She finished mopping with one last swipe and wrung out the mop. "And just what non-fiction did you think I read?"
"Maybe art history, fashion, or something work related. I don't know." Trent stepped forward to lift the pail of dirty water. "Here, I'll throw the dirty water outside. All we need is a stopped-up sink to complete this happy picture."
She moved aside, grateful to let him step into the doorway's cold for her. "The Martins don't seem to have much reading material. I found a few magazines. If they have cards or dominoes, I couldn’t find them. Not even a checker set."
“Wonder how they pass the time in the evening? There’s not that much on TV without satellite service.” He opened the door and went out only far enough to miss the small porch with the dirty water. With a shiver, he shut the door and set the pail on the floor near the door.
"My grandparents and I play gin rummy sometimes when I visit them. When I was small, Dad taught me to play poker." Holly stood the mop in the empty pail to dry.
Trent produced a paperback suspense novel by an author Holly sometimes read. “Never travel without a book.”
“Maybe you could read later. While there’s light from the windows, you could fix that squeaking cupboard door. And if you can find a washer, would you fix the sink faucet?”
He scowled. “First animals and now home repairs.” He shrugged and started rummaging through the Martin’s tools. “Might as well make myself useful since we’re stuck here. Martin can probably use the help.”
“Great.” Holly grabbed the broom, dust rag, and a can of spray furniture polish. “I’ll dust and sweep. It’s not much but at least we can leave the place a little better than we found it to show our appreciation.”
They worked companionably through the day. If they’d had electricity and hot water, she could really have cleaned by laundering the curtains and vacuuming the furniture and floors. Late in the afternoon, Blue barked to go out. His sudden yip after the quiet startled Holly and she jumped.
"I think this is my cue to check on the generator and the water well."
Holly set her cleaning supplies aside. "Okay, I'll rustle up something for dinner." And she meant rustle. In spite of Trent assuring her they’d been invited to use whatever they needed, it made her feel a thief to paw through the cupboards and freezer.
"Sounds like a plan to me." He snapped his fingers. “Come on, Blue." The dog bounded for the door. Trent turned back to her. "For a watch dog, he's certainly bonded with us since we rescued him from that snow-covered dog house yesterday."
Telling herself she was just as bad as Blue, she could barely keep her mind off Trent. Alternately hating him and longing for him, she fell more and more under his spell. His green eyes flashed with triumph when he accomplished small victories like penning the cattle or fixing the furnace. It was as if he became a different person, younger and almost carefree.
She caught herself with a reprimand. How could she have forgotten that Geneva blamed him for her father's heart attack?
CHAPTER SIX
Sighing, Holly turned to prepare their evening meal. For lunch they’d snacked on treats sent with them by her grandmother. A large man like Trent probably required something more substantial for the evening.
Holly searched through the refrigerator, freezer, and small pantry to gather the ingredients for their dinner. The Martin family had little in furnishings, so the quality of home canned and frozen foods she found for a hearty meal surprised her. She guessed that came from having a personal meat supply and a garden.
“Ah, steaks are manly food and Trent’s a manly man. These should do.” Holly popped a couple of potatoes in the oven to bake and started the steaks thawing.
She couldn’t keep her mind from wandering back to the time of her father’s death. With guilt Holly remembered the lovely holiday she’d been on in Cancun with her friend Laura. Darn, it was her first real vacation in all the years she’d worked at Marvel, but it had been cut short by the call from her family. She’d arrived home to find her father in intensive care and her family's finances in ruins. Geneva had filled her in on the gruesome details of Trent's visit to their home, his confrontation with her father.
In the few conscious moments he had with her before his death, Walter Tucker made Holly promise to look after her half-sisters.
And being the stupid person you are, you saddled yourself not only with the girls, but also with their bitch of a mother. Way to go, Holly.
As Holly fried bacon for the potato topping, she recalled that after she made that promise, her father had grabbed her wrist and held with a surprising strength. He’d whispered, "Get... Macleod...to...to." That was all he said before he slipped back into drug-induced sleep from which he hadn’t awakened.
She bit her lip and fought frustration. If only her father had told her what he meant. Get Macleod to what?
For countless nights she’d tried to imagine. At first she thought he meant just "get Macleod," but she couldn’t ignore the trailing "to" her father gasped twice.
Again and again she’d told herself the same thing. If only she’d been home, if only she’d interceded between her dad and Trent, then her father might still be alive.
She paused from grating cheese and rubbed a hand across her face as if to wipe away the images of her father in ICU.
How many hundreds of times since his death had she had these same pointless thoughts?
Face it. That kind of thinking has gotten you nowhere.
The reprimand did little to ease her guilt. Now she was once again responsible for a dangerous situation. The danger here lay both from the elements and the volatile thoughts racing through her mind about the man who shared her isolation.
There was no doubt Trent Macleod meant danger for her as well as for Marvel. Big time—and in more ways than one. She set the table for dinner.
After spending more time with Trent on a personal level, she realized he was a man driven to succeed at all costs. If he had truly flaunted his success in her father's face, she didn’t understand why. He would have had to be cruel to act that way.
