by Cassie Hayes
Through a thick haze of amber smoke, he could just barely make out a path through a sea of clothing. Apparently the piles he’d left behind that morning had gone forth and multiplied. The bags Isabelle had brought with her lay in a jumbled heap in a corner, and next to them were stacked several pairs of dainty ladies footwear — not a single one suitable for the harsh Yukon weather.
Taking a single step inside, Dermot discovered the source of the smoke was a pot of some foul-smelling goo that appeared to have been simmering on the stove for hours. Every box and crate in the place had been dumped upside down, with their contents strewn every which way. It appeared every item he owned now lay on the floor — or at least in a pile on the floor.
His hands curled into fists as he sought out Isabelle. It was one thing to be mad at him for the way he’d treated her, but to turn his home into a disaster area to spite him crossed a line. It took two scans of the dim, smoky room to find her. She’d been hard to distinguish from the big pile of stuff she was slumped into, head buried in her hands.
“Isabelle?”
He took another step closer, but stopped when she lifted her face to him. Chestnut hair stuck out from her head in a frizzy mess and a constant flow of tears cut clean trails down her flour-covered cheeks. Her eyes and nose were the same shade of glowing red, no doubt from all the crying. Yesterday, she’d been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and today she was a haggard, miserable mess.
Dermot stood frozen in shocked silence as his brain worked overtime to figure out what had happened, then Isabelle spoke in the smallest, most pained voice he’d ever heard.
“Welcome home.”
Chapter 5
Isabelle’s entire body trembled as she waited for Dermot to speak. She couldn’t stand looking into his brilliant blue eyes any longer and dropped her head back into her hands. It was all too humiliating. At any moment, he’d start yelling — or maybe even hitting. She wasn’t so sheltered that she didn’t know some men treated their wives like brutes. Dermot didn’t seem to be a violent type, but he’d probably never come home to the kind of disaster she’d managed to create.
But instead of yelling, hitting, or even speaking sternly, he did something completely unexpected. He laughed. At first, it started out as a low chuckle. Isabelle peeked through her fingers to see if she was imagining it, but he smiled as his shoulders shook. Then they shook harder and harder until he was doubled over and howling with laughter in the doorway.
Isabelle frowned and struggled to gain her feet in a ladylike manner, not that Dermot would have noticed. His eyes were filled with tears as he continued guffawing. She’d been prepared for his wrath, not his mirth, and she wasn’t sure how to react. Contrite? Insulted? Angry?
Standing before him, covered head to toe in flour and looking an utter wreck, her true emotions didn’t give her any choice. It had been a long, hard day — a long hard month, really — and she couldn’t take it anymore. Great, wracking sobs came over her, but instead of covering her face, her arms dangled limp, flopping around loosely with each hiccuping hitch of her chest.
Somewhere in her consciousness, it registered when Dermot stopped laughing, but for some reason, that only made her cry even harder. What a sight she must be! Hair akimbo, flour everywhere, and now bawling like a toddler. On top of thinking she was as useless as she actually was, he simply had to hate her for turning his home upside down and inside out. So when strong arms wrapped around her frame and pulled her into a comforting hug, she couldn’t have been more surprised…or relieved.
“Shh, there, there, Isabelle,” he whispered into the top of her head, as he rocked her back and forth. “No need for tears.”
Isabelle could have stayed snuggled in his embrace for centuries, but it took several minutes of blubbering before she managed to calm herself.
“I’m so sorry, Dermot,” she murmured into the warmth of the red serge covering his broad chest, still unable to meet his gaze. She hated to think of the mess she was making on his uniform, but she’d do whatever it took to clean it up. Of course, she’d probably just end up making it worse.
A fresh wave of tears overcame her, but Dermot stood patiently, waiting for the storm to pass. Only when she felt confident she wouldn’t break down again did she tip her head back to gaze up at him. He smiled softly down at her and brushed his thumb across her eyebrow, sending tingles down her spine and a dusting of flour onto her cheek. The pad of his thumb came away white, and she barely managed to control herself.
