Rogue's Revenge

by Gail MacMillan

  “Fine. Come along, Jack. We’ll leave Nasty Ned alone. He doesn’t need our company. I’m sure he’ll be able to amuse himself…tarring all financially secure women with the same brush.”

  The poodle paused, looking up at Heath.

  “Go on,” he waved a dismissive hand at the dog. “You belong with her.”

  With a sigh, Jack turned away and followed Allison to her room.

  ****

  “Coffee?” Allison stepped out onto the front veranda where Heath was replacing a rotted plank, two mugs in her hands. The bright, frosty morning raised steam from the cups and formed a misty barrier between them. Jack, who’d been at her heels, gave a joyful yelp and raced down the steps to run madly around the grounds.

  “Thanks.” He got up, eyeing her suspiciously as he accepted the mug.

  “Beautiful day.” She drew a deep breath of the crisp, clear air and savored it. “I’d almost forgotten how terrific early mornings are up here.”

  “About last night.” He stared down into his cup. “I talked too much, courtesy of those painkillers.”

  “Would you like me to forget it?”

  “I’d be grateful.” He looked up at her.

  “Done. Oh, look! A pair of black ducks. Probably coming to nest.”

  He grunted and turned away.

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?” She caught him by an arm.

  “They won’t be coming much longer…not if this place is sold to National Realty.” He rested his hips against the railing and took a sip of coffee.

  “Look, I know how Gramps felt about this place, how you feel about it, but I’m not about to commit myself to a life in the backwoods. I have a job…”

  “Yeah, yeah, CFO of some big company, right?” He straightened up, set his coffee on the railing, and knelt to return to his work. “Making money like it was going out of style.”

  “So what if I am?” she snapped. “You don’t know anything about me, about my plans and goals.”

  “I know they don’t include a commitment to Jack’s hopes and dreams.” He drove a nail into a plank with a mighty blow. “I know you don’t give a damn if National Realty buys it for their client and he proceeds to pave these entire grounds with asphalt and puts flashing neon lights over the Lodge.”

  “That’s not true! I do care! But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life trying to prevent it.”

  “Okay, okay. Just don’t expect me to hand over my part of this place without one hell of a fight.” He picked up another nail and slammed it into the wood harder than the previous one. The veranda flinched.

  “You’re on, Wilderness Willy. Be prepared to leave this place with your tail between your legs! Very soon.”

  She snatched up his cup and strode back into the Lodge.

  Jack paused in his cavorting to stare after her. Then his delight in the place resurfaced and he raced off again to play.

  A half hour later, the sound of a vehicle made her glance out the kitchen window. He was driving out of the yard in the Cherokee. Going to town? He had to be. Otherwise, he would have used the old Jeep. To meet with a lawyer? Or maybe to see the beautiful Dr. Henderson? She tried to put a quick end to the sinking feeling that came over her at the latter possibility. Mind over matter, she told herself sharply. Just imagine living indefinitely with the creature. That should fix it.

  She rinsed the coffee cups, then wandered about the Lodge, Jack at her heels, as she reacquainted herself with each nook and cranny. Nothing much had changed, she discovered. The same outdoor and wildlife paintings donated by Jack’s wealthy guests still adorned the walls of the dining and living rooms; the same dishes and silverware still graced the sideboards and china cabinets, and, to her chagrin, the same feeling of home and hearth and security still prevailed.

  I don’t belong here, not anymore, not now, not with him, so shelve the sentimental stuff.

  She reached the door of her grandparents’ apartment. With her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. This had always been a special place for her as a child, the equivalent of Grandma’s house. She felt she couldn’t bear it if it had been changed in any way. God forbid it had been made into a storage area for extra furniture. The idea made her shiver. Steeling herself for the worst, she shoved open the door. A wave of relief swept over her. Everything was exactly as she remembered it.

  Stepping inside, she felt a rush of nostalgia so powerful it left her lightheaded. She walked softly into the reverend hush, crossing the room to open the curtains on the wide patio doors that led to a deck overlooking the river. A beam of sunshine illuminated the apartment, and in it Allison suddenly saw the image of her grandmother sitting in the big rocker by the window, knitting and looking up to smile fondly at her only grandchild.

