“Sam’s your truck?” Darlene asked.
“Yep.” He glanced at Camille, who clutched her robe more tightly around her. “Who did you think he was, my grandpa?”
Avoiding his gaze, Camille nodded at the truck, hoping it was dark enough that he couldn’t see the flush on her face. “That’s a nasty crash. I bet your wife’s going to kill you. Definitely earned yourself the couch, if not the porch.”
The man’s brown eyes stared into Camille’s, unwavering for what seemed an eternity. “I don’t have a wife anymore.”
“Oh,” Camille said, feeling rather like an idiot.
He still stared.
Was her robe too sheer or something? She was positive the terrycloth wasn’t see-through, but maybe the light from the back porch behind her made it so anyway. She stepped to further to the side. “Wh—what happened?”
Jackson blinked, his stare intensifying. “She left me nine months ago. I’m not sure why. I guess I’m not the easiest person to live with.” He gave a chuckle that sounded more like a grunt.
“No,” Camille said, sensing her red transforming to a deep crimson. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t dream of asking something so personal. I meant, what happened to Sam.”
“Sam?”
“Your truck.” She motioned toward the twisted metal.
“Oh, that. You see, I was driving along and a big moose darted in front of me. I swerved to miss her. Before I knew it, my truck introduced itself to your tree.”
“A moose?” Darlene asked.
“She’s here all the time. Sometimes she and her calf pass your place to get a drink.”
Darlene peered in the night. “She has a calf?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t seen the calf for a while, so maybe it’s moved on.” He rubbed his chin. “Actually, I haven’t seen the moose around much either. I thought they’d migrate by now. Sure took me by surprise.”
“Did you miss it?” Darlene asked.
“I wasn’t even close. Wish I could say the same for the tree.” He walked toward the broken trunk and rubbed the stubble on his chin again. “That tree’ll probably die.”
“At least it’s not an oak,” Camille said.
“Why?” Darlene asked.
“There’s a legend that a man cut an oak down after he broke his leg. From then on the others who witnessed the fallen tree experienced bad luck. Of course, oaks don’t grow in this part of the country. But right after you wrecked, I heard a loud, woeful sound, almost like a cry. In the book—oh, what was it published in . . . I think Natural History of Wiltshire, it says something like: ‘when an oak is feeling, it gives a kind of shriek or groan that may be heard a mile off, as if it were the genius of the oak lamenting.’ When I saw the tree and remembered the sound I heard, I naturally thought of an oak.”
Jackson laughed. “That’s the weirdest thing I ever heard.”
Camille fingered her robe again. She was babbling about superstition. She needed to stop it. Not only was it a bad habit, but it probably came off as crazy to Jackson.
“Interesting attire.” His eyes ran down the robe again.
“Thank you for noticing,” she said. She couldn’t help seeing that his deep brown eyes were set close to his nose, a sign of someone with an Evil Eye, which gave a person the ability to cast spells without even knowing it. Myths had it that they could bring bad luck to humans and animals alike, and their power even extended to destroying inanimate objects.
Of course she really didn’t believe in that nonsense. She wouldn’t! And to prove it, she wouldn’t let herself cross her fingers to ward off the effects of the Evil Eye.
Meanwhile, Jackson was still staring at her. She felt undressed—which, in a way, she kind of was. His eyes sure were compelling, if a woman liked the rough, outdoors type. Ugh. It was definitely time to end the chitchat. “Glad nobody but Sam was hurt,” she said. “I guess we’ll see you again sometime.”
“Hey, wait a minute. I need help getting my truck off this tree,” Jackson said.
“That’s a problem.”
“Could you give me a pull?”
“My car’s not strong enough.”
“I bet it is,” he said. “Your car has four-wheel drive.” His teasing grin reminded her of a young boy, but the rest of his features, from the whiskers to the firm, determined jaw, spoke of manliness. There was something irresistible about the mixture of boy and man.
