Bride for Ransom

by Renee Roszel

  He crossed his arms on his chest. “A man?” he queried angrily, then expelling a slow breath, his expression grew contrite. “Blast it—forgive me, Sara. I suppose I don’t react very well when I’ve been hoodwinked.”

  “I didn’t hoodwink you,” she reminded him. “And I don’t see how you can be so sure the plane won’t be back. Maybe they had lots of baggage on the plane that made it heavy or something. I refuse to believe he lied.”

  “The next time I see Dorfman, I’ll kill him,” Ransom muttered wearily. “Then I’ll fire him.”

  “He knew you’d say that,” she retorted, frowning at the memory. “When he had to leave, er, left without us. His exact words were, ‘I’ll be the best-dressed ex-corporate-lawyer-stand-up-comic-dead-man in the employment line.’”

  A flicker of surprise softened Ransom’s stern stare. Then a smile gradually blossomed on his face, appearing almost authentic. After a long, slow shake of his head, he startled Sara with a chuckle that built into genuine laughter.

  The sound was deeper and more hearty than the crash of waves breaking on the beach. Sara could only stand there, feeling the warmth of his unexpected good humor enter her chilled bones. His capacity to exude such a tangible appeal stunned her. No man had ever affected her in this alarming way before—especially a man she detested. It was as though his strength of will had invaded her being, wrapping itself about her core, stealing some piece of herself.

  “Why is that so funny?” she asked, her voice fragile as she pushed back such absurd notions.

  Amused exasperation sparked in his eyes. “I can never stay mad at that guy.”

  She sniffed in disbelief. “Is that why you fire him every fifteen minutes?”

  Ransom’s tone became affectionate. “Isaac’s a good man, a good friend. His intentions are the best, however misguided. He’s more like a brother to me than—” He cut himself off, and his features hardened. Sara was jolted to see tears in his eyes. He blinked and then grinned, all evidence of anguish gone. “Let’s just say ol’ Dorf’s job is safe.”

  Sara was so unnerved by what she’d glimpsed—some rending sadness within Ransom—that she couldn’t speak or move. He’d covered the slip quickly enough, but she couldn’t help wondering what he’d been about to reveal. Bolstering her courage, she prompted, “Isaac’s more a brother to you than who? Do you have a brother?”

  His handsome mouth thinned, and when he spoke his words were low and razor sharp. “No, Sara, I have no brother.” Turning on his heel, he stalked into the house.

  THE NEXT DAY DAWNED sunny and what might even pass for warm. The temperature hovered around fifty. A gentle breeze caressed the landscape, and Sara found the feel of sunshine on her face a welcome change. The kids had gone down to the cove to play with their dolphin friend, Potluck, and Sara, having walked miles and miles already, was back at the house burning with a need to do something constructive. Against her will, she was caught in the throes of another attack of I-have-to-clean-this-place-or-I’ll-scream.

  Ransom, making his regular round of observations at his plotted bird cliffs, would probably be gone for some time. Sara decided to take her life into her hands and search for a vacuum cleaner. She’d unobtrusively been clearing a path for the past two days, and today, she decided she would vacuum that path, no matter who disapproved of the idea. Of course, there were those who would say she was being a coward by cleaning up while no one was there to object. But those busybodies would be wrong. She would eventually have to face Ransom’s towering condemnation. At least, when that happened, there’d be a vacuumed path to aid in her escape.

  After twenty minutes, Sara grew nervous. She’d wasted precious time searching the house, and the vacuum cleaner was nowhere to be found. It had to be in Ransom’s closet. She hated to venture into his room. It seemed like an invasion of privacy, though he didn’t keep his door closed during the day. She’d glimpsed inside several times and discovered that it was every bit as debris-strewn as the rest of the house. Even so, she felt a twinge of guilt as she entered.

