by Susan Haught
On the return drive to Ryleigh’s cabin, Logan wanted to believe she was holding on a little tighter. Compelled to free her of the awkward predicament in the snow, he found himself unable to pull away from the intensity that stared back at him over the faint suggestion of freckles scattered under extraordinary green eyes. The tethers that bound him had fallen victim to her infectious smile and warm, delightful laughter. Cheeks reddened from the cold and damp, errant strands of hair the color of caramel that peeked from beneath a knit cap had been more breathtaking nestled against the snow than any expanse of wilderness landscape. A December rose in bloom. A prism of colorful laughter. A sea of churning waves.
The wind numbed his face, but the whole of her had penetrated an invisible barrier—a safeguard nothing or no one in three years had come close to breaching.
An answer to a prayer.
One he hadn’t asked for.
Something shifted in his memory and his throat tightened around some abstract thought he failed to drag from the recesses of a careless mind.
Or one he refused to expose.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE LAPTOP SAT idle on her lap. The cursor blinked, but didn’t move. Concentration was useless. Gripped by the hypnotic trance of falling snow, Ryleigh stared out the window of her cabin confused and uneasy. The whisper of his touch lingered across her lips. Her head swam. The story in front of her had a tidy ending. But her story was chaotic. And messy.
Outside, snow fell in downy feathers, swallowed by the river and designing white top hats on the boulders lining the riverbank. Lost in thought, she barely heard the knock. She padded across the oak floor and peeked through the tiny peephole that turned humans into comically distorted aliens and saw nothing.
She took a useless swipe at the peephole. “Who’s there?”
“I come bearing gifts.”
She released the deadbolt and opened the door to Logan wiping the frozen peephole with a gloved finger. Snow dappled his ski bibs and settled on wet curls peeking from under a knit hat.
She shifted her weight. “You have a remarkable talent for scaring me,” she said, the cold draft raising the hair on her arms in a ruffle of gooseflesh.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said and dusted the snow from his shoulders, “but I assumed you’d know who it was.”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone.” She caught herself staring and quickly looked away.
“I brought the Arctic Cat,” he said. “It’s not exactly quiet.”
“I was working. I barely heard the knock.” Who was she kidding? She cleared her throat. “But why are you here?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you, but with the storm in full swing it would be difficult for our guest to venture to the dining room, so I brought room service,” he said, holding up an insulated food carrier.
Momentarily stunned, all she could do was stare.
“I’ll leave the food,” Logan said, turning toward the door, “so you can return to your work.”
“Don’t go,” she replied so quickly she surprised herself. And from the look on his face, it surprised him too. “Please, come in.”
Logan stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and removed his hat with a shower of melted snow. “Max, our chef, is staying through the storm. I don’t know what he’s prepared us, but it’s hot and he hasn’t disappointed me yet.”
“Us?”
“Except for a skeleton staff, you and I are the only ones who remained behind.”
Ryleigh set the carrier on the counter, the spicy balm of ginger and red peppers enticing as she removed the contents, the flush from his lingering gaze on her shoulders more pleasant than the fingers of heat from the fire. “Logan,” she said, turning to face him.
“It’s okay.” He turned toward the door. “I wanted to make sure you had everything you need before I go.”
“Please stay,” she said, splaying her fingers. “Have dinner with me.”
A smile matured across his face. “I’d be honored.” He unzipped the front and legs of the ski bibs, muscled limbs tightening and relaxing as he stepped free.
The routine caused a pleasant tingle across her skin as she scanned his body, his jeans faded and worn smooth in all the places that fit him snugly. Turning away, she rubbed the back of her neck to choke the rising heat. “Hang the bibs, please. I wouldn’t want the owner upset over water spots on the wood floors.”
“You wouldn’t want to cross him.”
“And why is that?” she asked with a deliberate air of cynicism.
“I understand he’s a smart-ass.”
“Rumors precede him.”
“First impressions based on rumor can be deceiving.”
“I base my impressions solely on firsthand knowledge.”
A flicker of humor crossed his face as she motioned for him to sit.
They talked through the meal, something Ryleigh hadn’t done in an exceedingly long time. Prior to his liaison with Della, conversations with Chandler were scarce and the silence between them had risen to a deafening roar.
Keeping the conversation light, Logan mentioned how Wentworth-Cavanaugh had taken mediocre properties and transformed them into posh resorts, though he wasn’t quite sure how it happened with the state of the economy. His father had been the pillar of the company with a shrewd mind for business, but an innocuous patriarch when it came to family. Logan spoke with undiluted pride about his daughters, Sophie and Abbey, now grown and gone, and how Sophie was to be married soon and Abbey would step into the family business after college. It was evident he cherished his mother and how it was her family’s money—the Wentworths’—that started them in business. But his eyes confessed the softer side of his story—the admiration and abiding love he felt for his family.
Digesting every detail, Ryleigh considered how desperately she missed her mother and father, and in increasing measures the soldier who had given her life. As for her twin, she knew why she felt an immeasurable piece of her had been missing—it was the idea of family and the convoluted concept that fabricated hers—as she listened to Logan speak effortlessly of his. But he made no mention of a wife, or in her case, an ex.
