Judy Gill

by Golden Swan [LS-377] (epub)

  "No, no! There's no need for that. I can fix the greenhouse and gardening's all but finished for the season. It may only be September, but well be gettin' frosty nights soon. Winter comes early in the mountains. I'll carry your things in." Clearly, he was out to impress Cal's guest. Dammit, Cal thought, Fred had better remember exactly whose guest B.J. was, or he'd be reminded. Forcibly.

  "Thank you, Fred," B.J. said, submitting gracefully.

  Fred went back out through his trail of mud, leaving it even muddier, and leaving Cal's thoughts even bleaker. He could have carried her stuff in, for Pete's sake.

  "Uncle Cal, where can B.J. sleep?" Laura asked, gathering up B. J.'s leathers. "Can she have the room that shares the bath with ours?"

  Cal stood very still, resisting the urge to tell the girls to usher her right into his room. He wouldn't mind sharing a bath with her, or a shower, or . . . He shook his head quickly to disperse those fantasies, then nodded. "Sure, that sounds fine." Something made him follow the girls and their relative into the bedroom wing where they slept.

  "Did you know there are fifteen bedrooms in this house?" Laura asked B.J. as she pushed open the door to the room they had chosen for her.

  "That's because it was built to be a hunting lodge," Kara said. "Even though Uncle Cal only lets camera hunters come here now. I hope you'll like it," she added worriedly. "The rooms are sort of . . . Mom called them Spartan."

  "That's because hunters, even camera hunters, don't spend a lot of time in their rooms," Laura said.

  "Spartan doesn't bother me," B.J. said, gazing around the comfortably furnished room. There was 24 • JUDY GILL

  a double bed, spread and curtains made to match, and a basic dresser with a mirror over it that reflected an oil painting on the opposite wall. She turned to look at it. It must be one of Cal's, she thought, wanting to examine it more closely even as she looked back at the girls. "Remember, I've lived and taught in a boarding school for the past three years, and opulence isn't considered necessary in teachers' quarters. Just being with you two for a few days is going to be great."

  Kara hugged her tightly. "I'm so happy you came," she said. A lump rose in Cal's throat as he watched B.J. draw both the girls closer to her, her golden head bent to their dark ones.

  "I know you miss your mom and dad," she said, "but just think of what a wonderful opportunity this is for them. Nepal, Tibet, India, Pakistan . . . It's something they've wanted to do for years. And think of the beautiful artworks they'll be bringing back for the stores!"

  Curtis and Melody ran a chain of specialty shops that concentrated largely on Oriental art objects.

  "And speaking of artworks," she went on, smiling at Cal as she indicated the painting. "Is this one of yours?"

  He nodded, watching her as she looked in appreciation at his work. It made him feel warm all over that she liked it. He could tell by her face that she did. It didn't take her delighted laughter or her words, "It's great! What a marvelous expression you've captured," to convince him, and he felt like a winner in the warmth of her approval.

  No matter what her personal opinion of the artist might have been, B.J. genuinely liked the oil painting. It was a study of a graceful white bird with one wing half-extended, its neck twisted around as it cleaned its feathers. On its face was an amusing expression of almost human disgruntlement. Clearly, GOLDEN SWAN • 25

  it had not liked being disturbed during its preening activities.

  This was the kind of work Cal Mlxall was renowned for; the reality he captured, the soul of every animal he painted revealed. It had been written that Cal Mixall's paintings had done more to raise the consciousness of the average person and promote conversation than any other living artist. She had never been able to reconcile the man she remembered with the one who was so popular with columnists and interviewers for public affairs programs, but she had never really tried. She frowned, looking again at the picture.

  Had she, all these years, hated someone who truly did not exist? Was the present-day Cal Mixall the man she should be looking at, not the one she remembered? She turned to say something to him, but he was gone. Just like that, without a word, he had slipped away. She wondered why.