  “Gram.” The word choked as the vision dissolved into dust motes dancing in the radiance.

  With a lump rising in her throat, she turned toward the big fourposter bed at the back of the room. Plump with pillows and quilts, it appeared the epitome of warmth and intimacy, a place to share with someone special. How lonely that bed must have been these past ten years for her grandfather.

  She moved to the corner fireplace. Its grates had been swept clean, but she could still remember chilly evenings spent before its cheerful blaze.

  On the mantel were photos of herself with her parents as a baby, as a child, as a teenager, and as a college graduate. Gramps loved me, and I wasn’t there when he needed me, all because of a barbarian named Heath Oakes.

  Her eyes burned, her throat constricted. I don’t need to load myself down with any more recriminations. Heath Oakes is doing a state-of-the-art job of it. She sucked in a deep breath. Moping around here isn’t helping. Shopping might help raise my spirits. I’ll go to town.

  She looked out the window at the old Jeep sitting alone by the shed. Well, since there’s no choice…Anyhow, if he can drive it, so can I.

  Ten minutes later, struggling to get the knack of driving the ancient standard-transmission vehicle, she was roaring about the Lodge grounds. It bucked and balked and was every bit as trying as a two-year-old colt. But Allison Armstrong had mastered more than one of those in her time. With teeth clenched and lips drawn into a pencil-thin line, she persisted until she felt reasonably in control. Then she headed down the tunnel of greenery toward Portage. She was glad she’d left Jack in the Lodge. In this vehicle, he’d have been bounced more than she cared to think.

  At the service station on the edge of the village she noticed the gas gauge was reading empty and the oil light was flashing.

  “Fill it up and check the oil, please,” she told the attendant, who was appraising her critically. “May I use your phone for a long-distance call? I’ll use my card.”

  “You’re Jack’s grandkid, aren’t you?” he asked. When she nodded, he grinned, “Sure, sure, go right ahead. Anything for Jack’s family.”

  She went inside and told the gum-chewing teenager she had permission to use the phone. Hardly bothering to look up from her magazine, the girl shoved it across the counter toward her.

  The place was empty except for the distracted clerk. Allison quickly punched in her parents’ number. She preferred to talk to her mother without an audience, and at any minute someone might come in.

  Shortly she had Myra on the line and was telling her that Heath appeared perfectly capable of looking after the Chance.

  “I’ll be on the flight to Ottawa tomorrow afternoon,” she concluded.

  “So soon?” Myra sounded surprised. “I thought you might like to spend a few days renewing old memories.”

  “Have you forgotten? I have a job. Anyway, with Heath Oakes as my sole companion, I’m eager to get the heck out of here. See you tomorrow. Love to Dad.”

  She hung up before her mother could respond, thanked the teenager, who nodded despondently, and headed down Main Street.

  The town, she discovered now that she had a chance to see it up close at her leisure, hadn’t changed much over the years
of her absence. It still consisted of a single main street with a few owner-operated establishments on either side. There was a hardware store, a bakery Allison remembered made the best sticky buns she’d ever tasted, a shoe store, a furniture outlet, a grocery store, a craft boutique, and, across from the village’s only restaurant, a shop that sold clothing for the entire family.

  Noting the restaurant owner was setting out a couple of sidewalk tables in the spring sunshine, she headed for the clothing store, with a smile. Her grandfather had always said spring had arrived when Douglas O’Brien set up his sidewalk cafe.

  As she stepped inside, the bell over the door tinkled. Allison remembered the sound from the days when she, her mother, and her grandmother had shopped there. Nothing else had changed much, either, she realized as she glanced about at the crowded racks of merchandise filling the center area and the carefully piled sweaters and shirts on shelves along the walls.

  The narrow strips of hardwood that formed the floor were the same, too, a little worse for wear but still just as much a part of the old store’s ambience as its tin filigree ceiling. Only a few posters along the walls, advertising brand-name outdoor wear, appeared new.