“My car still has a flat tire,” she said. “It’s still back on the road somewhere. I—I shouldn’t have yelled at you earlier. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted, but you do need to learn some basic skills.”
She turned her back on him and headed toward her cabin.
“Wait a minute.”
She faced him. “Why?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll fix your tire if you’ll pull me away from this tree.”
“I’m not walking back to my car to get it.”
“Give me the key and I’ll go myself.”
“Why should I trust you?” Camille asked. Darlene cleared her throat and tugged on Camille’s robe to show her displeasure, but Camille didn’t care. Her daughter knew nothing about men.
Jackson looked at Camille, and her heartbeat increased perceptively as she gazed back. “If you want your car fixed, now’s the chance,” he said. “You don’t know how to change a tire, and I doubt if you’ll be able to find anyone else to help since most people have left for the winter. Of course you might get lucky on Thanksgiving.”
“All right, all right. I’ll get the key.” She made her way through the weeds, shivering. Another cold breeze had settled on the land. She noted that her daughter stayed behind with Jackson. “Darlene, come here a minute.”
“What, Mom?” Darlene asked when she got close.
Camille whispered, her gaze flicking to Jackson and back again, “I don’t want you alone with him.”
“He seems fine to me.”
“Trust me.”
“But—”
“Trust,” Camille said in her it-is-settled voice. They walked to the door, and Camille turned the handle. It didn’t budge. She tried it again. Still, the door wouldn’t open.
“Is it locked?” Darlene asked.
“Yes.”
“Why would—?”
Camille sighed. “I locked it after we came home. I was positive we’d have no reason to go anywhere for the rest of the day.”
“I’ll get Jackson.” Darlene glanced back to where Jackson still waited for the key. He appeared to be examining the damage to his truck.
“Don’t.” Camille clutched the sleeve of her daughter’s shirt.
“Why?”
“We can figure it out ourselves. I don’t want my more comments about me not knowing how to survive. I’m a history professor for heaven sakes! The least I can do is figure out how to get into my own cabin.” With that she headed around the stack of logs. “I’m going to check the front door. Why don’t you try the windows?”
“Mom, this is silly.”
Camille rushed to the front porch, listening to the water of the lake hit the shoreline with an insistent rustle. Her bathrobe flapped open, exposing her calf with each step. She paid no heed and focused on the locked brass door. She tried to open it again, pulling harder. A few cuss words escaped her mouth. “Oh, please,” she muttered. If he found out, Jackson would get that proud laughing look with his eyebrows raised, though why she cared about that she didn’t know. She was being as silly as a schoolgirl.
Camille returned to the back where Darlene waited, apparently also having had no luck. “Can I get Jackson now?” Darlene asked.
Camille pursed her lips. “That’s not an option.”
“Why not?” Both Darlene and Camille peered up in surprise to see Jackson watching them with raised eyebrows. The hot burner on Camille’s face flared. She grabbed the cord that wrapped around her bathrobe to make sure it was secure.
“What do you need help with?” he asked.
“We’re locked out of our house,” Darlene said with a smile.
Camille felt her stomach drop. Her daughter was using her best damsel-in-distress ploy. Jackson flashed his deep brown eyes on Camille, but she forced herself to look at a distant tree. “I know, this stupid woman shouldn’t be in the wilderness. Can’t even get into her own cabin.”
“I wanted to know if you had a screwdriver handy. I’ve given you enough credit to have already tried the windows. That is, if you don’t mind me helping?” Jackson asked, continuing to watch her.
She flinched. “Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice unless I want to spend a cold night in the woods in my bathrobe.”
He strolled to the garage with his head tilted back. Darlene fell into step behind him while Camille trudged after both of them. Maybe she could redeem herself by reading the Boy Scout Handbook tonight and changing her own tire. But what was she thinking? She didn’t want to change her tire. And who cared what Jackson thought?
When they had all stepped into the garage, Camille said, “The screwdriver is on the top shelf.”