“They’re in their sixties now. I took the reins three years ago after…”
She studied the strong lines of a face turned suddenly pale under the dark smudge of an evening beard. “What happened three years ago?”
Logan lowered his eyes as if to break the connection and keep her from further inquiry. He leaned into his chair and an air of contemplation swept over his face. “Enough about me, I want to hear about you.” A smile that failed to reach his eyes softened the traces of apprehension. “Your turn to share.”
Ryleigh spoke warmly of Natalie, her childhood friend, confidante and savior, and sister she never had. She poked fun at her boss’ pompousness, and he laughed openly when she told him about Kingsley—“Named after the wizard in Harry Potter, no doubt,” he’d said. And he’d been right, though Kingsley behaved more like Garfield. But mostly she spoke proudly of Evan and how it killed her to have him so far away, of his uncanny ability with words, and his internship in California, purposely steering clear of any mention of Chandler.
“I miss him.”
Logan’s nod was one of complete understanding.
“More than I ever imagined. You must miss your daughters as much as I miss my son.”
“I do.” He didn’t look up. “And what of Evan’s father? You’ve never mentioned him.”
The words stuck in her throat. “No, I haven’t.”
“You’re not married.”
“How do you know?” she asked, forcing herself to swallow the inevitable topic. “Maybe I’m the type who enjoys a weekend fling.”
FROM YEARS OF trained experience, Logan noticed the momentary look of disquiet—an instant of recall maybe—that passed across her face. Instinct threatened to take over, the need to rescue, to protect. A somber bubble surrounded her and he wanted to break through the
barrier and know her, to know the pieces she’d left behind and rescue her from whatever poison coursed through her veins. Foolish and nowhere near appropriate, he quickly dismissed the thoughts, his conscience pressing him to leave before things could progress any further. Caught in a vicious crossfire, he desperately wanted to stay—and urgently needed to leave.
“No,” he said, placing his hand over hers. The simple touch sent his blood surging, betraying a catalogue of wayward thoughts. “I don’t believe that.” His finger traced the ghostly imprint of her wedding ring. “I see the evidence of what once was.”
Ryleigh flinched and tried to pull her hand away. Logan tightened his grip and wrapped both hands around hers to secure the link between her story and the control by which he hung by a very thin thread. “Your story runs deeper than what you’ve revealed.”
“I don’t want to go there, Logan.”
Having heard a multitude of stories through the years, Logan sensed when someone was holding back. She bore no visible marks, but the scars she didn’t speak of, the ones on her heart, were another matter.
“You should.” He hesitated, unsure whether he had opened a door to selfish need, or if he’d closed the door to his own story. “Please. Take me to those places you don’t want to talk about.”
THIS WASN’T A man easily swayed, and backing down wasn’t an option. Perhaps she could skirt the edges. But why? The niggling compulsion to know the facets of this man endorsed the fact she wanted (or was it some desperate need?) to let him in and she was acutely aware he sensed it. Though she stumbled over a wall of apprehension, this man’s eyes were expressive and kind, and crossing over the edge of fear to tell her story felt natural.
And safe.
“My story’s messy.” She smiled to hide the shadow of fear clinging stubbornly to her heart. “It doesn’t make much sense to me most of the time and it certainly isn’t as interesting as yours. Just…messy.”
“Try me. You might be surprised.”
“I’m not a fan of surprises,” she mumbled.
“No?”
“No. But you seem to have a gift for extracting unpredictable behavior from someone who has an extreme aversion to surprises.”
A smile tucked itself into the corner of his mouth. “Why don’t you care for surprises?”
She hesitated. “Clowns hide behind funny makeup and sometimes they hide in drains and grab and pull you into the sewer. So do surprises. They creep up on you, show their ugly teeth, then leave you to bandage the wounds while you’re trying to figure out what the hell happened.”
He scraped a hand over his chin and nodded. “Fair enough.”
She hesitated, took a deep breath and before she could mentally talk herself out of it, tossed caution out the door. “Reader’s Digest version?”
“It’s still snowing. We have all night.” His unwavering gaze held her fast. “But Reader’s Digest it is.”
Something remained hidden in his eyes, something deep and solid. Stepping inside felt safe, as though he could close his thoughts around her and protect her and safeguard her secrets. It puzzled her to feel so calm, when a few weeks ago she had disintegrated at the mere thought of retelling the story. Maybe it was as they say—easier with time. Or that time heals wounds. Or perhaps the way this man could peel away the layers, see past the invisible barriers and look directly into her soul.
She guessed it was the latter.
Her hand slipped from his. She stood and folded her arms beneath her breasts in a self-embrace, moved to the window seat, fluffed the cushions, and sat. The falling snow lulled her into deciding how—and where—to begin.
Starting with the end, she told her story backward—the way it happened.
LOGAN SAT BESIDE her with enough distance to afford her space, but close enough to catch her if he needed to. Compassion welled inside him when she described her mother’s illness and subsequent death, and the weight of guilt pressed against his heart when she confided her absence at her mother’s side to hold her hand while she passed from life.
