A Promise of Fireflies

by Susan Haught

  And knights in shining armor.

  LOGAN WAITED UNTIL she approached the door to cabin number three, the tingling warmth of her hand still residing in the palm of his. Her laugh echoed in his mind, the sound more brilliant than her smile. Her eyes glistened in the light from the lampposts and he need only close his eyes for full recollection.

  “Let’s put the horses up, Shep, before the skies unload.”

  “You got it, Mr. C.” The driver dipped the brim of his Stetson and clicked his tongue. The sleigh lurched forward. The harness bells jingled, a crisp echo in the still night air.

  Images of an old movie—Lara in the sleigh waving goodbye to Yuri—flashed across his mind as the woman slipped inside, a silhouette in the open cabin door. Though the compulsion to fix his eyes once more on the woman with the stormy green eyes tugged at his better judgment, the insurgent feeling he hoped to see her again tapped at the armor he’d wrapped around an empty spirit. Yet every rational part of him waged its own personal war against it.

  Logan leaned into the cold leather seat. His hands trembled. He rubbed his temples, driving the images from his mind only to have them take shape and rise the way smoke swells into plumes from under the door.

  RYLEIGH CLOSED THE door and leaned against the hard surface. A chill rushed over her; one that had nothing to do with the freezing temperature, but had everything to do with a snippet of memory: a shadow of beard, deep-set dimples, and if she watched closely (which she had) a solemn smile that softened his dark eyes.

  Brushing snow from her shoulders, she hung her coat, pulled off her boots, and wiggled her emancipated toes. Instant warmth flooded the room as she flipped the switch to the gas fireplace and skied across the room, thick fleece socks gliding easily over waxed planks of wood flooring. Set high above the floor, the queen bed yielded when she fell backward into the puffy down comforter. She laughed, a giddy sort of thing, and sat up. Grabbing her phone, she drew her legs to her chest and dialed Nat’s number.

  The connection was garbled and the call went straight to voicemail.

  “Natalie Jo, this place is enchanting,” she said, twirling her hair around an index finger. “You need to sign on with these guys, without a doubt. The amenities are impeccable and the scenery spectacular. People will love it, summer or winter. I’ll send pictures if the connection clears up. By the way, between the Beemer and this place, I’m officially in love. Oh, hey—how’s Kingsley? I miss that brat. Talk to you soon. Wait—one more thing. It’s snowing,” she sang. Her toes curled and her shoulders quirked up to meet her ears.

  Ryleigh tossed her phone on the comforter and pulled Nat’s laptop into her lap. “Crap. This’ll be interesting,” she said, cringing. Mastering technology was as simple to her as algebra—letters and numbers didn’t belong together and neither did cookies and spam. But caffeine went with everything.

  Soon, the bold aroma of gourmet coffee filled the cabin. She placed a full, piping hot mug on the nightstand, flopped on the bed, and lifted the computer into her lap. She clicked the icon. “Yes!” The document blossomed in front of her eyes and she made the final edits to both columns for The Sentinel, Bernadette’s trade for time off. Smug with the results of the first document, she clicked the second folder and the title page of her manuscript appeared.

  Armed with a mug of caffeine, she settled in to tweak one of her characters, an incessant fictional child—aka, hormonal male—begging for her attention. She recalled his features, confident stride, and shadowed face. Her hero emulated the spirited jawline and assured stature of the stranger on the sleigh, but a mountain of handwritten pages needed to be typed into the computer. She sighed at the prospect of a long night ahead.

  Snow bathed the night in silence outside while the soft tapping of fingers on a keyboard resounded inside cabin number three. Ryleigh yawned. Transferring the last of the handwritten pages, she typed the word Epilogue, clicked Save, and closed the laptop.

  Remnants of subdued light from the stone fireplace cast playful, soothing shadows across the log-sided cabin walls. Her tired limbs unfolded and she yawned so wide her eyes watered, the moisture cooling the burn. She shimmied out of her jeans and snuggled under fleece sheets and thick blankets. Firelight whirled behind her eyelids, and her fingers closed around the dog tag as sleep set the period at the end of a long day.

