“Sounds like a big operation.”
“Bigger by the year. I hired my sister to do the secretarial stuff and handle some of the orders and when it really gets busy, I call a temporary agency in Portland. It’s not a huge operation by any means, but it’s grown so that I make enough money to support myself and Amy without having to worry too much.”
“But you’re still part of the ski patrol and search-and-rescue team?” The town had given way to the forest and only a few lights from hidden cabins sparkled warmly through the thick stands of fir and hemlock.
“Have been for a long time,” she admitted, looking out the window and touching the fogging glass with a finger. She wondered how much she should tell him, or if she should bother explaining at all.
“You must love it.”
Sighing, she glanced over to him and his gaze touched hers for just an instant. Even though she knew little about him, she sensed that he was trustworthy, a man who cared. “My husband, Hank, was killed on Mount Echo nearly four years ago—a few months after Amy was born.”
His jaw tightened. “I didn’t know.”
A pang of the same old sadness stole into her heart and she felt as if the temperature in the Jeep had dropped twenty degrees.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, God, so am I,” she admitted. “So am I.” She focused past the front end of the car and the dual splashes of light offered by the headlights. “He and a partner, Rick, were up on the ridge, setting off charges to make the mountain avalanche-safe before the runs were opened. But something went wrong. A charge went off early, though no one can tell me why. Hank and Rick tried to outrace the snow but Hank’s bindings failed. It didn’t really matter anyway; Hank and Rick were both killed, buried in the snow.” She shuddered at the thought.
“I’m sorry,” he said as if he meant it.
“It’s not your fault.”
He wheeled into the long tree-lined driveway of the old lodge. “It sounds like it was no one’s fault, that it was a freak accident.”
“Maybe.” She closed her eyes a second, trying to dispel the horrid image of Hank, her beloved Hank, caught in the rage and terror of thousands of pounds of snow.
“There’s something else,” he said as if reading her mind. They passed through the open gate to the lodge. Snow was beginning to fall again, sticking to the windshield before melting. Through the trees, from the windows of the lodge, soft, golden patches of light welcomed them.
“Hank shouldn’t have died that day,” she said, her throat closing.
“Of course he shouldn’t have.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said, feeling that painful gnawing in her insides, that raw scraping of guilt. “I mean, he wasn’t supposed to be on duty that morning.” She rubbed a drop of condensation from the window as he parked in front of a dilapidated garage. Swallowing hard, she said, “It was my shift. I was the one that was supposed to be up there that day.”
She felt rather than saw him move, and when his hand reached forward and his finger hooked beneath her jaw, she didn’t fight him, just turned her head to look into dark, caring eyes. “You’ve been blaming yourself,” he said, shaking his head, his breath whispering across her face.
“No, not just myself. I spread the blame around.”
“But deep inside, you think you were at fault.”
“Yes.”
“And do you also think you should have been the one to die?”
She nodded, feeling the heat of his curled finger on the soft skin near her chin.
“You can’t beat yourself up over an accident you couldn’t have prevented.” Travis stared at her long and hard. “I didn’t know your husband, but I’m willing to bet that he wouldn’t have traded places with you.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried not to think of Hank or the pain.
“Let it go,” Travis advised, and when she opened her eyes, his face was nearly touching hers and the fog clouding the inside glass of the idling Jeep seemed to cut them off from the rest of the world. His fingers slid around her neck to her nape and with just a little pressure, he drew her close. “It’s over, Ronni.” His eyes searched her face. “He’s gone and he wouldn’t have wanted you to shroud yourself in guilt and grief forever.”
His words were a soft balm on her old scarred wounds. “What do you know about it?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
But he didn’t answer. Instead, his lips brushed over hers in a feathery kiss that brought goose bumps to her skin and an ache to her heart. She didn’t want him to kiss her, or so she told herself, but she was unable to resist the sweet, delicious pressure of his mouth when it found hers again. Her breath was lost somewhere deep in her lungs and her heart was knocking wildly against her ribs.
She should stop, she should break away, but when his arms surrounded her, she felt her body yield and soften against him and she sighed willingly, opening her mouth against the touch of his tongue.
How long had it been? Years. Since Hank. Tears were hot against the back of her eyes and her throat clogged.
When he lifted his head, he brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. He looked about to say something, seemed to think better of it and switched off the ignition.
Ronni’s fingers scrambled for the door handle. She needed to put some distance between herself and this man. “I, uh, think we’d better go inside. Vic will be here with the tree soon.”
Travis stared at her a second, then pocketed his keys. “Right.”
Opening the passenger door, she slid to the ground and silently called herself a fool. What had come over her? She hadn’t kissed a man since Hank, never once wanted another man to get close, and yet in the Jeep, she’d felt the old stirring of lust and longing that she thought she’d buried along with her husband.
He caught up with her at the porch and his fingers curved over the crook in her arm. “Ronni—”
“What?” She turned and his arms wrapped around her. As she gasped, he kissed her again, this time with more urgency, his lips hard and strong, hers soft and pliant. Her pulse thundered and her legs seemed to turn to liquid.
