“Good morning, Miss Anderson.”
“It’s not really, is it?”
He chuckled softly, dusting off his hands and standing. “No, it’s not. The radio says this is some kind of major squall. There’s no chance of it breaking before tomorrow.”
“Wonderful,” Susan murmured, her lashes falling over her eyes.
David Lane shed the mackintosh. He was wearing black, form-fitting jeans and an old blue football jersey. “Don’t sound so bleak, Miss Anderson. It’s possible for us to spend the day being polite to one another.”
“Mr. Lane, I was never rude,” she said in bitter reminder.
He shrugged, apparently believing that he could dispute her but didn’t intend to bother. “There’s coffee in the kitchen on the camp stove. And a plate of pancakes if you’re interested. They might be a little rubbery now; they were made a long time ago.”
She couldn’t help but frown curiously. “You made pancakes on a camp stove?”
“Mmm.”
“You cook?”
He grinned at her in return. “Obviously, Miss Anderson. I’ve been on my own quite some time now, and one tends to become fairly proficient that way.” He plopped down on the sofa with a book. Susan walked on by behind him, holding her breath a little when she was right behind his dark head.
“Bring me some coffee when you finish and are on your way back through, will you?”
Like hell, she thought, but then she released her breath, and at the sink, her fingers tightly gripped the edge of the counter. Now she was getting ridiculous. He’d had the consideration to make the coffee and breakfast. It would be rather childish to refuse to do something so simple in return.
She hadn’t touched much at dinner last night, so she wasn’t terribly surprised to be ravenous. And his pancakes were delicious. It was a little irritating that he had managed them so well on a small stove, but Susan tried to shrug off all her nasty feelings. After all, she had gone out of her way to reverse his knife thrusts and convince him that she was exactly what he thought she was. Their war was being waged on a grand scale—and she was surely the victor, simply because he was so damnably, arrogantly wrong!
She brought him a cup of coffee from the kitchen and then realized with a little chill of horror that he was reading her romantic science fiction book.
His eyes came to hers as she handed him the cup, and he smiled with just a trace of cynicism. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“I wouldn’t think that you’d enjoy it, Mr. Lane,” she said smoothly, despite her pounding heart. “There’s a full library just—”
“Oh, I was interested,” he said, interrupting her.
“In?”
“In your reading taste, Miss Anderson.”
There was a flush rising to her face despite herself. And despite herself, she reached down and tried to take the book. But his fingers held the spine tightly, and she came too close to him in her efforts to snatch the book away. Too close! She was leaning over him, touching him, and all the while his sharp blue eyes were watching her speculatively.
“It’s only a book, Miss Anderson,” he reminded her softly, his words a warm whisper against her cheek.
She held still for a minute, realizing that she was never going to wrest the book from him. And the longer she tried, the deeper his mocking smile was going to grow—and the more curious he would become.
She released her hold on the book and quickly steadied herself. “It seems rather absurd to read a book you don’t like!” she snapped.
He arched his brow. “I never said I didn’t like it. I can enjoy reading anything—if it’s competently written and offers an intriguing plot.”
Susan moved over to the window and stared out at the beach, empty beneath the gray sky.
“And is it competently written?” she asked.
She heard him rise behind her and wished she hadn’t trapped herself by the window. Arms crossed over his chest, he joined her perusal of the great outdoors.
“Yes, actually, I think it is.”
She didn’t dare look at him. “I think I’m going to get a little fresh air,” she murmured quickly.
“Spicy, though, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“The book.” He smiled pleasantly, but he seemed exceptionally tall and broad to her right then, like a powerful demon toying with some cornered soul. Very warm, well muscled, too male.
“Spicy?” she repeated a little vaguely.
He laughed. “Sexual … sensual. Almost enough to make one feel like taking a cold shower. Tell me, does this kind of reading help you in your chosen life-style, Miss Anderson?”