Holly slid the steaks in to broil and reasoned with herself. Trent was sometimes harsh, even hard, but in two months since they’d met she’d never seen him deliberately rude or cruel.
Why would Trent have taunted her dad? She shook her head. No reason she could think of.
Yet, Geneva said it was Trent's treatment of her father that so enraged Walter Tucker that it caused a fatal heart attack. Geneva had left no doubt of that, for it was within an hour of Trent's visit that her father fell to the floor and Geneva called 9-1-1.
How could Holly have sat beside Trent for several hours, reading and conversing with him as if nothing were between them?
Darn it, on the off chance Geneva was truthful, how could Holly find Trent so attractive when he’d personally wreaked such havoc in her family's life?
She groaned and tossed the salad. Face it, Holly. Your wicked stepmother is not above twisting facts for her own purposes. She paused. But why would she lie about this?
Even if what Geneva said was untrue, Holly knew Trent’s plans would make drastic changes in the company her grandfathers founded by expanding it and making dangerous financial commitments in opposition of her father’s plans.
And Holly had nearly made love with him last night. What a dolt she was. A flush spread across her face. She placed a hand to her cheek and felt the heat there.
Heat. Last night her body had burned for him. Even now she almost swooned at the memory of his hands and lips on her.
Oh, yeah, you want him, big time.
She’d fallen under his spell. No other way to put it.
Hugging her arms now, she let the memory of his mouth on her breast spiral her into that dream once more. Darn it, she’d never felt so cherished, so treasured. Sighing, she almost arched into the memory.
With a snap, she brought herself back to reality. She stood in the middle of a kitchen talking to herself, for heaven's
sake. It was a dream, just a foolish dream. What a fool she’d acted, but at least she waked in time to save herself from a more serious mistake.
On an icy blast, Blue burst into the room followed by Trent. He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together.
"What's for dinner?" He wiggled his eyebrows in a mock leer. "Princess, I'm hungry enough to eat you right where you stand."
An erotic image flashed through her mind, one she fought to erase. Why was she so physically attracted to this mystery man? Maybe if she knew more about him it would help her firm up her opinion. How did she accomplish that?
***
After dinner Trent helped her with the dishes then retrieved his unfinished book and sat at the table near the two candles. “May as well read in here and share candles.”
Although the heavy cloud cover that coupled with short winter days required lighted candles, the evening lay ahead of them. She looked around the room. Everything seemed in its place; kitchen cleaned and the dog and cat had food and water.
She sat in the chair across the table from Trent. "Yes, we may as well read."
She picked up her book. Even though it was by one of her favorite authors, she couldn’t focus on the story with this vibrant man across from her. The soft glow in the room and the flickering shadows cast by the flames highlighted his rugged good looks and invited the romantic thoughts Holly fought. Memories of their sleep-induced encounter of the previous night refused to leave her mind. Reading about a Victorian lady’s torrid romance did nothing to push the same ideas from her brain...and her body.
What she’d seen of his personality since they’d been stranded made her suspect Geneva’s awful account of his character. Maybe Trent wasn’t as bad as he’d been painted. Bracing herself, she decided to bait the bear.
"Trent, tell me about yourself."
He tensed as if her question startled and appalled him. She refused to be put off. "Why are you so secretive about your past?"
"That again?" He sighed and laid his book on the table. "What the hell, in today's world there are no secrets. So, what do you want to know?" He crossed his arms over his chest.
"Why did you get stuck with the name of pirate?" She persisted. "You weren't actually a pirate, were you?"
He raised an eyebrow. “Really, Holly, what do you think?” He sighed heavily as if unsure what she believed. "Damn that label. It's a long story."
She gestured toward the ice-encrusted window. "It would seem we have plenty of time for even the most involved story."
He exhaled again. "Okay, you win. There was this guy on the ship, Ollie Peterson. A big guy and a real harda—um, troublemaker. We had words and almost came to blows a couple of times. Man, I still see Ollie's face in nightmares."
"Was he like Captain Bligh?"
"No, just a deck hand, same as me. John Swenson was our captain. A good man.” He raked his hand through his hair. “This was about fifteen years ago. A couple of crew had been recommended by Ollie."
He shifted and looked past her as if remembering. "Crew quarters are close. I overheard Ollie and his friends plotting to smuggle paintings into the U.S. for a private collector. They’d stolen them from a museum."
She gasped. "What a terrible position to be in. What did you do?"
He shrugged. "Stole the paintings back and alerted the port authorities. Stored them in Swenson’s quarters."
Shaking her finger at him, she said, "I think you left out a lot. What did the men do when they discovered their paintings missing?"
"They suspected me at once. If not for Swenson's quick action, I'd be at the bottom of the ocean."
He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair again, which had dislodged his perfect cut and made him look like an owl. "To put it mildly, they weren't happy. The insurance company was, though. They split the reward money between the Captain and me. I don’t know what he did with his share, but I invested mine."
"What does that have to do with being a pirate?"