“You feel like telling me what happened now?” he asked, his tone curious, his eyes sympathetic.
Pulling free from his intoxicating embrace, she spun around and snatched up a rag to wipe away the bulk of her embarrassment. Where to start?
“I just wanted to make some bread,” she mumbled, using the rag to remove the pot from the stove. With no counter to place it on, she simply stared into the charred goo inside. She sighed heavily, wondering what she’d done to deserve such a harsh punishment.
“Why don’t we go get some fresh air while the smoke clears out,” Dermot said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and taking the pot from her.
He guided her out to the porch, tossed the smoking contents of the pot into the dirt, and took a seat on the porch step. She settled in the spot he patted, then he smiled.
“Better?”
She nodded mutely and sniffled. All day, as everything she did only made matters worse, she’d imagined his reaction. His amusement took her off guard, but his understanding was more than she could have hoped for. He really was quite kind. The least he deserved was an explanation.
“I really am sorry,” she started, but he held up a hand.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I do, though. I behaved like a lout and I hope you can forgive me.”
She hadn’t expected that either. “Of course,” she whispered.
“You will, of course, be taking the bed from now on, and I’ll sleep on the floor, as I should have done last night.” He smiled and said, “Now go on.”
Isabelle sighed and shook her head. “I thought I could remember what Miss Hazel and the other girls had taught me, but…”
“But you thought Miss Hazel was wrong and that I’d have a staff to do all that for you.”
Isabelle hung her head in shame. “I don’t know why I didn’t believe her. I’m actually quite intelligent, despite what you might think, but I suppose we all do stupid things from time to time.”
Dermot bumped her with his shoulder. “I don’t have a clue what you mean.”
The teasing glint in his eye and the contact between them suffused her with warmth, and she felt her cheeks pink up.
“My biggest mistake was not taking notes,” she explained. “The other girls seemed to know the special language used in kitchens, but they might as well have been speaking Swahili. They all took turns helping me, but it all went in one ear and out the other because…well, you know why.”
“Wait, are you telling me that was bread in that pot?” His frightened expression almost made her laugh.
Almost.
“No, that’s supposed to be stew.”
He looked even more frightened. “No!”
This time she did laugh. “Yes! I found a package labeled salt pork, whatever that is, and a few root vegetables. I had a vague recollection of how to concoct a stew, so I decided to give it a try.”
“How much did you use?”
“All of it. Was that wrong?” She could tell from his grimace it was.
“Probably a good thing it didn’t work out. Salt pork is, well, salty. Can’t imagine we would have been able to eat it.”
Isabelle sighed. “Of course.”
“If you were making stew, why are you covered in flour?”
“I tried to make bread to go with the stew, and that didn’t go so well. Twice.”
“Twice?”
“I thought I could remember everything that went into the recipe. I mean, it’s only a few ingredient
s. How hard could it possibly be?”
“Judging by the state of our cabin, I’d say it must be pretty hard.”
Isabelle started at his use of “our cabin,” then dipped her head to hide her blush of pleasure.
“It shouldn’t be, but I forgot the most important ingredient.”
He nudged her again, sending tingles all the way down to her fingertips. “Obviously it wasn’t the flour.”
The frustration of her day melted from her shoulders with each of his little jokes. He wasn’t making fun of her, but his teasing eased her tension. As miserable as she’d been just a few minutes before, she found herself smiling.
“Yeast. I forgot the yeast.”
Dermot’s brow creased in puzzlement. “I had yeast?”
“No, that was the problem. I found all the other ingredients in a crate and got so excited I plumb forgot about it. Only when the dough wouldn’t rise did I remember. Luckily, Miss Hazel insisted on sending a small supply of basic pantry items with each of us, to tide us over until we could stock up.”
“That’s smart,” he said, nodding his head in approval.