His tongue slid into her open mouth and she felt a thrill of anticipation spread through her bloodstream, warming her from the inside out, creating a hunger she’d thought she would never again experience. With a groan, he leaned closer, the kiss deepened and his hands tangled in her hair. “Ronni,” he whispered hoarsely when he finally lifted his head.
He tucked her against him and she felt the strength of his arms surrounding her, the tickle of his breath as it swept over her crown. Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer.
“I—I can’t get involved with anyone,” she said, cringing at the breathy tone of her voice.
“Me neither.” Tipping her chin with one hand, he stared into her eyes. “But if I could…”
“Don’t even think about it, Keegan,” she teased, even though her own thoughts were racing ahead to what it would feel like to make love to him, to sleep in his bed, to wrap her arms around him and wake up in the morning smelling his scent. She bit down on her lip at the wayward turn of her mind. She was a woman who had no interest in a relationship, a person who had pledged her life to her child, someone who had tried to defy gender by being both mother and father to Amy.
“You can’t blame yourself forever,” he said.
“Why not?”
“And you can’t go on punishing yourself.”
“I don’t!” she snapped. She was too sane, had her feet planted too firmly on the ground to fall into the trap. Or did she? “So who do you think you are? Sigmund Freud?”
“It was just an observation.”
“What do you care?” she asked and the question hung between them like ice crystals gathering in the cold night air.
“I wish I knew,” he said, holding her close. “I wish to God that I knew.”
Headlights flashed and Vic’s old half-ton pickup rolled into the driveway. Travis dropped his arms, and Ronni, embarrassed thoug
h she didn’t really understand why, stepped away from him. She thought she saw a movement inside the house, a flutter of a curtain, but it could have been a trick of light combining with her hyperactive imagination.
Amy flew out of the truck, while Vic, careful of a bad knee he’d injured hauling wood a few years back, was a little slower. While Ronni carried in the stand, the two men wrestled with the tree and finally managed to get it upright without its leaning much. Bryan, though clearly loathe to admit he was interested, hobbled out of his room to watch the endeavor.
Spying his son, Travis said, “Don’t we have some fishing wire around here—heavy-duty stuff like twenty-pound test? Why don’t you see if you can find it, Bryan?”
“I’ll help,” Amy piped in.
Bryan, an unfriendly scowl set on his features, took off in the direction of the kitchen with Amy scampering after him. Travis located a ladder in a closet under the stairs and by the time the ladder was snapped open, Amy was dashing back, a spool of clear plastic fishing line in one hand. “We found it,” she announced and Bryan hobbled back into the room.
Vic steadied the ladder while Travis drove nails into the wall and anchored the uppermost branches. Ronni helped Vic hold the tree steady and noticed the way Travis’s sweater stretched upward as he pounded, allowing a glimpse of his flat abdominal muscles above the waistband of his jeans. He jammed the hammer into a back pocket and the faded denim slid lower. Ronni’s stomach tightened and she bit her lip. Hard, lean muscles moved as he pulled the fishing line taut.
Realizing she was staring, she dragged her gaze away only to find Bryan’s suspicious eyes fixed on her.
“You got Nintendo?” Amy was asking, obviously fascinated with him.
He didn’t bother to answer even when she repeated the question.
“That should do it,” Vic said, testing the stability of the tree. “I think one of Ronni’s fool horses could come stampeding through here, hit the tree and the thing would still stand.”
“Oh, right,” Ronni said, grinning.
“Good.” Travis hopped to the floor
“I’d better be shoving off.” Vic eyed the tree and nodded to himself. “Shelly will be startin’ to worry.”
“Let me pay you for your trouble,” Travis offered and was rewarded by a sharp look from Shelly’s husband.
“It was part of the deal.”
“Then, how about a drink? Or a cup of coffee.”
“Another time, maybe, but now I’d better get home before the twins are in bed.” He squared his hat upon his head and Travis extended his hand.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I think we should be leaving, too,” Ronni interjected as she caught her daughter, still pestering Bryan as she tried to hide a yawn.
“Nooo!” Amy protested. “We gots to put the lights on the tree.”
“Not tonight, kiddo. It’s waaaay past your bedtime.” And Ronni didn’t want to spend any more time close to Travis. Not until she’d sorted out the jumble of emotions that being around him evoked.
“But we have to—”
“She could sleep in one of the guest rooms,” Travis offered, his eyes suddenly dark and serious, his voice soft as a caress. Ronni’s heart kicked into third gear.
“But I’m not tired!” Amy said.
“I think it would be better to get her home.” For her, for Bryan and especially for me, she added silently as she searched for her purse and jacket.
“So you’re abandoning us to this mess?”
“We’ll come back and help,” she said, finding her leather bag near the fireplace.
“We can handle it.” Bryan was still glaring at her as if she were the embodiment of all things evil. She didn’t have to ask why he’d suddenly turned on her; obviously, he had watched his father kissing her on the porch. No one else had been home and the curtains had moved. So Bryan had seen them embracing, which was difficult for any teenager, and Bryan was going through a rough enough time as it was. Between the move and his mother’s demands, the last thing he needed was his father to be distracted by another woman.