"Nothing. Some eager reporter played up the fact that I stole the stolen paintings back. Sort of piracy at high sea. Those guys are always looking for some clever way to slant a story. You should have seen the news photo taken before I could clean away the results of the battle with Peterson and his partners."
He chuckled. "Damned if I didn't look like a pirate, but with a black eye instead of a patch. It must have been a slow news day, because I made headlines. The name stuck."
"You're still leaving things out. How could the name stick for so long unless there's more to it?"
He leaned back in his chair and met her gaze. "Damn. You won't leave it alone, will you? There was that other time a few years later."
"Trent?" She slapped a hand against the table.
He held up his hands, palm toward her. "Okay. With his share of the insurance money, Captain Swenson traded his old tub in on a bigger ship. Of course, that meant more crew. We were hauling a load of the finest vanilla beans as part of our cargo. Even sealed in packaging, the smell filled the hold."
"Mmm. That must have been lovely. I often burn vanilla candles at home. My perfume even has vanilla in it."
"Yeah, I know.” His comment surprised her but apparently he didn’t notice. “A couple of the new crew members decided they could use the cargo to hide their own contraband."
"Drugs." She spoke the word as a statement rather than a question.
He nodded. "Right. They thought the vanilla would fool drug-sniffing dogs."
She tilted her head and grinned at him. "But they couldn't fool Pirate Macleod?"
He answered her smile and it sent heat surging through her. “They almost made it. If not for a storm that shifted some of the cargo, they probably would have. We re-stacked the crates, and three of them seemed different, heavier in weight." He looked down at his book.
She nudged the book with her finger. "Go on."
"Well, to cut it short, when the men were arrested, a crew member mentioned that old tag to a reporter and started the hype all over again."
"So, did you get another reward?" His tale impressed her. He’d had an interesting life.
"In a way. The Captain gave me part interest in the ship. Then, because he never married and had no family, he made me his sole heir. Unfortunately, he died last year."
"I’m sorry such a kind man died, but how wonderful you inherited what you’d defended." She should have known he wasn’t really a pirate, in spite of her dreams and that short article in an industry magazine. "You saved him twice, you deserved special treatment."
"No, I did no more than he’d trained me to do. He took me on when I was sixteen, forced discipline into a wild, reckless boy. I thought him harsh until I understood he wanted to make a man of me."
He closed his book. “Okay, turn about is fair play. What was it like growing up in Highland Park, Texas?”
The sharp edge to his voice didn’t cut as it would have earlier. Knowing he’d been an abused foster child, her life must seem perfect.
“It wasn’t all easy, Trent, in spite of the vast difference when you compare my childhood to yours. My mom was a wonderful woman, but she died when I was seven.”
She paused, reaching for the mental image of her mother. She wished she remembered more of her. “I’d always idolized my father and for a few months after Mom died, Dad and I were close. He called us the ‘winning team.’ Every evening Dad and I played poker, watched TV, went to a movie or somewhere, until he recovered enough to start going out with his friends again."
Those were happy memories during a troubled time in her life. She and her father plotted and planned all the great things they would do together, the places they would see. Until Geneva had seduced him, she thought, and reintroduced him to his old excessive habits.
“When he and Geneva first married, things weren’t too bad, especially if Dad was around. Soon Jenny was born and Geneva made shutting me out a campaign. Then Angie arrived and I became invisible. After that, Dad turned to me only when
his gambling troubles required my help juggling his precarious finances.”
“Good thing you had your Grayson grandparents.”
“Yes.” She remembered his childhood and how bleak it must have been. “That’s more than you had.”
He shrugged. “I survived.”
She shook her head. “Surviving isn’t enough for a child.”
She ached for him and children like him. Yet how could she make Trent comprehend the pain of the years she watched her father debase himself, place his family in the midst of complicated and disastrous schemes? She could try.
“How can I explain the despair of seeing Dad spiral further and further into gambling and self-destruction? It’s true I idolized him, but I know his faults.”
She sighed and her father’s face appeared in her mind, laughing and cajoling. “Dad was a charmer who never learned a glib tongue and bright smile weren’t enough to make up for his shortcomings. Countless times he gambled away everything we had. Then he made the same empty promises again and again and again."
Promises she desperately wanted to believe, but that she knew were hollow. He always left her to straighten out the mess of their finances.
“Gambling is as much a sickness as alcoholism or drug addiction. He probably tried to fight it, but he needed professional help.”
His words salved her pride. Who would have imagined this man would defend her father? “Instead, Geneva encouraged his gambling. She liked the thrill and the trips to Vegas with high rollers.”
He nodded. “An enabler.”
“If you’re right about the addiction of gambling, then I suppose I was an enabler as well because I always rescued him one way or another. Until the end, when I couldn’t without losing our home.”
“You can’t be blamed for wanting to help your family.”
His kind words gave her the courage to ask the question that had deviled her. “Trent?”
“Yeah.” Candlelight made his eyes sparkle like the emeralds they resembled.
“You remember you visited the day my father had his heart attack but I wasn’t there.” She took a deep breath and asked, “What did you say to him?”
SNOWFIRES Page 6
