," he informed Laura, "you won't find a lot of amenities among the entrants. If they tell you something as simple as 'hello,' you better check your sled after they walk away. They probably sabotaged it some way while you had your attention elsewhere."
"We're not in a race right now, Mr. Montdulac."
Laura's dark auburn brows lowered even more as she deepened her frown and set her hands on slim hips. She'd tamed her hair today in one long braid, which hung down her back over a heavy green-plaid shirt. The color enhanced her eyes. She wore those darned trousers again, and he could tell they'd been made especially for her, since they didn't bag or hang. They followed the lines of her legs — and rear, he saw as she turned sideways and stared away from him for a second.
Damn, he'd always thought himself more of a breast man!
Laura gave an irritated sigh and brushed a loose tendril of hair from her cheek. "Come on," she said over her shoulder, walking away from him. "You can at least meet Katie, our housekeeper, before we go look at your quarters. She made butterscotch pecan rolls this morning and kept a couple back for you when I told her you'd be out this morning. I don't think even you can be impolite enough to hurt Katie's feelings by not accepting the rolls, especially since you'll know how hard it was for her to knead the dough when you see her hands."
Hell, there she went again — so easily stirring his guilt. Sandy shook his head and followed. She'd managed to prick his conscious twice already. With her obvious distaste of him, he truly couldn't figure out why she didn't send him packing and find someone else stupid enough to take on the job of training her, along with that pack of new-breed animals overrunning the race scene these days.
Maybe that was what he was trying to do, he pondered honestly, although he usually never analyzed his actions. If she fired him before he formally accepted the position, he would have to find something else — hopefully somewhere there wouldn't be a slip of femininity forcing him to keep probing his barriers for any sign of weakness.
As Laura implied, Katie Larsen proved too much for Sandy's aloofness, and he didn't even try once he saw her knotted knuckles. His own mother suffered the same problem for years.
"My mother swore by red cherry juice to help the pain in her hands," he blurted to Katie barely five minutes after they met. "She drank a glass every day."
"Why thank you, Mr. Montdulac." Katie beamed a smile. "We had a bumper crop of wild cherries this past summer, and I put up dozens of jars. I'll give that a try."
"Please call me Sandy," he murmured, taking a huge bite of the butterscotch-pecan roll and unable to quell a grunt of satisfaction as he savored it.
"You mentioned your mother as though she's passed on, Sandy," Katie said. "Is it a recent bereavement?"
"Yes. She and my father both died a little over a month ago. My sister Cristy lives with me now."
"I'm sorry. But you'll have someone to keep house and cook for you then. Laura tells me you have a little one, too, and I'm truly looking forward to having her around."
Sandy chuckled and replied, "My sister Cristy's not much good at the stove. Well, she is when she pays attention, but if something catches her eye, we're as likely to have burnt meals as edible ones. Cristy's an artist, and she does beautiful work. But she goes off into her own world periodically — at times right in the middle of a conversation. And I'm sure you'll like my daughter, Tracie. Everyone falls in love with her."
"I was planning on baking a batch of molasses cookies today," Katie told him. "Does your Tracie like molasses cookies?"
"Like all children, she loves anything sweet," Sandy admitted, willing to trust his daughter to this motherly woman.
Laura toyed with her coffee cup, trying to remain inconspicuous. Normally she would have been right in the middle of any conversation in the kitchen, but she was finding out quite a bit more about Sandy by letting Katie draw him out. Given his reticence so far with her, she'd be willing to bet he didn't realize how much he revealed of another side to him. Katie was good at eliciting facts from their guests. It must be her motherly characteristics — both physically and in her attitude.
From her chair on the opposite side of the table, Laura surreptitiously studied Sandy's face through her eyelashes as he talked with Katie. The blue of his eyes softened to a lighter hue whenever he mentioned his daughter or sister. His dark teal color yesterday had been as cold as ice, but sparkling with energy in Tracie's face. Sandy's voice even grew a little huskier when he spoke of his family, and a person would have had to be a stone pillar not to hear the love for them in it.
By the time he finished his pastry and a second cup of coffee, Katie had pulled an abundance of new information from Sandy. Laura knew his parents and Cristy had lived in Washington State, and that Cristy was twenty, almost a year younger than her. That, as Tracie had said yesterday, his wife had been dead a year. That they had no close family other than Tracie's grandparents, who sti
ll lived in Juneau, Alaska. Even Katie, however, couldn't draw any information about Sandy's in-laws from him. In fact, he abruptly told her they had severed ties with his dead wife's parents and refused to elaborate, changing the subject when Katie pressed him.
Other than that, he and Katie chattered like old friends, with the housekeeper following them to the door when he and Laura finally left for the guest quarters. As soon as they exited the house, though, Sandy's chilly withdrawal stole through Laura almost as though he physically built a wall between them. She wasn't used to having her attempts at friendship rebutted at all, by either males or females. Sighing in frustration, she led the way to the cabin, boot steps nearly silent on the new snow.
She showed him around inside, his sparse conversation a direct contrast to his careful inspection of the rooms. She'd hoped he would at least be impressed with this part of their offering as a bonus to his employment, since she'd assisted Katie and Meg in their efforts to make sure the house possessed a welcoming atmosphere for its new occupants. She would have thought it more rational for him to bring Cristy for a determination on the house, but perhaps what he admitted about his sister a few minutes ago explained why the burden of ascertaining what would make adequate living quarters for them fell on him.
The cabin had been the first home of her mother and father, and her father built onto it before he finally constructed the large two-story residence. Since then the cabin had remained vacant, but as soon as Laura received her father's permission to participate in the Alaskan race, she brought up the possibility of using the cabin for living quarters for her dog trainer. Having always had a soft spot for the cabin, her father easily agreed.
Katie directed updating the kitchen, and both she and her father decided to take advantage of the opportunity to make things less difficult on Katie, also. They ordered two of any of the modern convenience Katie suggested — like a new gasoline-powered washing machine. They didn't overlook one thing, and Dick Berglind, the proprietor of the general store, fell all over himself filling their requests. He even ordered a new Montgomery Wards catalog when the one they used became tattered from their zealous examinations.
Winter Dreams Page 4