Ambrose’s story touched him deeply. The shock of gaining a father she never knew and then giving him up to death in the same breath tugged at the place in Logan’s heart reserved for his own father and the father he himself had become. The triangle of love between her mother, Ben, and Ryan whirled through his mind, a carousel of restless thoughts. Anguish turned his stomach when she spoke of Chandler’s infidelity and broken promises and of Della’s lies. Over the years, he’d heard them all. The betrayals. The lies. Excuses. And though his training forced him into understanding, he was never able to tuck them away to be fully dismissed. The hurt would eventually subside, but the scars remained, the invisible wreckage of broken promises.
Logan laced his fingers and peered over them as he studied her. Infinite depth lurked behind her stormy eyes, and he yearned to unravel her story, to see through the window into her heart.
“Ambrose told me I have my father’s eyes,” Ryleigh said, leaning into the cushions. “The color of the inside of an ocean wave.” She lowered her eyes.
The words she so carefully chose were steeped in emotion and each one touched him, a feathered kiss on his soul. “And deeper than any ocean on this earth.”
She twirled a length of hair around her finger, and then her face softened. “I’ve only known Ambrose a few days, but I love the old guy.” A frown inched across her brow. “But how can that happen?”
“It’s easy.”
“But I barely know him.”
He nodded. “It’s not for us to question, Cabin Number Three. The heart knows. We only need follow it.”
“Good,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest. “Because I do love him, even if he tends to brush elbows with the outlandish.”
“He does seem to have a flare for the avant-garde.”
A smile reached her eyes and widened. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“It sounds as though you wish to see him again someday.”
“Wishes come true. Sometimes.”
“And your husband? What do you wish for when it concerns him?”
“Ex.” She picked randomly at her nails. “He wants to come back. To start over.”
The implication hung like a dark shadow that had swallowed the light. Logan spread his fingers and pushed them through his hair in a slow, useless act initiated solely to suffocate the image. “Is this what you want also? To start over, I mean?”
She shrugged and looked directly at him. “It would be the easy thing to do.”
His lungs refused to breathe. “I see.”
“It’s the coward’s way. Scared to go back. Terrified to take a step forward.”
“When pushed to our limits, we assume there is nowhere to go but backward. But each of us possess an inner strength that goes beyond what we think we’re capable of.”
She smiled and looked away. “There’s a difference between curiosity and strength. I seem to be curious to a fault, but when it comes to strength, I’m a wimp.”
“So tell me,” he said, reaching to lift her chin. Emotion swam in her eyes. “Is it your wish to start over with Evan’s father?”
“It’s true,” she said, and looked directly at him, “it would be the easy thing to do. But not the right thing.”
Until his shoulders relaxed, he hadn’t noticed the tension.
THE STRENGTH HIS presence assured kept her from collapsing. Retelling the story was emancipating, as if an invisible barrier had encapsulated them, protecting her from the heartache of reopening the wounds she’d so carefully sewn closed.
She rose, picked up the journal, returned to the window seat and handed it to him.
He hesitated. “May I?”
She nodded.
Logan flipped carefully through the pages. “These are extraordinary.” He closed the book gently. “No wonder you were awestruck as a child.”
A winsome smile swept over him when she mentioned the fireflies and how deeply their presence affected her m
other. And how they both loved white roses, though until recently she hadn’t known of their significance.
“My father—Ryan—was gifted,” she said, the name still foreign as it rolled off her tongue. She still hadn’t fully processed the story, unsure where all the pieces belonged. And she was tired of dredging up the past—one decades old, but one so fresh she had yet to consider it a memory.
“God won’t give you any more than you can handle, Cabin Number Three.”
The wind gusted. Snow lashed against the window. “My mother said that to me when Chandler left.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry, Logan.”
“You’ve no reason to apologize. You have an anomalous history and an extraordinary life ahead. Never abandon your past, your memories.” He inched closer and placed a hand on her thigh, his thumb stroking the denim above her knee. “No one is exempt from the shadows that cross our paths. Even the hearts of saints and sinners bleed, Cabin Number Three, and rain falls on the innocent and the condemned alike. Your secrets—your past—mold you into the person you are and the pieces knitted together are what make you special. It’s what makes scraps of unmatched cloth a quilt.” Empathy sheltered an inward smile. ‘“Let love and faithfulness never leave you: bind them around your neck, write them on the table of your heart,’” he said, tightening the grip on her thigh. “Some safeguard the past, some run from it. Don’t let it steal the person you can become.”
At the sound of his words, Ryleigh’s heart opened like a flower exposing its petals to the sun. Where once there had been but one man who had opened the door to her heart, Logan Cavanaugh was inching his way in slowly, unquestionably. He knew her secrets yet remained beside her, his compassion, his solidity unwavering.
Ryleigh placed her hand on Logan’s cheek. Tears clung to her lashes. Not sad tears, but tears for that which she’d hidden, gradually rising to the surface after a long drought.