“It would have been, if I hadn’t forgotten which bag they were in.”
She shot him a sideways glance and couldn’t stop herself from snickering as he tried valiantly to not laugh. This time she nudged him.
“That explains why it looks like a tornado touched down in there,” he finally managed to say, humor crackling in his voice.
Her smile fell away, chased by her own doubts and insecurities. “I made a mess of everything, didn’t I?”
Dermot’s expression softened. “Nothing that can’t be fixed…if you want.”
Isabelle wondered if they were still talking about the mess she’d made in the cabin. “I’m just not sure I’m capable.”
“If we work together, maybe we can both muddle through.”
She stared up into his handsome face and felt a familiar sensation in her chest. After their argument the night before, she’d thought hope had failed her, but now she wasn’t so sure. Uncomfortable trusting her fate to the fickle emotion, she cleared her throat and glanced at the charred pot.
“I don’t seem to have a natural talent at cooking.”
Dermot grinned, his dimples nearly leaving her breathless. “You think I didn’t fall off a horse or ten while I was learning to ride? It’s just a matter of practice. You’ve got the rest of the week before we go back into town.”
His gaze dropped to his hands, and Isabelle didn’t need to be one of those charlatan mind-readers to know he was thinking about her leaving for good. So was she.
“Come on,” Dermot said, jumping to his feet and holding out a hand to help her up. “Let’s get to work. I’ll clean up while you cook. Deal?”
As her fingers slipped into his big, warm hand, Isabelle could have sworn a spark snapped between them. Then his fingers engulfed hers, and before she could blink, she was standing so close to him, she could smell his distinctive, heady scent.
“You trust me after all of this?” she whispered, her eyes never wavering from his.
The question lingered heavy between them as Dermot searched her face. She wasn’t entirely sure which answer she wanted, but the one he gave summed up her own feelings perfectly.
“I want to try.”
“You’re beating that batter harder than a dirty rug,” Dermot said with a chuckle.
Isabelle turned to him, eyes wide and a pained expression on her lovely, flour-speckled face. “I’m trying to get all the lumps out. Am I doing this wrong too?”
Dermot had barely been able to feed himself over the last year, but even he knew flapjacks needed a light touch. That got him thinking about how Isabelle seemed to respond to his light touch, and he had to shake the thought away so he could focus on her obvious distress. The poor thing had had a rough day.
“It’s okay, I’m sure they’ll be fine. It’s just that flapjack batter is meant to be a little lumpy. Next time, just stir it gently until all the dry stuff gets wet. It’ll look funny, but I bet you’ll notice a difference.”
Her brown eyes still looked worried, but she moved on to the cooking of them. He said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t all be burned to a crisp. He’d honestly thought she’d be able to at least manage such a simple meal, but she clearly wasn’t exaggerating when she said she didn’t have a clue.
Dermot tackled the last pile of clothes remaining on the cabin’s floor — most of it Isabelle’s. Picking up the first item, he quickly realized it was a ladies undergarment. Grinning like a wolf, he turned to her, spreading the item out so it was fully displayed.
“Um…Isabelle?”
“Hmm?” she asked as she carefully drizzled spoonfuls of batter into the cast iron skillet.
“I just want to say thank you for letting me put away the clothes.”
She glanced over her shoulder, then returned her attention back on the flapjacks. It took a full three seconds before she spun around, aghast. “Oh!”
She snatched the offending garment from his fingers, her face a vibrant shade of red, and handed him the spatula. “I’ll take care of this pile!”
He couldn’t help chuckle as he turned to tend the flapjacks. As he predicted, they were turning out as tough as leather, but even leather tasted good with enough maple syrup on it. Thankfully, ol’ Jed, the proprietor of the mercantile in Moose Lick, kept a big supply on hand.