“I see you managed to snoop around in the garage already. You’ve had a full day,” Jackson said with an amused smile.
Darlene laughed. “Mom always has lots of things happen on Halloween and also on Friday the Thirteenth. You see—”
“Darlene!” Camille scowled at her.
The girl giggled. “My mom’s extremely superstitious. She’s made a study about it and is writing a book. She’s trying to prove that superstition is based on fact.”
Jackson glanced at Camille.
“The book is not on superstition. It’s on Yellowstone wildflowers,” she said.
“Ever believe in having a bad day?” He grabbed the screwdriver.
“There’s been too many things happening today and every Halloween,” Darlene said.
“Then why am I not having a—”
“Your truck,” Darlene answered with a grin.
“I don’t believe in superstition,” Jackson snapped. Camille and Darlene stared at him. “But that’s the only bad thing. After all, I did get to see you two again.” He smiled.
“Not everyone gets inundated with bad luck on Halloween,” Camille said.
“Why would the fates pick you?” His glance held a sudden tenderness. “You seem like a harmless person.”
“I don’t know why some people are picked and others aren’t. Maybe certain types of people are more susceptible,” Camille said.
He shrugged. “Maybe it happens more to people who dwell on it.”
She decided to ignore that and took the lead back to the cabin, continuing the sermon. “A lot of the medieval people turned to superstition. They lived in constant fear with plagues or starvation knocking daily at their door. They needed certain rules or a system to live by. It gave the people a sense of control.”
As Jackson worked on opening one of the front windows, he said, “Superstition is just a placebo.”
“I don’t use anything as a placebo.” Her voice shook when she said this. Her anger slipped out into in her tone, but she also recognized the vulnerability, the hurt. If Jackson were a female, he would have picked up on that instantly, but chances were good he would be clueless and continue on with their bantering. But just to be safe, she watched him for clues. His broad back bent over, his muscles shifting under his shirt as he worked the window. Camille couldn’t help noticing how muscular and healthy looking he was. Adam and a lot of their acquaintances, both men and women, had given up on fitness decades ago.
Not only did Jackson not go on with the conversation, but he didn’t speak at all until the window was open and Darlene climbed inside.
Then Jackson stood and faced Camille, his brown eyes peering straight into hers. She met his gaze, refusing to turn from his stare, though she desperately wanted to. A feeling of concern seemed to flow from him to her. This was too much. She looked away.
“I wasn’t talking about you.” His voice reflected the concern his presence communicated. “I mean, I don’t think you use superstition as a placebo.”
What should she say to that? Because maybe she did—a little.
“Welcome home!” Darlene exclaimed as she threw open the front door, her arms spread out wide.
Jackson stepped back to allow Camille to go through first. She walked in, scooting boxes out of the way. Jackson strolled behind her, going straight into the living room. “You’ve got a leak,” he said, his breath forming a puff of a cloud as he spoke. “And why isn’t your heat working?”
“We’ve been freezing since we got here,” Darlene said.
Camille shot her daughter a look. “That is enough.”
“What?” Darlene asked with an exaggerated shrug.
Jackson’s deep voice interrupted this mother-daughter interaction. “Did you light the pilot?”
“The what?” Both Camille and Darlene asked.
“The wick on the heater. The cabin runs on propane.”
“Doesn’t sound too hard to fix,” Camille said.
“Tell you what.” Jackson turned and stepped close to Camille. His swift movement intensified Camille’s awareness of him. He took command of the room just by his presence. He rubbed his hands together, making a scratchy sound, and she watched the rough, weathered hands. “I’ll fix your tire, get the heat pumping nice and warm, and repair the leak in the roof, if you’ll give me a ride to Yellowstone tomorrow.”
“I don’t—”
“Just for the day. Take me in the morning and we’ll return in the evening. I wouldn’t ask, but I really have to shoot bears.”
“What?” Darlene shrieked.
“Shoot, as in photographs for a magazine. I’ve got a deadline, and my editor will kill me if I don’t get them.”
