White Wedding

by Jean Barrett

  “But what has that got to do with—”

  “Patience. I’m getting there. Turns out the sick man was Mike Beaver.”

  Enlightening, Lane thought. No wonder Jack had been so certain of Mike Beaver’s identity in the photograph earlier. Also, that he’d accepted Chris’s claim that his brother was nowhere near Thunder Island last night. But it didn’t explain the rest.

  “How does all this translate into your warning at the dock?”

  “Because,” Jack continued, “I was still there in the tavern when the kind of medical people they did need arrived. Mike was moaning about how he was supposed to work the island here this weekend, and they were telling him he could forget it. Then I overheard one of them say to the other that the symptoms looked damn funny to him.”

  “Like what?”

  Jack shrugged. “Like maybe he’d been slipped something.”

  “You mean he’d been made deliberately ill so that he couldn’t come to the island and his brother would have to replace him?”

  “It’s farfetched, I know, but I still didn’t like it. I like it even less after what’s happened here.”

  “You think that business has some connection with Teddy Brewster’s death?”

  “You’re as free as I am to speculate. Be my guest.”

  Lane spent a long, thoughtful moment doing just that. But there wasn’t much value in such speculations when there was no evidence to support them.

  Jack, meanwhile, was busy in another direction. In fact, taking unfair advantage of her distraction. She didn’t notice his hand sneaking toward her legs extended under the covers. Not until that hand was slowly stroking her right thigh did she become aware of his seductive activity. Even with a blanket between his flesh and hers, the sensation was powerful and mesmerizing.

  For one weak, mindless moment Lane submitted to his familiar touch. Memory surfaced, making her light-headed as she recalled the sensual magic they had once shared. There was a time when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, when their lovemaking had been so hot and wild that—

  What am I doing?

  Lane jerked her legs back, drawing her knees up toward her breasts. She was trembling with anger. Anger with him for assaulting her defenses with his masculine allure. Anger with herself because he could still make her smolder with his potent touch. The temptation had to be removed.

  “Get off the bed,” she ordered him.

  “Lane, we need to talk.”

  “Now.”

  He obliged her. The quilt around his shoulders slid to the floor as he rose to his feet. “All right, I’m off the bed.”

  “Not far enough. Go back to your own bed.”

  “Lane, we still have feelings for each other. It’s no good your denying them. All I’m asking is that we discuss those feelings.”

  “The guesthouse. I want to see you out that door and headed back to the guesthouse. Five seconds, Jack, or I wake up the whole lodge.”

  He knew she meant it. He started to back away toward the door, but there was a hard resolve on his appealing face. “Have it your way. Tonight, that is. Because,” he promised her, “sooner or later we are going to have that talk. And, damn it, lock this door behind me.”

  She waited until he disappeared into the hallway. Then she obeyed his arrogant command, leaving her bed to turn the key in the old-fashioned lock. She repeated the procedure with the connecting door to the unoccupied bedroom. It wasn’t to satisfy his caution about some shadowy murderer who was no longer on the island. She was locking out Jack Donovan.

  * * *

  THERE WERE TWO THINGS that Lane craved when she slipped out of her room at daybreak the next morning. The first was a knowledge of whether the phone was back in service. The second, almost as strong, was a need for caffeine.

  She felt her best chance for securing both was in the kitchen. The house was silent, no one in evidence, as she descended the staircase. But the welcome aroma of freshly brewed coffee that drew her in the direction of the service wing told her that someone was up and active.

  Dorothy was in the kitchen getting breakfast under way when Lane arrived through the swing door off the dining room.

  “Morning.” Dorothy greeted her soberly as she turned away from the refrigerator.

  “Good morning.”

  Under the circumstances, neither of them was able to add a merry Christmas to their exchange.

  “The phone?” Lane asked anxiously.

  Dorothy shook her head as she moved to the stove. “Still dead.”

  Lane wasn’t surprised. The wind, which had kept her restless during the night, along with the disturbing memory of what was hidden down in the cave, hadn’t diminished. “Then Nils has no choice but to cross in the truck.”

  “He’s leaving in a few minutes,” Dorothy reported. “Just getting ready now.”

  It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, and both women realized that without needing to comment on it.

  “Can I help you with breakfast?”

  “Thanks, I can manage. Coffee’s finished. Help yourself.”

  By the time Lane filled a mug from the coffeemaker on the counter, Nils was in the kitchen, already warmly dressed for the outdoors.

  “You should eat something,” his wife urged.

  He shook his head. “I’ll get breakfast on the other side. I don’t want to lose time.”

  Lane, sipping her coffee gratefully, went to stand by the window overlooking the bay. In the strengthening daylight the ferocity of the wind was revealed as it worried the snow on the ice into eddying clouds. It looked to her like total whiteout conditions down there. She shuddered over the image of Nils battling his way in a truck over that dangerous expanse.

  Possibly he sensed her concern. The lanky man came and stood beside her. “Not as far as it looks to the other side,” he offered. “If it’s clear tomorrow night, and you were still here, you’d be able to make out the festival of lights along the waterfront over in Ephraim. It’s a pretty sight from this window.”