  Cal sat on a hard chair in the kitchen, his chin in his hands, trying to breathe deeply and steadily, trying to fight down the desire that B.J. Gray's smile, her laughter, even her appreciation of his work, had engendered in him. This was utter madness! Dammit, he wasn't ready for this. He didn't want it. He wanted peace, time to paint, to prepare for that damned pre-Christmas sale and exhibit he'd promised to be ready for, and here he was sitting on his butt, in a sweat because a woman had smiled at him! What the hell had gotten into him? Dammit, if Melody had planned this, she couldn't have found someone better qualified to shoot down his fierce independence and . . .

  Holy mackerel! He sat up straight, mouth dropping open. Had she? Of course. He slumped again. He could see it now. He had been set up. And not only had Melody set him up, his own brother had been in on it, too! For a brief, crazy moment, he wondered if one of them had torched the boarding school.

  Melody ... He remembered the way she had tried to manipulate him. . . .

  At dinner her last night there, she had stared at him speculatively, then smiled a distinctly feline smile. "Yes," she said. "That's the answer."

  "Answer to what?"

  "Barbara," she said, and turned to her husband. "Well ask Barbara to come and help Cal with the girls, since he doesn't want a stranger." Her smile turned into a grin. "Shell be such a help."

  Curt's eyes widened. "B-Barbara?" He coughed explosively. "Do you mean—"

  "That's right, my aunt Barbara," Melody interrupted, pounding her husband on the back. "The girls' great-aunt," she added, transferring her smile to Cal, as if he weren't capable of figuring out the relationship himself. "Your coguardian."

  "The teacher? Hell, Melody, what are you thinking of? An old lady here? No way!"

  "No?" Melody said mildly. She shrugged. "I was only trying to help, to come up with a good idea, but if you say no . . ." She smiled again. "Never mind, You'll be meeting her when you take the girls out once the school is finished."

  "Why is it so important that I meet her?"

  "I guess it's not, but I was only thinking she should be here to share the responsibilities with you."

  "I can manage the responsib—" Cal broke off, scowling down into the empty glass in his hand. He was remembering the box of supplies Melody had tucked away into the girls' bathroom. After drawing his attention to it, she'd told him neither of the girls required such items of feminine hygiene yet, but she thought they should be on hand, "just in case." Dammit, bachelors weren't supposed to have to think about such details of child rearing. But despite that, he knew he didn't want any woman there in his private time. He had plenty of company from April to September, and the rest of the time he was there. But the fall was special. Usually until Christmas, he just wanted to paint, not be bothered by anyone, which was why he'd shot down Mel's original idea of hiring some young woman to help him with the kids. But neither did he want the girls' great-aunt up there with her fussy, old-maid ways, complaining about dirty socks and unwashed dishes and him being late for meals.

  "No," he had said. "I don't want her here. The girls and I will get along just fine on our own. No, that's it, Mel," he added when she opened her mouth. "Really, it's best this way."

  "Damn!" he said aloud now. "I should have known. I never should have trusted her. Those letters the girls kept writing. Melody put them up to it. And B.J. Is she in on it, too?"

  "What's that, boss?" Fred asked, setting a pair of saddlebags on the kitchen table and balancing a small duffel bag on a chair. Cal reached out and took the helmet dangling from its strap over Fred's arm.

  "Nothing. Never mind." He slammed the helmet onto the table and shot to his feet, fury burning through his very soul. Grabbing up her belongings, he stomped down the hall toward where he heard feminine laughter rising. With a pere
mptory knock on the door he swung it open. The three of them were lying across the bed, eyes lifted expectantly, two pair of brown, laughing, one pair of blue, startled.

  "I have work to do," he said brusquely, dumping her things onto the dresser. "I'll be in the blind at the north end of the lake if there's an emergency such as someone fainting or something equally dramatic. Ill probably spend the night there. Send Fred if I'm needed."

  He wheeled around and left, leaving the bedroom door open, but his slamming of the back door reverberated through the house.

  B.J. lay on the bed, stunned, gazing at the open doorway, her mind's eye seeing only the hard, angry face of the man who had just left. How could those gorgeous brown eyes change so quickly from glowing interest to glittering dislike?

  And then it hit her. He'd remembered her—remembered ugly Janie. He was seeing the real Barbara Jane Gray, and hated himself for having been attracted to her . . . even in her present form. She felt sick. Her head hurt. Her chest ached. Dammit, it just wasn't fair! Why did some men go gaga over her, and Cal Mixall simply gag?