  A wave of nostalgia swept over her as she remembered a visit to the shop with her grandmother. She recalled Grammie Adams, her blue eyes bright with pleasure, holding the little pair of jeans to her six-year-old granddaughter’s waist and declaring them perfect.

  “May I help you?”

  The saleslady’s voice made Allison start. She turned to see Mildred Wilson, the store owner, smiling at her.

  “Why, if it isn’t little Allison!” Beaming with delight, the white-haired woman hurried to grasp Allison’s hands in hers.

  “Hello, Mrs. Wilson.” Allison smiled as the familiar scent of the slender, well-groomed woman’s lavender perfume brought still more memories rushing back. “How are you?”

  “Fine, just fine, honey. My, you’re as beautiful as your mother. But that hair and those eyes have to be your father’s. Is he still as handsome as ever?”

  “Still.” Lord, it felt good, this ambience of being welcomed back home, of belonging.

  “I’m so sorry about your grandfather.” Mildred Wilson became serious. “He was a fine man. His Lodge and its guests were a real boon to this village where there’s no industry and most people live by lumbering, farming, or fishing. Oh, we survived before the Chance, and I expect we’ll survive again, if…” She paused. She didn’t have to finish. Allison got the picture.

  “I can’t believe Gramps’ guests would find much to buy here.” Allison gently tried to downplay the Lodge’s importance. “Most of those people were a pretty upscale lot.”

  “That’s exactly the point!” Mildred Wilson clapped her nicely manicured, heavily ringed hands. “Some were seasoned outdoors people, but a lot weren’t. They frequently arrived here with all the wrong clothes, all the wrong equipment. Why, I finally brought in a whole selection of hiking and recreational clothing, just to fill their needs. Ellis’ Hardware sold fishing equipment like you wouldn’t believe!”

  “Really?” Allison was astonished.

  “Definitely. Mary Davis’ craft boutique has flourished because of their appetite for handmade quilts, home-knitted sweaters, and authentic wood carvings. Even the service station benefited from those who drove up here, and, would you believe, Douglas O’Brien has actually become famous for his oyster stew!”

  “I had no idea the Chance had such a wide-reaching effect on the community,” Allison said.

  “Well it has…had. Before Jack opened up, we survived. Afterwards, we had a little icing on our cake. Oh, well,” she changed the subject as Allison’s forehead furrowed. “Enough reminiscing. What can I do for you, honey? Some hiking clothes, maybe?” She looked hopeful.

  “Actually what I need is a nice, simple dark suit. Mine got ruined in the rain at Gramps’ funeral.”

  “Dark suit? Hmmmm. Size eight? Ten? Not much call for dark suits in May. Let me look upstairs. Browse around while I’m gone. You might see something else you’d like.”

  Allison was idly flicking through a rack of Nonfiction sweatshirts when she happened to glance out the front window and saw Heath and Jessica Henderson seated at Douglas O’Brien’s newly established sidewalk cafe. The proprietor was standing back, hands on his broad, white-aproned hips, apparently awaiting their opinion on the steaming bowls of food in front of them. His famous oyster stew?

  Heath dipped a spoon, raised it to his mouth, tasted, then looked up at the chef with a nod of approval. O’Brien gave a thumbs-up gesture and ambled back inside. As soon as he’d gone, Heath leaned across the table to speak to his companion. His expression told Allison the subject was serious.

  At first Jessica appeared to be listening receptively. Then the situation changed. She shook her head vehemently and threw up her hands.

  Heath leaned across the table, talking fast, seizing one of her upraised hands. For a few moments she continued to protest, but as he kept up his flow of words, slowly acquiesced. As Allison watched, the doctor’s hand fell to the table top, enveloped in his. Something in Allison Armstrong, CFO, sank like a stone. What can he be saying to her, trying to convince her about?

  He picked up his hat from an empty chair and stood, still holding her hand. Reluctantly, it appeared to Allison, Jessica followed suit. To her dismay, they headed across the street toward the clothing store.

  “Mrs. Wilson? I have to leave. I’ll try to get back later,” she called up the stairway. “Thanks for your help.”