Travis didn’t seem to hear his son. “How about tomorrow evening?” he suggested. “And this time, Bryan and I will cook dinner.”
“Oh, brother,” Bryan said, rolling his eyes.
“Can we?” Amy, finally accepting the fact that her mother wasn’t about to budge on her decision to return home, jumped all over the suggestion.
Ronni hesitated for a second, but when her eyes found Travis’s again, she managed a smile. “Sure,” she replied. “Why not?”
There had to be a million reasons—a million good, sound reasons—but at that moment, staring into Travis’s eyes, Ronni couldn’t think of one.
Chapter Seven
“OH, JANICE, THEY’RE adorable,” Ronni said, stepping closer to the pen and eyeing seven wiggling puppies. Six weeks old with bright eyes, wagging tails and high-pitched yips, they scrambled over one another in an eager attempt to reach her. Some brown, others black, still others with gray-and-white markings on their fuzzy coats, they staggered on unsure legs across old newspapers that had been spread across the floor of the Petrocellis’ garage.
“We’re not really sure what they are exactly,” Janice admitted, running fingers through her spiky blond hair. As she moved her hand, her bracelets jangled, causing more excited yips. “I’m afraid they may have had more than one dad—that’s possible, you know.” A heater in the corner kept the shell of a room warm enough for the inhabitants of the huge pen. “Our Fangette, here,” she said, motioning to the tired-looking mother dog, “she’s part German shepherd, Lab and golden retriever, and a sweetheart, aren’t you, baby?”
She patted Fangette’s wide head and was rewarded with a sloppy pink tongue washing her palm. “She escaped once while she was in heat and this is the result. Seven of ’em, five males and two females. Near as I can tell, some of them look like they have some husky blood in them—see the ones with the curly tails and white markings—and the others could be anything. I don’t think Fangette was particularly discriminating—kind of like some women I’ve met.” She chuckled to herself.
“Well, she certainly ended up with some beguiling pups,” Ronni said.
“Her first and last litter, believe me. We’re going to get Fangette fixed pronto. It’s not easy finding homes for these little guys.”
Ronni petted all the eager, upturned faces, watching little curly tails whip with excitement. One brown puppy with black-tipped ears was the most playful of the bunch. She growled and lunged at her brothers and sister and the spark of devilment in her eyes touched Ronni. “This one,” she said, picking up the wiggling bundle of fur. “Will you keep her until Christmas Eve? She’ll be a surprise for my daughter.”
“Will do.” Janice seemed relieved to have found an owner. “Just hold her there a minute.” She walked to a cabinet, opened the cupboard door, and amidst the fertilizer, insect spray and camping equipment, found a bottle of red nail polish. “I’ll paint her toenail so that we don’t give her away to anyone else by mistake.”
The puppy licked the underside of Ronni’s chin.
“Hold her still.” Janice applied a dab of quick-drying polish and then blew on the tiny foot. “There ya go, darlin’,” she said to the pup, and reluctantly, Ronni placed the little dog back in the pen with her brothers and sister. “One down, six to go. If you hear of anyone else interested in a puppy, please tell them about Fangette’s litter.”
“I will,” Ronni promised and cast one last look at the puppy who was happily chewing on one of her brothers’ ears. Smiling, she headed to the van. Amy would be in seventh heaven when she found the furry little pup under the tree on Christmas morning.
*
Travis had cut his teeth on tough negotiations. When he was expanding his business, buying out smaller corporations, dealing with union officials, talking to lawyers, accountants and sales representatives from all walks of life, he’d prid
ed himself on his ability to usually, through minimal concessions, get his way.
But bargaining with Bryan was more difficult than anything he’d ever been through. Because his heart was involved. Because he cared. Because if he messed up with his son’s life, he would never get a second chance. And the kid seemed to sense it.
They sat on the floor of Bryan’s room amidst the clutter of compact discs, magazines, baseball cards and clothes, staring at each other as if they were mortal enemies. Travis leaned against the bed for support, Bryan sat cross-legged and was sorting through a stack of baseball cards that he hadn’t looked at in over two years.
“Okay, let me get this straight,” Travis said, feeling manipulated by his own adolescent son. “You’re willing to give up this idea of moving to France if you can spend a weekend with Martin in Seattle?”
“That’s it.” Bryan’s defiant eyes met his father’s. Daring. Challenging.
“One weekend for the rest of your life.”
“Yeah.” He shoved the baseball cards aside.
“I don’t think so.”
“Fine.” Stretching out on the floor and leaning on one elbow, he said, “Then I’m going to live with Mom.”
“In a pig’s eye. You’d no sooner get over there and you’d be on the phone to come home. You tried living with your mother once before, remember?”
“That was different.”
“Yeah, she still lived in Seattle and you could see your friends anytime you wanted. You went to the old school, lived in our house. It still didn’t work out.”
“Thing’s have changed,” Bryan argued glumly.
Memories: A Husband to RememberNew Year's Daddy (Hqn) Page 33