  "Boy, what a grouch!" Laura said into the stunned silence Cal had left. "What's the matter with him?"

  "I don't know," B.J. lied as she swallowed hard and slid off the bed. She went to the window and saw Cal step into a canoe and paddle across the lake. With each dip of his paddle it looked as if he were stabbing the water. That was one angry man, all right.

  Well, she was angry, too, she realized, reveling In the feeling. It negated the hurt. And she was angry with better reason. What right did he have to react like that? She had every right to improve herself. He'd been disdainful of the way she'd been before, so why couldn't he congratulate her on the changes she worked so long and so hard to achieve? Oh, who cared what he thought, anyway? Not her!

  She turned from the window to begin unpacking, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the painting of the swan. She sighed, her anger fading as swiftly as it had risen. Even though she didn't want to, she understood his reaction. She'd even predicted it: the man was an artist, and one with a special insight. He revered reality, truth, and depicted it in painstaking detail. She represented out-and-out deception on every level, from her svelte figure to her golden hair to her blue eyes and her dimples. She was a fake and he'd spotted it. Of course he despised her.

  As she unpacked B.J. listened to a long litany of complaints from the girls, a rehash of their letters, and finally, wearying of listening to their grumbles, she laughed and said, "Oh, knock it off, you two. Since when have you needed an adult to entertain you? And if your uncle says he's tired of 'whining and dining,' then my sympathy is with him. I'm sure his cooking isn't all that bad."

  "It is so," Laura said huffily. "You adults always stick together. Mom and Dad do it, too, and it isn't fair."

  "Life isn't, hon," B.J. said cheerfully, leaning back against the dresser to face the pair sitting on her bed. "But you still haven't told me anything that explains why you exaggerated so drastically in your letters in order to get me up here. What do you expect me to do? I can't just march into my host's kitchen and start cooking, you know."

  "Mom does!"

  "That's different."

  "Anyway, we kind of hoped maybe Uncle Cal wouldn't work so hard if you were here," Kara said. "Laura said that maybe he'd fall for you and then he'd want to entertain—ouch!" She rubbed her pinched arm. "Laura, you did say that!"

  "Oh, brother," B.J. said slowly, narrowing her gaze at her elder niece. "Does this mean what I think it means?"

  "Well, she was right, wasn't she?" Laura said. "He does like you. He kissed you, B.J."

  B.J.'s head spun as she sought an adequate explanation. "That . . . that was just an unfortunate impulse. He shouldn't have done it and I'm sure he regretted it as much as— Who was right?" She moaned. "Oh, don't bother telling me. Your mother! The plan was to get me up here with you from the very first. Lord, if I didn't know better, I'd suspect her of setting the school on fire!"

  "But, B.J., if—"

  B.J. straightened, her fists clenched at her sides. "But nothing, if nothing! I told her I wasn't interested in her precious brother-in-law! I told her I didn't even want to breathe the same air as he does! I told her to keep her nose out of my—" She broke off, drawing In a deep, steadying breath and slowly unclenching her fists. It was futile to tell Melody anything once the woman had made up her mind. And there was no point in ranting at a pair of innocent kids . . . though when it came to Laura, she wasn't terribly convinced of the degree of innocence.

  "Tell me," she said conversationally, leaning back against the dresser again. "How did this all come about, anyway, your mother deciding that I should be here with you guys—and your uncle?" She added the last words venomously.

  Laura explained, finishing by saying. "She asked me what I thought and I told her I thought it was a great idea. And I do, B.J. So does Kara. We'd love it if you and Uncle Cal fell in love and got married and we could be bridesmaids and aunts and baby-sitters, and well, it was Mom's idea, after all!"

  "And it was a lousy idea," said her aunt, coming upright again and crossing her arms as she glared down at them. "Nobody has the right to play games with other people's lives. Now, you guys get this straight and you keep it straight: I do not like your uncle Cal. I do not want to marry him and live in the bushes. He does not like me. He does not want to marry me and live in the city. I may well marry someone someday, and if I do, I promise 111 ask you both to be bridesmaids. If I ever have children, they can call you 'aunt' and you can baby-sit. But I assure you, if I do any of those things, it will not be with your uncle Calvin Mixall. Is that entirely clear?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "All right. Well drop the subject." She unzipped the jacket from the pants of her leather suit and tugged it on. "Now, how'd you girls like to show me around this wilderness your uncle loves so well?"