Her blood seemed to grow cold. She stared at him, some deep sense of self-preservation warning her not to slap him, then spun quickly around.
“I definitely need some fresh air!”
She didn’t bother to dig into the closet for a mackintosh, but slammed out the front door. It did feel good to be outside. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was in a tempest of fury all over again. There was absolutely no trusting him; he might speak as politely as a political orator, but he just wasn’t able to keep his barbs to himself. Oh! She usually loved being here in this forlorn little outcrop, so wild and beautiful. Independent…
But right now she wished Peter had chosen to hide away almost anywhere else—as long as there was more than one road that washed away with every storm leading to it.
She started to the water, then drew back. With her luck David Lane would see her and rush out to keep her from throwing herself back into the ocean.
She started toward the rise of pines instead, berating herself for having gotten out of bed, for drinking his coffee and eating his pancakes, for not spending the night in the sand rather than beneath the same roof.
She paused in her thoughts suddenly, aware of a low moaning sound. Frowning, she pushed through the scraggly brush and past a weatherworn slab of granite, then paused again.
It was whimpering sound, full of pain.
She kept walking, pausing to listen now and then. Seconds later she passed another of the boulders and found the source of the cries beyond.
“Sam!” she cried, falling to her knees beside the massive Irish wolfhound. He was just lying there, whining pathetically.
“What is it, boy?” He whimpered again, and then she saw the problem and realized why she had missed it at first. Quills were embedded alongside the dark whiskers that grew all along his homely silver nose.
“Oh, Sam!” When she moved to touch him, he growled at her and she sat back, unnerved and at a loss what to do. Sam belonged to Dr. Harley Richmond’s father, a widowed retiree who lived about half a mile into the pines. Susan had known Harley for years but hadn’t met his father until she had met Peter. Sam had never growled at her; she had always thought that the dog cared about her.
“There you are!”
She glanced up, startled to see David Lane coming toward her, a look of naked relief on his face. He seemed exceptionally competent in the stark woodland environment.
“What are you doing?” he asked impatiently, and she realized that he couldn’t see the dog behind the slab of rock.
“It’s Sam,” she murmured, too concerned about the dog to inform him that she wasn’t suicidal, that he certainly didn’t disturb her that much, and that she didn’t appreciate being followed.
“I was worried,” he said briefly, stepping past her. “Why, it is old Sam!” David, too, fell to his knees, studying the animal. “What did you do, boy, get into a tussle with a porcupine?”
The dog whimpered.
“He—he snapped at me,” Susan offered.
“He’s in pain, that’s why,” David said. Then he started talking to the dog. “Take it easy, Sam, it’s me, David. Yeah, I know it’s been a while, but I’m going to help you, okay?”
He glanced at Susan. “Those porcupine quills are just like fishhooks,” he murmured. “We’ve got to get him back to the house. I’m going to need a good stro
ng clamp to get them out.”
Susan nodded a little hesitantly. Sam weighed over a hundred pounds, and the usually gentle creature had teeth that now seemed exceptionally large.
David didn’t seem concerned. “Go ahead of me, will you? Get a big towel and find a clamp.” He grinned. “We’ll perform surgery in the kitchen.”
She hesitated. “You know Sam?”
“Sure.” He gazed at her, his smile a little rueful. “I grew up here, remember? I remember when Jud Richmond bought Sam.”
Susan swallowed uneasily. “You’re friends with—with Jud Richmond?”
He gazed at her briefly, as if he considered the question strange. It probably was.
“Of course I know him.”
He turned his attention back to the dog, speaking very softly. “It’s going to be okay, Sam.” The dog growled again. David didn’t pull back, he just waited. Sam went silent, then whimpered. David brought his knuckles closer to the dog’s nostrils, still whispering soft and assuring words. “I’ve got to pick you up, boy. You’ve got to trust me….”
David got his hand on the dog and started stroking his neck. Sam kept whimpering. Then David braced himself and slipped his arms beneath Sam’s body. Sam made no protest, and David rose, staggering a little.