  “Festival of lights?”

  “Swedish tradition,” he explained. “Comes from the Santa Lucia holiday celebration. That’s supposed to be before Christmas, of course, but in Ephraim they save the festival of lights for the night after Christmas. Tourists are here by then.”

  It might have been his method for reassuring her, but the visibility right now was less than encouraging. Lane didn’t remark on it. Nor did she indicate her sudden awareness of the peculiar and pungent odor that seemed to cling to the man close beside her.

  Nils, however, must have realized her puzzlement. He chuckled softly. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I’ve slathered my exposed skin with a chap preventive. Homemade remedy, and it works. It also smells.”

  “You ought to have more than that remedy along with you,” Dorothy said tartly. “You should let Chris go with you.”

  Nils shook his head. “I’m as good as radar when it comes to that ice. Besides,” he added without explaining, “could be you’ll need Chris right here.”

  He was gone a moment later, leaving his stoic wife looking tight-lipped and grim. Lane finished her coffee and then renewed her offer to help with the breakfast preparations.

  Dorothy, preoccupied, didn’t answer for a moment. Then she nodded her appreciation. “You can carry dishes into the dining room and set up a buffet. That way they can help themselves whenever they come down.”

  Lane got busy in the dining room. When she returned to the kitchen, Chris had arrived with a load of wood for the fireplaces. She found him and his sister discussing Nils.

  “I wouldn’t be so worried,” Dorothy said, “except for...well, you know.”

  “Because he’s not that long out of the hospital, you mean,” Chris responded bluntly. He turned his head, extending a friendly nod to Lane. It was perhaps a kind of apology for last night. In any case, the nod seemed to include her in the scene, so she felt it wasn’t inappropriate to offer an assurance.

  “Whatever it wa
s, he certainly looks fit and strong now.”

  Chris shrugged. “Nils wasn’t in for a physical ailment. Severe depression because of—”

  Dorothy laid a hand on her brother’s arm, warning him to silence. An awkward moment followed, with Lane wondering about this newest mystery.

  She was to encounter still another secret in the dining room, where she settled at the table with a second mug of coffee and an English muffin. Ronnie and Hale were already there helping themselves to scrambled eggs.

  Whatever shock she had professed last night, an alert Ronnie looked this morning as though she hadn’t lost a moment of sleep. There was nothing restrained about her makeup, or her crimson outfit, either. Her elder son, on the other hand, was decidedly glum. Lane, remembering that this was to have been his wedding day, sympathized with his mood.

  Stuart wandered into the dining room. He alone dared to be cheerful. Gleefully so. “Jolly holly, people.”

  Restlessly circling the table, the teenager picked up a slice of toast and began to munch on it without sitting down. “Well, I’m off,” he announced seconds later.

  “Where are you going?” his mother asked sharply.

  He removed the toast clamped between his teeth long enough to answer, “Library. Interesting stuff in there.”

  The weapons collection, Lane realized.

  Stuart departed, with Ronnie directing after him a stony, disapproving look. It was also, Lane thought, a deeply suspicious expression. She didn’t think she was being fanciful because, when Ronnie turned her head, she and Hale exchanged knowing, silent glances across the table. Once again, Lane was left in the dark.

  Neither Allison nor Dan had put in an appearance by the time Lane left the breakfast table. But it was Jack’s absence that mattered to her. After last night she wasn’t eager to see him again until she had to. Before this weekend she had convinced herself that she had finally gotten over Jack Donovan. Now she was terrified of being hurt again. It was as simple as that.

  Every bit as restless as Stuart, Lane returned to her room to make her bed. It was the only activity she could think of. That and wondering what progress Nils was achieving on the ice. With luck, he would reach the mainland in an hour or so. Then, hopefully before the day was out, they could all be released from this nightmare in which they were trapped. Until that happened, they had to live with the tenseness of the situation. And the uselessness of their waiting.

  But after she went to her window to check again on the weather Lane knew exactly how she was supposed to occupy herself. Hale was down there alone on the terrace overlooking the topiary garden, just as he had been yesterday after their arrival. She hadn’t forgotten her promise to approach him about that sensitive matter, and there could be no better opportunity than this.

  Bundling into her coat, she hurried downstairs and left the lodge by way of the Viking hall. Hale hadn’t moved from the terrace. He seemed as morbidly fascinated with the topiary shapes on the sheltered lawn as Stuart was with the weapons collection in the library. The exotic evergreen figures still made Lane uneasy.

  “Oh, it’s you again.” He greeted her flatly when she joined him.

  When there was the possibility of spoiling Allison’s wedding, Lane had delayed her delicate mission. But that was no longer a risk. Not today, anyway.

  “Since we’re private, can we talk for a few minutes?”

  “What is it now?”

  He was understandably in a difficult mood, but the unhappy business couldn’t be avoided. “It’s something personal, Hale. Something that concerns an individual who matters to both of us.”

  “If you’re referring to Allison—”

  “This isn’t anything to do with Allison. At least, not directly. If you’ll just let me explain...”

  “Go on,” he said impatiently.