  Outside, snow continued to fall.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  RYLEIGH OPENED ONE eye and stretched languidly. Light poured through the glass doors, gray-white and blinding. In her haste to crawl into bed last night (or had it been morning?) she’d forgotten to close the blinds. Movement caught her eye beyond the back deck. She rose and tiptoed to the glass doors. Could it be?

  Night had given way to a pristine blanket of snow, the wilderness quiescent. Directly across Fall River perched atop a large boulder sat the bobcat, legs buried in snow. Not much larger than Kingsley, its gray fur and black spots contrasted against the white backdrop. Careful not to disturb her, Ryleigh cracked the sliding glass door. A breath of air, cold and keenly virginal, showered her nose to ankle in gooseflesh. The cat flinched, every muscle on high alert. Slightly off-key and through chattering teeth, she whistled “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” a tune she’d sang to Evan as a baby, before he could discern the fact she couldn’t sing. The cat’s ears twitched at the unseen notes floating over the river. The snap of a tree limb startled her and in two leaps, she’d disappeared. What wasn’t magical about this place?

  Fully awake, Ryleigh showered and dressed in jeans, minus any distressing—this was no place for natural air conditioning—and a turtleneck under a bold ecru fisherman’s knit sweater, her father’s dog tag nestled against her skin.

  Bundled against the cold and the laptop secure, Ryleigh walked the short distance to the lobby. Snow parted in the wake of her knee-high snow boots, and icy wind bit her cheeks. The grounds bustled with activity. Knots of people milled about. Some loaded their vehicles. A child’s shrill cry split the chaos.

  Systematic commotion greeted her inside as she stomped snow from her boots. Across the lobby, Rose directed guests like an indoor traffic cop.

  Ryleigh waved. “Good morning, Rose.”

  “Well, well, well, good morning, Ms. Collins.” Rose beamed. “How was your evening? Did you sleep well?”

  “No less than perfect, and I was greeted this morning by Whistler.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Rose, what the heck is going on? Am I the only one left in the dark?” she asked, frowning.

  “Oh my dear, it could get very dark around here.”

  “Seems to be the story of my life.”

  Bewilderment twinkled in Rose’s eyes.

  “Long story. What’s going on?”

  “Everyone’s leaving due to the storm.”

  Ryleigh grinned. “A few inches of snow hardly constitute a storm.”

  “Oh, but there’s a doozie coming.” She leaned into Ryleigh and lowered her voice. “I swear those weathermen can’t tell the difference between their culo and a hole in the ground sometimes.” Frustration wrinkled Rose’s brow. “We’ve advised everyone to leave just in case the forecasters get lucky this time.” She patted Ryleigh’s arm. “Otherwise you all might be stuck here longer than planned. This was a trial run for investors and we’re not completely set up.”

  “Must we leave?”

  “Of course not, if you don’t mind being housebound for a few days.”

  “I have nothing else planned.”

  “If this storm hits like they say,” she said with a note of caution, “the roads could be closed until Mr. Cavanaugh can arrange for the snowplows. I doubt he’ll risk the horses if the snow’s too deep.”

  “I could use the solitude.”

  “Couldn’t we all?”

  “Mind if I use the Reading Room?” An empty room to finish her story seemed indulgent. And wonderfully enticing.

  “By all means. If I don’t see you before I leave, enjoy the r
est of your stay.”

  “You’re leaving too?”

  “My husband needs help preparing for the storm.”

  “Of course. It was nice meeting you, Rose. Be safe.”

  “It’s been my pleasure, Ms. Collins. Give my best to Natalie when you return home.”

  Ryleigh turned to leave but turned back. “Rose, is Mr. Cavanaugh around? I’d like to meet him—to let Nat know I spoke with him.”

  “He should be back shortly. He’s in his element flitting about town picking up supplies and all,” she said, her smile on the wry side, “a ship in full sail, that one.” Her hands rose in a wide circle, a feeble attempt to imitate a blustery sail.

  Ryleigh smiled. “Thank you,” she said, and headed for the quiet of the Reading Room.