  Guilt increasing her heart rate, she looked around and saw what once had been a nice room. The furniture was made of mellow old wood that was practical and hospitable. There was a black, brass-studded trunk at the foot of the unmade bed. A biscuit-colored area rug was littered with clothes, as was a long bench that sat beneath the wide window facing the sea. A black-framed portrait above the bed was of Ransom and the same woman Sara had seen in the small silver frame she’d dropped. The woman in the portrait, snuggled next to Ransom, was holding a dark-haired boy of about four. They were all smiling. Sara flushed, aware that it was a photograph of Ransom’s family in happier days. Disconcerted by the contented image they presented, she turned away.

  The door to the closet was closed. She hurried over and touched the knob with trepidation, not sure why she felt like such a thief. As she turned the knob, the door swung open. A light went on, making her gasp. She got hold of herself. A lot of closet doors were rigged to do that.

  Stepping inside, she inspected the deep closet. It was as though she’d walked into another universe—a parallel, but immaculate universe. She gawked. Lynn had been right. Their host did keep a very neat closet.

  So, it was true. He was not a natural slob. His shoes were lined with military preciseness on several low shelves. Above those shelves were two rods, one over the other. On the top rod, cotton shirts were arranged, short-sleeve in front, long-sleeve behind. On the lower rod, knit shirts were arranged closer to the door, and plaid flannel shirts were hung farther back.

  On the other side of the closet pressed slacks and jeans hung like a row of soldiers at attention. Behind them were several sports coats and winter jackets. To the rear of that rod, a set of shelves held stacks of folded sweaters.

  An odd feeling came over Sara as she searched the walk-in closet—a feeling of safety. She had no idea why a well-ordered closet had such a comforting effect on her, but it did. Perhaps it was merely the wonderful scent if gave off. Ransom’s scent lingered here like a benevolent spirit. She crept over and placed a hand on one of the orderly piles of sweaters. The white one she touched was pure cashmere, and soft as swan’s down.

  Strange, unbidden tears came to her eyes. Something long forgotten came rushing back to her mind’s eye: those halcyon days before her parents died. She remembered playing house in her father’s closet before Lynn was born. How tranquil and happy a place it had been.

  Though Ransom in no way reminded her of her father, there was something solid and reassuring about his closet. Ransom was a complicated, solitary man, and seeing his closet neat and devoid of clutter solved a small part of the mystery that surrounded him. Yet discovering this detail also did one very important thing to Sara. It made her crave to know Ransom better. No man could keep a closet so pristine, have it exude a feeling of such security, and be the disreputable slob he portrayed himself to be.

  She knew there would be those who might argue that this closet represented a compulsive person, but they wouldn’t be able to convince Sara of that. Not about Ransom or about her father, who had been neat, too. He’d been a caring man—not only with his wife and daughters, but with his possessions. “Care for them and they’ll care for you,” he used to say with a gentle smile. That philosophy stood for everything and everyone that had come into contact with her father, and Sara knew intuitively that Ransom was like him in that way. She recalled the portrait she’d seen over his bed. Ransom’s arm was looped protectively around his wife and son. If he took this kind of care with mere possessions, how much more care would he lavish on those he loved?

  Ransom wasn’t the type of man to bandy about details of his grief and worries, so he must have silently, uncomplainingly, endured great sadness and loneliness in his life. Sara was sure that beneath his careless facade, Ransom was a loving, stable man who’d been doing his best to raise his rebellious son. Because of his grief, Ransom had cut himself off from people, from relationships—even his own boy, for fi
ve years. Tag had made that clear early on. Ransom had no intention of getting close to anyone—especially a woman. She closed her eyes, feeling sad. But she understood, and she respected his grief. She only wished he trusted her enough to—

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She whirled to see Ransom looming at the closet door, staring at her as though she’d tried to pick his pocket and been caught in the act. She swallowed and decided she looked as guilty as she felt.

  “I...I was looking for the, uh, vacuum...” She allowed the explanation to drift away, not sure what excuse she might use for looking for an instrument of cleanliness, considering the house rules.

  He scowled, displeasure hovering in his eyes. “It’s in the basement. What do you want it for?”