As he watched the batter bubble, he marveled at Isabelle’s bravery in leaving a life of luxury behind to head out west to marry a Mountie. Before she’d arrived, he’d barely given her a thought — he hoped because she didn’t seem real yet, not because he was an arrogant jackass who only cared about himself. But after meeting her, he couldn’t stop wondering what had prompted her to make the choice in the first place. A woman as beautiful, well-bred, and well-educated as Isabelle could have her pick of suitors. Her letter to him hadn’t mentioned it, and until now, he hadn’t thought to ask.
Dermot deftly flipped the flapjacks, which were perfectly browned. He’d had plenty of practice, because this and scrambled eggs were about all he could manage. He’d thought he would be eating better after his new bride arrived, like Jonathan was at that very moment. Far from bothering him, he felt a new and strange connection to Isabelle he hadn’t expected.
He’d arrived in the Yukon after being fed three squares during training, which had come after being fed pretty much whatever he’d wanted by his father’s cook. The woman doted on him, much like Nanny had. Whatever little Isabelle had learned at Miss Hazel’s, it was ten times more than he’d known when his train had pulled into Moose Lick. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
Risking a peek at her as she carefully placed her unmentionables in the bag, Dermot realized they were the basically the same person, and his heart softened toward her. They were two peas in a pod, birds of a feather, cut from the same cloth.
He’d felt so alone, so…separate since joining the Mounties. His fellow trainees had been young men of unwavering honor, unlike what Dermot had turned out to be. He’d been spoiled and completely unaware of what the real world was like. But once he’d moved into his little cabin, he’d had a cold, hard dose of reality. He still wanted to go back to Vancouver to take over his father’s business, but he’d grown so fond of the land and the people, it was going to be hard to leave them.
“Lunch is ready!”
They ate at his rickety table, her sitting in the equally rickety chair and him on the crate he’d used as a pantry until now. Isabelle poured a dainty drizzle of syrup on her flapjacks, while Dermot drowned them. They tasted fine to him, if a little tough, but Isabelle barely touched hers.
“You don’t like them?” he asked through a mouthful of food.
When she met his gaze, tears shimmered in her rich, brown eyes. “They’re so…tough.”
“They’ll be better next time, trust me. You should have seen the shoe leather I ended up with the first time I tri
ed to make flapjacks. The syrup helps.”
She looked unconvinced, but poured more syrup on. Within two bites, she was shoveling them down in a most unladylike fashion. He almost chuckled, then recalled his bad behavior from the night before. She must have been starving all day. He’d just have to make it up to her, and he had an idea of how to do that.
“How would you like to go for a ride?” he asked.
An hour later, Dermot helped Isabelle slide off Star’s back, and made a mental note to save up for a second horse. As they rode, he’d felt her body moving as an experienced horsewoman’s would. If she was going to stay, she needed her own—
If she was going to stay. Big ‘if’.
Letting the discouraging thought drift away, he opened his arms wide. “What do you think?”
Isabelle walked a few steps away, too many as far as he was concerned, but he let her go. She spun a slow circle, and by the time she completed it, her mouth hung open in awe.
“It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
Dermot breathed a sigh of relief. “I thought the same thing when I discovered it earlier. I took a wrong turn on the way home, and ran across this hidden gem. It’s my new favorite place.”
Isabelle’s shining eyes met his. “Mine too.”
He fought the powerful urge to pull her into his arms, and instead laid a small blanket out for them to sit on. The tundra almost crunched under his weight. It wasn’t like the soft, pliable grass he’d grown up running barefoot through, but he rather liked how tough Yukon tundra felt, how it resisted when you tried to crush it. It reminded him of Isabelle.
“Dermot, do you mind if I ask why you became a Mountie?”
He’d practiced his answer so many times for so long that it rolled off his tongue before he knew it had. “Mounties are heroes.”
One look into her shrewd eyes told him she wasn’t falling for it, as everyone else had. He shook his head in amusement. They really were exactly the same, which meant he couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes as he had with others. She knew his games and was brave enough to call him on them. But that didn’t mean he’d just roll over.