He gazed at Susan, grimacing. “Miss Anderson, I’d really appreciate it if you could at least get the door!”
Susan flushed, turned, and raced ahead of him. She waited at the door until he was through it with his burden, then hurried upstairs to get a towel, down to the basement to dig through the tools for a clamp, then back to the kitchen. David already had Sam situated on the floor in front of a bowl of water. He’d talked the dog into dipping his nose in it to ease the sting of the quills.
He glanced up briefly at Susan and muttered his thanks, then took the clamp and indicated that she should wrap Sam in the towel. She did so nervously, remembering that Sam had growled at her. David caught her hand.
“I’ve got him. He can’t reach you.”
She realized then that his legs were locked around the dog’s shoulders and that Sam’s haunches were caught beneath the kitchen chair on which David sat. She nodded and wrapped Sam’s damp and sand-coated body more closely.
She noted that David’s lip tightened a little grimly as he caught the wolfhound’s lower jaw with one hand and took the clamp to the first quill. David started talking to the dog again, soothing him, and Sam started and bared his teeth, then yelped as the first quill was pulled from his nose. He shuddered and whimpered. David took a breath and went back to work.
In time the quills were out. Seventeen of them in all. David doused the dog’s nose again, then released him. “That’s it, Sam!”
Sam barked joyously; his tail began to thump the floor furiously, then he rose on his hind legs, planted his forepaws on David’s shoulders, and slurped his face.
“Sam!” David protested, stumbling backward. He was tall, but the dog stood on a par with him.
Susan couldn’t help but laugh. David shot her a quick glare but then started laughing too.
“Get down, you pest!” David commanded, and in a moment the dog complied. “You’re filthy. What did you do, get caught out in the storm?” David sobered suddenly, glancing at Susan. He winced. “We need to get him home. Old Jud will be sick with worry.”
She froze, not wanting to see Jud with David. She’d never discussed Peter with Jud, but the two men had been good friends. She even doubted that Peter had told Jud about his illness; the problem was that Jud was Harley’s father, and Harley had treated Peter at the hospital. And Jud, of course, knew all about her.
Knew about her in a way, she thought bitterly. Jud knew where she had met Peter, knew about her past, and about her work. But it occurred to Susan that no matter what anyone else thought, David Lane would probably think them naive. He had already condemned her, and his opinion would not change easily.
“The storm is going to break again,” she said quickly. “If it’s going to clear tomorrow, I can take Sam back up—”
“You don’t have to come with me. I’ll probably get drenched, but that dog is like a child to Jud. He’s his best friend. And Jud is too old to get himself worried sick over a dog.”
Susan winced, wondering how a man who could be so brutally crude could also be so damned sensitive. But, she reflected, he was also probably right. Jud would be worried sick about the pet he so adored.
“I’ll get the mackintoshes,” she muttered.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go,” David said, halting her. “There’s no reason for us both to get soaked.”
She didn’t want him alone with Jud! “I don’t mind getting wet!” she blurted quickly, then raced through the parlor to the foyer and the closet.
Sam appeared ridiculously happy for a dog who had so recently been in so much pain. He bounded ahead of them as they walked through the brush and pines, then came running back.
“Damn rascal would probably get along just fine without either of us!” David commented disgustedly as Sam came back to him once in a flying leap, almost knocking him over.
Susan chuckled and taunted, “My, my, Mr. Lane, you do seem to have an affinity with canines!”
He cast her a dry glare, then returned her cool smile. “And you, Miss Anderson, seem to have an affinity for aging men.”
“I do, don’t I?” she replied briefly, then rushed ahead to catch up with Sam.