  "B.J.?" said Kara in a small voice.

  "Yes, honey?" B.J. took her hand and turned to walk out of the room.

  "How come you don't like Uncle Cal?"

  B.J. paused, considered telling the truth, then said gently, "Kara, that's really none of your business."

  None of them saw the door in the other corridor close softly, so none of them was aware that their conversation had not been entirely private.

  Cal stood leaning against the door to his studio. He'd forgotten to pack the most basic essentials— fresh pencils and enough paper—so he'd returned. Lord, but he wished he hadn't. She didn't like him? Dammit, why didn't she like him? She didn't even know him! How could she have formed an opinion so quickly?

  But hadn't he formed an opinion just as quickly? he asked himself. Of course he had. He had sat there in the kitchen and remembered Melody's machinations and assumed that B.J. had been part of them. But now, having eavesdropped without compunction, he had enormous doubts. If she were part of Mel's plot, why would she take such pains to tell the girls otherwise?

  No matter how much he hated to, he had to face the facts. B.J. Gray was telling the simple truth when she told the kids she didn't like him, but in spite of that, she had tried to make them see his side of things, too. She was fair, then, as well as lovely. And forthright. And completely without guile. And he had misjudged her badly.

  He sighed again and let himself out of the house, walked quietly back to the dock, and slipped into his canoe. This time he paddled slowly. She was something, that B.J. Gray. B for Barbara. That much seemed obvious. J for what? He thought about it. He considered and discounted Janet or Jean or Judith. No, it would be something exotic. Jasmine? Jonquil? Juniper? He would ask her. He frowned. If that were possible. Again, he heard her voice. I do not like your uncle Cal.

  Dammit, he liked her, and somehow, he was going to make her like him.

  It wasn't going to be easy, he realized, several hours later as he entered a kitchen full of the scent of good cooking. B.J. was stirring something in a big pot on the stove, and the aroma made his mouth water. That, for some reas
on he couldn't comprehend, made him furious all over again.

  What right did she have to come roaring into his life like a small but elemental storm and turn him inside out? He should have stayed in the blind! He should go back and spend the next three or four days in the blind. How about six months? Or the rest of his life? It would be safer, for sure.

  "What do you think you're doing?" he asked crossly, only half-ashamed of his irritable tone. It hid his deeper feelings, feelings he didn't want to acknowledge, but feelings that were growing stronger and stronger by the moment. The woman had been here a matter of hours. What kind of shape would he be in by Monday morning?

  "Cooking stew," B.J, responded evenly, trying not to sound as wary as she felt. Dammit, did he still think she had fainted to get his attention? Did he think she was crazy, or what? Now that he'd remembered fat, ugly Janie and knew her for what she really was, he must know better!

  "I hope you don't mind," she went on evenly. "I found the meat in the deep freeze and used vegetables from the garden."

  Her cool voice, the reserve in her blue eyes, defused his anger, and Cal found it impossible to speak for a minute. And he had to admit to himself that he didn't mind her cooking. Just the opposite. For some weird reason he loved the idea of her being in his kitchen. It was the first time in his life he had loved the idea of any woman there. Other than his sister-in-law and the camp cook in the summer. When it was one of them, he never gave it any thought. He shouldn't be giving it so much thought now, but he was—that, and several other things he shouldn't be giving any thought to. He had never chased after a woman in his life. If he'd felt that one didn't like him ... He frowned. Had that ever happened? No, he guessed it hadn't. But still, if one had, he wouldn't have hung around her just for a chance to look at her, would he? Of course not. But with B.J. Gray, he had no choice. They had a mutual concern. Because of that, he had to hang around. Didn't he?

  "Where are the girls?" he asked, to make conversation, to make her look at him.

  "Doing their lessons."

  Couldn't she even spare him one tiny smile? Couldn't she stop looking at him as If he were a worm and she might be considering putting him on a hook to feed to the sharks?