  Miffed at being treated like a child, she said, “I was going to fling it into the sink. I think with a few superfluous cleaning appliances, we could reach the ceiling—probably make the Guiness Book of Records for ‘Most Revolting Housekeeping.’”

  “You’re every bit as entertaining as Dorfman,” he replied dryly.

  She decided he wasn’t going to fly off the handle, so she opted to try for some actual communication. “Ransom,” she began, tentatively meeting his eyes. “I...shouldn’t have gotten smart with you. It’s just that you make me...” She faltered. “What I mean is, I believe you now.” Swinging her arm about her, she indicated the small room. “Your closet is so.. .so different from the rest of the house. I realize now you were telling me the truth about trying reverse psychology on the kids. I, er, owe you an apology.”

  To her surprise he showed no reaction. Appraising her silently, he said, “You owe me nothing, Sara.” Then he walked out of her range of vision, but called back loudly enough for her to hear, “Just don’t use that vacuum for anything but getting in Guiness. Is that clear?”

  Sara was darned if she was going to allow him to walk away from her again. With resolute strides, she caught up to him as he entered the living room and demanded to his back, “Don’t you think we should try another tack now? I mean your psychology idea is failing. The house is a wreck.”

  He didn’t turn but kept going toward the front door as he observed. “Thank you for that encouraging input.”

  “So you’re not going to discuss it at all?” she complained, frustrated.

  “You’ve got it.”

  “And to think I apologized to you!” she cried in exasperation. “Ransom Shepard, haven’t you ever heard of the fine art of communication?”

  “I’ve heard of it, Sara,” he said. “The problem is, you can’t seem to accept what I communicate.”

  The door slammed and he was gone.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Sara was calmer as she stood on the ragged edge of a cliff, the salt air in her face. The rocky ledges below were alive with birds either building nests or warming eggs. She’d learned the names of some of the species from Tag. There was a mob of black-and-white, pen-guinlike murres, sea gulls, parakeet auklets, red-legged kittiwakes and numerous pairs of puffins, with their black backs, white stomaches, bright orange bills and jaunty white tufts of feathers that curled away from white faces over the black crown of their heads. To Sara’s untrained eye, they looked very much like parrots.

  The air was filled with sound, from the sea pounding the shore a hundred feet below, to the calling, cooing, screaming and crying of the birds as some flew about gathering nesting material and others rested on the precarious ledges below.

  She sat down, curling her legs beneath her. As she enjoyed nature’s operetta, she toyed with a delicate crimson flower. This island was a magnificent place—full of life that raged and bellowed and frisked about at a frantic pace. Vigor seemed to be the watchword of the Pribilof Islands, as though anything or anyone who attempted to live here had to have substance, energy and possess a great strength of will. No hothouse flowers could survive on this out-of-the way, windswept isle.

  Ransom’s stalwart form materialized forcefully in her mind—devilishly handsome and carrying himself with a commanding air. Shaken by the unexpected intrusion, she jerked the flower up, roots and all, and held it to her nose, sniffing, trying to push his image away. The flower’s scent was bold and haunting, very much like the man she was trying to forget.

  She made a face. Ransom again! Why must everything from the flight of birds to the scent of flowers bring him to mind? “Drat it!” she cursed aloud. “I hate you, you bullying troglodyte!”

  “Why do I have the feeling you’re not referring to an IRS auditor?” a deep, amused voice asked at her back.

  She twisted around to see the very man she’d been cursing. He stood as she’d often seen him, with his legs braced apart, his arms crossed over his chest. That self-assured stance emphasized the power of his thighs and the slimness of his hips, and she wondered if he knew how physically exciting he was.

  His eyes danced with humor. He did know the scoundrel. “What do you mean by sneaking up on me like that?” she demanded in a strangled whisper.

  “I was going to offer you a penny for your thoughts, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m no masochist,” he remarked good-humoredly, as though her question hadn’t been dipped in venom.

  She glared at him warily. “Why are you suddenly in such a good mood?”

  “Life’s too short. I decided to accept your apology.”