Twenty minutes of rugged, uphill walking brought them to the small hunter’s lodge where Jud Richmond enjoyed his retirement. They found Jud—a man who resembled a true hermit, if ever there was one—standing outside the door of his rough log home, hand shielding his eyes as he searched the field and trees. Sam let out a joyous bark, then raced toward his master. With the finely tuned inner sense of an animal he did not jump on the older man as he had done to David. He approached Jud on his belly, whining and thumping his tail.
“Why, you old tramp!” Jud said, admonishing the dog and bending down, gnarled fingers shaking as he patted Sam. “If my hair weren’t gray already—what did you do to your nose, boy?” At that Jud looked up, then waved as he narrowed his eyes and saw Susan and David. “Susan!” he called.
She reached him and gave him a little hug. “You okay up here in the storm, Jud? I found Sam by the pines—”
“He run off on me last night, fool creature!” Jud said. “I was in a dither, I can tell you that, young lady. Now who’s this—David? David Lane! Well, I haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays, boy!” As Jud embraced David, Susan found herself watching the two critically. If David hurt old Jud in any way, she’d be ready to go to battle all over again.
David didn’t. He returned the greeting with sincerity, smiling and tolerating being called boy with an easy smile.
“Sorry about your pop, son,” Jud told him, his rheumy eyes sad. “He was the best of them, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” David said huskily, then quickly changed the subject. “How are you doing, Jud?”
“Good, good—now that you two have brought me my friend back. What did the fool dog do?”
“Tangled with a porcupine,” David told him.
Jud shook his bearded head wearily. “Fool dog!” he muttered affectionately, patting the wolfhound’s head. “Well, maybe you learned your lesson! Maybe you won’t hightail it out on me again when the rain starts next time.” He looked up to the sky. “And it’s going to start again soon!” He peered at Susan. “You want to come in for a drink, missy? Something to warm your bones before you start back?”
Susan didn’t get a chance to speak. David answered for her. “Thanks, no, Jud. Miss Anderson got a bit of a whack on the head yesterday—wind got her and a boulder at the same time. She’s sticking to the nonalcoholic stuff today. And the rain is going to start. We’d better head back.”
Jud nodded. He peered at Susan again. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Jud,” she said, flashing David Lane a quick glance to convey her irrit
ation.
“Anything you need with the road washed out?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ve got a batch of the best New England clam chowder you’re ever going to taste. If you won’t come in, why don’t you take some back?” Jud suggested.
“Now that sounds great,” David said, brushing a windblown thatch of dark hair from his forehead. “I haven’t had anything as good as your clam chowder since…” He grimaced, then laughed. “Since the last time I had your clam chowder.”
“Just hold on one second, then.” Jud hurried into the log house. Susan knelt down to pat the dog on the head, feeling ridiculously alone again—alone with David Lane.
But Jud was true to his word; he was right back, a large covered kettle in his hand. “You can hang it right over the fire in the parlor,” he assured them. His voice cracked a little. “I sure do thank you both for old Sam, here.”
“It’s nothing, Jud,” David said.
“I hope I get to see a little more of you, David.” Jud nodded toward Susan. “Nice to see you together. Your father sure did want the two of you to meet.”
David smiled pleasantly; only Susan heard the edge of bitterness to his voice. “Yes, well, we’ve met now.”
Jud shook his head. “Pity Peter ain’t here. But then, that’s one of the problems with life, huh? Seems like things just happen too late sometimes. You just can’t put things off. Got to do them when the time is right.”
“Yes, I guess you do,” David said, still pleasantly, but he looked up to the sky. “That rain is going to start. We’d better start back.”
Susan didn’t want to start back. She suddenly wanted to plead with Jud to let her stay with him until David went back to New York. But the words died in her throat because Jud was talking again. “Harley was asking about you, Susan. He was worried, what with Peter gone and all. About how you were bearing up and all.”
“I’m really fine,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. “Uh, tell Harley that I’m … fine.”
“You gonna go by and see him soon?”
“Yes, soon,” she promised. David Lane had her arm now. He was pulling at it with his customary firm force.
Handful of Dreams Page 7