  Lane paused to take a steadying breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Back in my college days,” she began, “I boarded in a private home with a widow and her daughter. The daughter had a little girl of her own and was a single parent. She never talked about her child’s father, except to tell me once that her baby had been the result of a teenage affair that went sour.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I’m trying to tell you, if you’ll bear with me. I got very close to these people, Hale. I’m still close to Valerie. Her girl, Jodi, too. I baby-sat Jodi when she was a child.”

  Lane paused, watching Hale’s face for a reaction now that she had introduced their names. His expression remained wooden, without a trace of emotion.

  “Jodi’s no longer a child.” She struggled on. “She’s a teenager now, Hale. A very determined teenager.”

  “Yeah? About what?”

  “Meeting the father she never knew. There was an engagement picture in one of the Chicago papers not long ago. Valerie’s mother showed the photo of the couple to Jodi and told her granddaughter that she was looking at her father. Valerie isn’t very happy about what her mother did, but she can’t change it. And she can’t talk Jodi out of her obsession about contacting her father. Valerie’s worried sick. She realizes it’s only natural that Jodi wants so desperately to meet him, now that she knows who he is, but she’s afraid of her daughter being rejected.”

  Except for a tightening of his handsome face, there was still no response from Hale.

  Lane continued with her effort to reach him. “These are people I care about very much, Hale. I don’t want to see either one of them hurt, any more than I want to see you or Allison hurt. But the situation exists, and it isn’t going to go away. Look, all Valerie wants to know is whether you’re prepared to acknowledge Jodi as your daughter.”

  For a moment he said nothing, and then he laughed harshly. “You’ve got a nerve coming to me with this wild tale. I don’t know who these women are, but they’re certainly not my responsibility.”

  She stared at him in speechless disgust. Until this moment she had made every effort not to judge Hale when she barely knew him. But there was no denying his character now. Poor Jodi. She was in for a bitter disappointment. Worse, Lane felt Allison would be making a serious mistake in marrying this man.

  She now regretted she’d ever agreed to approach Hale McGuire. That regret intensified when he suddenly shoved his face into hers, his eyes blazing.

  “There’s more here, isn’t there?” he demanded, his tone ugly. “Sure, now I get it. This little invention your friends have cooked up is nothing but a scam. I’m about to marry a rich woman, and someone sees that as an opportunity.”

  “Why, you—”

  Lane didn’t permit herself to finish. She was too outraged for words. All she wanted was a fast retreat and a chance to decide how she was ever going to tell Valerie that her daughter’s father was a despicable heel. But Hale prevented that when he clamped a hand on her shaking arm, holding her as he thrust his face so menacingly close that she could feel his breath lashing her.

  “That’s what it’s all about,” he accused her. “Extortion. Well, maybe you need some threatening of your own.”

  “Let go of me.”

  “Just as soon as I make you understand that you’d better forget what was said out here. I don’t want you running to Allison with any of these lies, because if you know what’s good for you...”

  His fingers tightened on her arm. Until this moment Lane had been nothing but furious. Now she was frightened. She had never considered that Hale was a man capable of violence. And she was alone with him out here.

  Except, as she learned seconds later, they weren’t alone.

  “What’s good for you, McGuire,” came a lethal voice from the garden, turning Hale’s warning against him, “would be removing your hand from her arm. Unless, of course, you want to find yourself wrapped around one of these bushes down here.”

  Why should I be surprised? Lane thought as Jack’s forceful figure rounded a grotesque cedar serpent. I mean, it’s what he does. Popping up out of nowhere to rescue me, invited or not.
/>
  Chapter Five

  “Just how much did you hear before you decided to come out of hiding?” Lane insisted on knowing.

  “Enough,” Jack admitted casually.

  It was a few minutes later, and they were alone on the terrace. Hale, deciding that Jack would have cheerfully delivered on his promise, had wisely apologized and retreated to the lodge.

  “Well, I hope you understand it’s confidential,” she cautioned him.

  “Agreed.”

  “And stop rescuing me.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She should have been thanking him, she thought, not scolding him. He really deserved it because, on this occasion, he’d been a welcome arrival. All solid six feet of him. But she wasn’t about to make the mistake of encouraging him. He was already far too sure of himself.

  “What are you doing sneaking around out here in the garden, anyway?”

  “Not sneaking,” he corrected her. “Investigating.”

  “Find any worthwhile dinosaur bones?”

  “No, but I found something just as interesting.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  He led her down into the garden through the dark ranks of mythical beasts. The garden, framed by the thick woods, was in a protected situation. But even here the relentless wind whipped Lane’s cinnamon hair around her cheeks. They passed a unicorn, a winged dragon, and then stopped in front of a grotesque troll perched on his evergreen mushroom.

  “There,” he said, pointing with the tip of his boot.

  “I don’t see anything. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “How the snow is disturbed here at the base of the mushroom.”

  “Jack, the snow all through the garden is disturbed by people coming and going.”

  “Not footprints. This is a different sort of impression. Like something, or someone, rolled under the mushroom.”

  She leaned down to peek under the tightly clipped cedar.

  “Don’t bother. I’ve already checked. There’s nothing there now.”