“I—I don’t know.”
“She means yes,” Darlene said. Camille glared. “Mom, I’m sick of freezing. How else are we going to get warm?”
“We’d be leaving early in the morning,” Jackson said. “Before the . . .”
But Camille didn’t hear the rest of Jackson’s instructions because of the buzz of the phone. She dove over several boxes, grasping for the receiver. “Hello?” she panted.
“Mom.I’ve been trying to call you for hours,” Richard said. “How was your day?”
Camille could hear a faint crying in the background. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Despite her son’s continued demands, Camille didn’t give in. No way was she going to relive that day or make herself appear a victim. Finally Richard gave up trying to pull information out of her. “Don’t tell me then, but I do know one thing, and that is your bad luck must’ve worn off onto your grandson. He’s had nothing but accidents today.” The crying grew louder. “There he goes again.”
“Is he okay?” Camille asked.
After a delay, Richard said, “Yeah, but I better go. You’d think since my mother’s in a different state I could escape this, but no. She had to send her bad luck down a generation to her grandson.”
“I had nothing to do with—”
“I know. I’ve just had a long day. I’m glad to hear Halloween didn’t kill you even though you won’t tell me what happened.”
“Darlene’s not going to tell either.”
“Fine.” Richard said goodbye. Camille turned to find Jackson waiting for her answer.
“Okay,” she said to Jackson. “You have a deal.”
Chapter Five
The sun set low in the sky as Jackson jogged to the crunched truck and opened the undamaged door. It creaked in protest. He reached for the flashlight under the front seat. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it to Camille’s car before the daylight vanished. Once on the dirt road, his pace increased to a trot, and he began reflecting on the day. Wrapping his truck around a tree like a smashed pop can ranked high on his list of the stupidest thing he had ever done. He wouldn’t have felt so foolish if he hadn’t been listening to his messages on his cell phone. Ironic that t
he voice of his ex-wife and the sight of a moose occurred at the same time.
Maggie wouldn’t have called for no reason. She must be after something, but what? All she said on the message was, “Hey Jaxy, give me a call.” Then she left a number, which he traced to Los Angeles. What she was doing there was a mystery, but so were most of the other things she did. Her voice had been so airy, so carefree. Not the voice of someone who had divorced him. No depression, bitterness, anger, or any of that stuff. Just like they were happy as ever and she wanted to tell him of the newest friend she had made.
He rubbed the keys Camille had given him, and thoughts of her ran through his mind—a welcome change from thinking about Maggie. Camille was anything but practical. She’d screamed at seeing a black cat, rambled on about not hurting an oak, and then explained why the medieval people had created such silliness. Definitely passionate and too emotional. But she did look cute with her hazel eyes enlarging as she spoke, her hair wet and uncombed. The robe had been completely modest, but it didn’t hide enough of that great figure. Or maybe he just had an overactive imagination. He kicked a rock from under his cowboy boots into the shrubs.
Camille’s looks were more rustic than his ex-wife’s. Her sporty brown hair reached her shoulders, and her facial features were an average size instead of the daintiness that marked Maggie’s. In fact, if anything, Maggie was too thin. Her defined nose turned slightly upward at the tip, and she had fragile cheekbones that stood out in her narrow face. He’d always thought of Maggie as an expensive china dish with integral artwork. By contrast, Camille was a simple tailored plate—strong, too, like steel that wouldn’t break or given in. Maggie’s interests varied depending on her mood. Camille seemed focused on a subject and on learning it thoroughly. When it came to family, Maggie had little time, but Camille brought her daughter on her vacation. The women were so different that it was like comparing the mountains to the sea.
He stopped his thoughts short. What was he thinking? Maggie was gone from his life, and he wasn’t involved with Camille—or about to get involved. He’d fled to Island Park to discover nature, not to find another woman. He’d had a few exchanges with Camille, that was all, and he mostly seemed to annoy her.
The Superstitious Romance Page 5