  Both excited and annoyed by his sudden appearance, Sara tried to show neither emotion, sniffing disinterestedly. “I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for your forgiveness.” Turning away, she pulled her legs up and hugged her knees protectively. She would ignore him and his muscled thighs and his trim hips and his wide chest.

  To her surprise, he sat down beside her. It took all her willpower not to glance in his direction. She tried to concentrate on one particular puffin as it swooped and glided across the sky.

  “So,” he began conversationally, “fancy meeting you here.”

  She stared straight ahead, keeping her breathing very slow, very calm—at least outwardly. His arm had brushed hers when he sat down. The tingling rush brought on by that light contact was still playing havoc with her equilibrium.

  “I was pretty short with you earlier,” he said quietly.

  It was hard not to look at him, hard not to comment, especially since he seemed to be willing to talk—really talk. Cautiously she peeked in his direction. “Yes, you were,” she agreed.

  A slow smile curved his lips. “What if I apologize?”

  She frowned, fighting the sensuality he exuded. “I didn’t think you cared about my opinion.”

  His compelling eyes narrowed, holding her gaze for a moment before he broke the contact and squinted out to sea. “I’m trying not to.”

  She watched his profile. His strong features, bronzed by wind and sun, spoke of vitality and timeless strength—very like his island. Hardly able to coax her voice above a whisper, she asked, “Why are you trying not to?”

  He surveyed the vastness of the restless water, but seemed to notice nothing in particular. “I have my reasons,” he said in an odd tone. The set of his wide shoulders had always spoken loudly of confidence. At this moment, those shoulders seemed to slump slightly.

  Sara waited for a long time, but the continued silence began to wear on her nerves. She couldn’t bring herself to ask him why he didn’t want to care about her opinion, and she couldn’t understand her hesitancy. Why was she afraid of the answer? Casting that idea aside, she said, “You’re a very private man, aren’t you?”

  Without looking at her, he replied, “I suppose you consider that a character flaw.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I told you once—my story isn’t very interesting.”

  “I’m interested,” she whispered, speaking not with thought, but with feeling.

  When he turned back to regard her, she noticed that the breeze had brushed a strand of wavy hair across his brow. She had a mad impulse to smooth it back or to muss it further. She didn’t know whic
h desire was stronger, and she tried not to allow herself to dwell on it.

  Boldly handsome, he continued to gaze at her. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she bided her time until he chose to speak. She dared not even breathe for fear he would change his mind and stalk away as he’d done so many times before.

  “Don’t be interested,” he cautioned, a flinty warning in his tone.

  A flicker of apprehension shot through her. Why did she feel she had to pursue a subject that was clearly off-limits? Nosiness was unlike her. But something about Ransom Shepard brought out desires in Sara she’d never had. She wanted to know about him, about his wife, his grief. Ignoring his ominous signals, she forged on, “You loved your wife a great deal, didn’t you?”

  For an instant his glance sharpened. He studied her from beneath down-drawn brows for a heartbeat, then stared out to sea again. The waves crashed and broke into a million rainbow-hued spangles time and again before he began to speak. All during the long silence, the tensing of his square jaw had been the only indication of any emotional turmoil. Finally he asked, “Do you read John le Carré?”

  Her heart dropped. She’d expected anything but this complete change of subject. Instead of letting her help him, he was making her feel unsophisticated, which, compared to him, she was. Pretending she didn’t care that he’d once again shut her out, she quipped sarcastically, “I don’t read much fiction, but my landlady subscribes to tons of magazines, so I’m a font of trivial facts. For instance, I just read an article about dogs and why they bark. Would you like to hear about that?”

  He grunted, and she thought he might have found her query mildly amusing. “Actually, I was making a point,” he said, flicking a glance her way.

  “Oh? What was it?”

  “Le Carré once wrote, ‘Love is whatever you can still betray.’ ”

  Sara was confused. “I’m sure that’s very deep, but I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” She leaned toward him. “That’s one of the things that drives me crazy about you. You can never simply say yes or no. Why do you always answer a question with a cryptic remark or, worse, another question?”