  With foot traffic at a peak, she zigzagged across the lobby. The knot of people had thinned. She slowed to a stop and gasped at the breathtaking view. Fall River, lined with boulders and prisms of ice, ran briskly through a blanket of white and she stood motionless to pin it to her memory.

  She wasn’t entirely surprised to see the Reading Room vacant. A fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace and subdued cove lighting encircled the room. Excited by the rows of books, she hadn’t noticed the fireplace the previous day. An ample tree trunk, peeled and sawn flat on top, served as the mantel and stretched the eight-foot width of stone. A bronze bust of William Shakespeare sat on one end. Her eyes followed the river rock, naturally colored and worn smooth, to a log-beamed ceiling. The room had a masculine feel, but to her relief no animal heads hung on the walls.

  She sat down and pulled off her boots. The flokati rug pooled under her feet and she wiggled her toes inside her socks against the long fibers. Ryleigh curled into the corner of the leather sofa and though not entirely convinced she wanted to work, she powered on the laptop. A leisurely nap, or curling up to read with the warmth of the fire at her back and the snowy landscape in front of her seemed more to her liking. Both sounded luxurious.

  Ryleigh peeked over the top of the computer screen and did a subtle double-take at the man in the long tailored leather jacket standing at the entrance brushing snow from his shoulders. He nodded before entering and stopped short of the sofa, larger in both stature and presence than she remembered. The same black cashmere scarf hung casually over straight, broad shoulders, and she recognized the designer jeans—True Religion—the same brand Mitch and Nat wore. He looked as though he’d come from outside, but definitely not from the stables.

  “We meet again, Cabin Number Three.”

  “Hello,” she replied, setting the laptop aside. “You have a strange habit of finding me. Or following me, perhaps?” She pursed her lips. “And if you work here, you could have easily learned my name.”

  “That would be,” he said, removing leather gloves from the large hands she keenly recalled steadying hers, “presumptuously rude. That,” he paused, discarding brown paper and string from a small package, “could be considered stalking.”

  Ryleigh grinned, despite his sudden appearance.

  He handed her the book. “This belongs between Emerson and Gibran, but since you’re here, will you do the honor? Unless of course, you’d prefer to read from it first.”

  She stared at the book and then looked to him. “You bought this because I mentioned Robert Frost?” She brushed her hand across the title.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s my job.”

  She opened the book to the index and ran her finger down the titles until she spotted “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” and then turned to the page and began to recite. She paused, surprised to see him reciting the words, his eyes fixed on hers. “You know this?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the verses?”

  “All four.” He glanced away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have guests to attend to. There’s a storm in the forecast and I must see they reach town safely. You should think about leaving soon.”

  “Rose assured me I could stay,” she said, straightening. “I’ve been through my share of snowstorms.”

  Intense eyes the color of strong, bold coffee, held her gaze. “The resort will remain open. So whatever you decide is fine. However, Internet and cell service can be erratic during inclement weather in this river valley. You should advise your family.”

  “I intend to stay,” she said, pinching her brow. “I have a lot of work to do and I need this time away.”

  The man nodded politely. “Enjoy your afternoon, then. Be careful if you venture out,” he said, retrieving the paper wrappings and hesitated for quite an extended moment—but left the room without looking back.

  Ryleigh stared after the puzzling man who tended horses in designer jeans, cashmere, and expensive leather. And knew poetry. She captured one last glimpse as he strode confidently from the Reading Room, the sides of his stylish coat billowing with each long stride.

  He intrigued her. Not only for the palpable display of thoughtfulness, but the way the story in his eyes seemed to emulate the turbulent emotion hidden behind hers. Part of her longed to step one foot into tomorrow and pursue the story, the other more stable, rational part tugged her back into the safety zone of today.

  Summoning Rose with a wave, the stranger draped an arm across her shoulders and the woman disappeared beneath his arm, the man several inches taller and whose widespread shoulders were a generous shelter to the short, plump woman. They spoke, the animated figures a silhouette against the white backdrop obscuring everything beyond a few feet from the window.