  She dodged between racks of Levis, past stacks of hiking boots, and through the rear door.

  Once outside, she flattened herself against the old building’s weathered shingles, then wondered what in the world she was doing. She had every right to be in town, in that store. Why was she hiding? She wasn’t afraid to face a man she despised, or his lady friend. She’d march back in there and…

  She started to open the door. Through the first few inches she saw Heath holding up a pair of women’s bush pants for the doctor’s approval. She took them from him and held them to her waist.

  Allison eased the door shut. Planning a camping trip together. Good. That would keep him out of her way. But as she turned to walk back to the service station, she wished she didn’t feel so annoyingly dejected.

  It was Mildred Wilson’s telling her of the Chance’s importance to the local economy that caused her miserable feelings. She didn’t care that Heath Oakes and Dr. Jessica Henderson were preparing for a romantic getaway. She returned to the service station, paid the attendant for the gas and oil, and headed the old Jeep back to the Chance.

  ****

  At six o’clock she heard a vehicle approaching. She glanced out the kitchen window, saw the Cherokee coming into the yard, and returned to the stove for a last check on supper. She’d expected Heath to go to his cabin and was surprised when the vehicle stopped at the Lodge’s back door.

  When he stepped into the kitchen, she turned from placing a tray of biscuits in the oven and stopped, astonished. He was carrying a dozen yellow roses.

  “Hello.” She thrust her hands into the pockets of the apron she was wearing over her jeans. Then, “You’re staring.”

  “You’re cooking?” His tone reflected amazement.

  “Sure.” She leaned back against a counter, crossed her arms, and shrugged. “My mother taught me. She’s famous for her dinner parties.”

  “Do you think it might stretch to fill two plates? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “Really?” She turned to check on a casserole in the oven. “I thought you might have had a lunch date with Dr. Henderson.”

  “Jesse? Oh, we grabbed a bowl of oyster stew at O’Brien’s Cafe.” He advanced across the room. When Allison turned from checking the beef Burgundy warming in the oven with the biscuits, she found him almost touching her. “What would give you that idea?” Curiosity and suspicion colored his inquiry.

  “Dr. Henderson�
�s mother remarked about your having a relationship when I went to the clinic looking for you.” Don’t look at me like that, as if you can see right through me, right through my ridiculous thoughts. “Dinner’s almost ready. And there is enough for two.”

  “Thank you. By the way, these are for you.” He moved the roses into her arms.

  “Really?” A rush of sexual anticipation overwhelmed her before suspicion took its place. What are you up to?

  “They’re a peace offering. I’ve done some thinking and realized Jack would be miserable if he knew we were squabbling over all he held dear. Let’s leave it to the lawyers to hash out.”

  It didn’t seem possible. Heath Oakes was behaving like a gentleman, even apologizing…sort of.

  “We do need to talk…rationally,” she said.

  “I agree. But not until after dinner. Whatever it is, it smells much too fine to be overshadowed by a business discussion.” He flashed her a smile designed to melt the hardest heart, then turned toward the door. “Give me ten minutes,” he called back over his shoulder. “I want to shower. Oh, by the way, those roses? They’re fresh.” He let the door slam shut behind him.

  His words reviving the memory of the secondhand flowers he’d salvaged for a nasty rich girl years earlier, Allison watched from the kitchen as he strode across to his cottage in the early evening twilight. After the lights had flashed on, through the unshaded windows of both kitchens she saw him pull off his jacket, then his shirt, and pause, bare-chested, to get a glass of water at the sink.

  Wow! I bet her royal rottenness wouldn’t scoff at him now. She looked down at the dozen golden blooms in her arms. Flowers. A shower before dinner. He’s definitely up to something. Tread carefully, Allison Armstrong. Tread very carefully. She steeled herself as she reached into a cupboard for a vase. Whatever it is, it’s not going to work.

  She had placed the casserole and biscuits on the table and was returning to the kitchen to set up the coffeepot when he returned. She pushed through the swinging door as he stepped through the outer one. And caught her breath.