  The storm had arrived with a vengeance.

  Ryleigh sent texts to Natalie and Evan letting them know she would be staying on through the duration of an impending snowstorm. Both failed to deliver. “This thing is possessed.” She tapped the screen as if doing so would inspire a cellular exorcism. Giving up on the texts, she sent each an e-mail. Surely the Internet would cooperate.

  The hours passed slowly, but the snow accumulated quickly. The bustle had died and the only sounds were the occasional pop and hiss of hot pitch in the fireplace. Unable to focus, she closed the laptop and turned back to the Frost poem and read it again, though the book acted merely as a prop, the words memorized years ago.

  The developing snowstorm seemed the perfect end to a near perfect day. Ryleigh packed the computer and squeezed Robert Frost between the good company of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Khalil Gibran. She paused, and pulled a collection of poetry by Emily Dickinson from the shelf just as Rose’s voice echoed across the room.

  “Oh, Ms. Collins, I’m glad I caught you,” she said, a buxom chest heaving in time to hurried breaths. “Everyone’s gone. I wanted to make sure you still wanted to stay.” She rolled her eyes. “They’ve upgraded the storm.”

  “Are you sure I should?”

  “Mr. Cavanaugh insisted everyone go home to their families, but a portion of the staff is housed in the dormitories. Plenty enough to run the resort. And Mr. Cavanaugh will be here, of course. You’ll be fine.”

  “It’s settled, then. I’ll stay.”

  “Mr. Cavanaugh will see to your needs.” Rose patted her arm. “He knows this place better than anyone.”

  “Am I ever going to meet this mystery man?”

  Footsteps echoed in the lobby.

  Rose’s eyes widened, and then disappeared in a wide grin. “I think that’s him now. I’ll introduce you and then I should leave before the snow gets any deeper, or it’ll be melting down my fondoshciena.” Rose cupped her hand to one side of her mouth. “My backside. God knows there’s plenty of it,” she whispered and darted to the lobby dragging a tall, broad shouldered man back by the arm.

  Ryleigh gasped, covertly adjusting her collar to hide the color surely rising in a steady stream of heat from her neck to the top of her head.

  “Logan Cavanaugh, I’d like you to meet Ryleigh Collins. She’s here to discuss the spa arrangements.”

  A furtive grin lightened his face. “Hello again, Cabin Numb
er Three.” He extended his hand.

  Rose’s round face pivoted between them. “You two have met?”

  Ryleigh took his hand. A tingle startled her as their fingers touched. “You could say that.”

  Compassion and kindness emanated from watchful brown eyes and the same whisper of cologne tickled her nose.

  Without the barrier of gloves, his touch sizzled with the energy of an impending lightning strike. Strong fingers closed around hers and his warm, chocolate eyes consumed her words before they could fall from her lips.

  Rose glanced from one to the other. “Well, well, well.” Dismissing herself, she gave a casual glance over her shoulder and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  LOGAN RELEASED HER hand. “Dickinson?”

  “Oh,” she replied, holding the leather-bound book slightly away from her, “yes. I’m having trouble concentrating on work.”

  “Rose tells me you’re a writer.”

  “Rose exaggerates.”

  “May I ask what you write?”

  Ryleigh regarded him curiously, the sobering contour of a handsome face defined by lines that cut deeply beside a soft mouth. “Fantasies.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser?”

  “No,” she said, glancing away, “nothing like Alice in Wonderland.” She brushed a lock of hair behind an ear.

  “Hobbits of the Shire or wizards of Hogwarts?”

  “Neither.” She lowered her eyes. “Romance.”

  “Not exactly what I consider the fantasy genre, Cabin Number Three.”

  “It is if you’ve lived my life lately.” She raised her eyes to his, the pause no more than a mental stutter. He was smiling, but his dark eyes sheltered the emotion of the person they belonged to. “Love is a fantasy—an unrealistic dream created by the imagination.”

  “That’s merely Webster’s version.” He motioned for her to sit. “Fairy tales and fantasy allow us a discernible way of escape.”