by Renee Roszel
“Well?” she demanded, her bravado as weak as her voice.
He said nothing for a long while, his eyes watchful, unreadable. Braving it out, she glared at him, nervous to the point of light-headedness but refusing to be the first to look away.
Without warning, he dragged her into his arms, claiming her lips as he crushed her to his chest. His kiss was hard yet gentle, triumphant yet searching, and it sent delightful sensations spiraling through her. Even in her exasperation, she was shocked by her wild response. Her body sang with the joy of renewal, and she was struck by the awful reality that she’d been desperate for this to happen again.
She moaned against his mouth. Just as she gave herself fully to him, circling his neck with her arms, opening her lips in invitation, he jerked away from her, leaving her lips burning with an unquenchable fire. Her emotions whirled and careered, her mind clouding with confusion and need.
“Just for the record, Sara,” he muttered, his tone tainted with husky desire. “I don’t bribe easily.”
She blinked, trying to make heads or tails of a spinning world. By the time she could see straight, he was walking away from her, his movements swift and powerful. For a long time, she could only stare stupidly after him. But when full realization hit, she sagged, groaning. What was with him? He baited her, then withdrew, teased and tempted, then stalked off. Numbed to her core, Sara watched him disappear over the rise. It was depressingly clear that Ransom’s sexual needs were warring against his loyalty to his wife’s memory; unfortunately for Sara, her heart was being trampled to bits on the battlefield.
“HALIBUT FESTIVAL?” shouted Tag. “Today?” He scooted up to his father who was spooning rice into a pan lined with piecrust. “You’re not kidding, are you, Dad?”
Tag’s outburst halted Sara on her way through the living room and, curious she moved back to the kitchen doorway to watch as Ransom said, “I thought I mentioned it.”
“Heck, no.” Tag yelped with delight. “Hey, Lynn. Halibut Festival!”
“I heard you,” Lynn said, shoving breakfast dishes into an overhead cabinet. “Good grief, people in Africa heard you. Quit yelling.”
Tag snickered. “But it’s a great party. Lots of food, games and rad music.”
Sara leaned against the doorjamb as Tag handed Lynn a dish he’d just dried and said, “And dad’s making fish pie.”
Lynn moved over to the table to inspect what Ransom was doing. “Smells like it,” she groused.
“I know, it stinks right now,” Tag admitted. “But when it’s cooked it’s great.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Taggart,” Ransom said as he began to place pieces of raw halibut on top of the cooked rice. “But it’s been years since I’ve made my mother’s recipe. Might taste like old gym socks.”
Tag took hold of Lynn’s sleeve. “Five of the high school guys have a band called Hot Scum. They sound like that awesome heavy-metal-punk group Putrid Galoshes.”
“Totally radical!” Lynn gushed.
“Don’t forget some of my high school friends will play later on,” Ransom added as he sprinkled onions over the fish. “They can play anything from One Direction to Buddy Holly and the Crickets.”
“Crickets? What a gross name for a band,” Lynn complained, her face screwed up in distaste.
Ransom’s laughter was rich and full-bodied, and Sara felt a twinge of hurt. He hadn’t even smiled at her since yesterday, when he’d so soundly kissed her after “rescuing” her from the foxes. She supposed he had no intention of inviting her to the festival. Apparently his loyalty to his wife’s memory had been the victor in his emotional battle, and as far as he was concerned, she could stay home and play three-handed bridge with Baby and Boo.
Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she went to her bedroom to gather up her laundry. Lynn and Tag had done their loads earlier that morning, freeing the washer and dryer only moments ago.
As she stood in the tiny laundry room sorting her colored things from her whites, she sensed a presence at her back. Rubbing the nape of her neck, she twisted around to find Ransom standing there. He wasn’t quite frowning, but didn’t appear to be the happiest of men, either.
“Hello,” he murmured.
She nodded stiffly. As though some demon deep inside wanted her to humiliate herself, she became fumble-fingered and dropped a camisole. Both she and Ransom watched as the black froth of underwear fluttered down and came to test on top of his hiking boots.
Mortified, she swooped to retrieve it, but as she took hold of a strap, so did he, and their hands brushed. When she recovered her balance, she noticed unhappily that the camisole was dangling from his long bronze fingers. His expression was watchful but unreadable. So what, Sara lamented inwardly. Why should things be any different this time? He was probably having a private little laugh-fest.
With self-conscious dispatch, she snatched her underwear from his hand and stuffed it into the washer.
“Sara,” he murmured.
“What?” she inquired more snappishly than she would have liked, since she didn’t want him to guess how strongly his touch affected her.
“About this afternoon.”
She busied herself measuring detergent. “If you’re referring to the festival, I heard. Go. Have a good time. Don’t worry about me.”
There was a long pause. Sara filled it by tossing more things into the washer—white, red, black, green. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to have Ransom leave so that she could think clearly again.
“I’m taking a fish pie,” he said quietly.
“I hope you two will be very happy,” she mumbled, bending over the washer and absently arranging clothes.
“When I do a load of laundry, I just dump everything in and turn it on,” he said, sounding very near. “You work harder at arranging clothes in the washing machine than anyone I’ve ever known.”
Isn’t it obvious I don’t want to look at you? her mind shrieked. If I have to stay here all day slumped over this darned machine, I will. Go away! But all she said was, “If you have something to do somewhere far, far away, don’t let me keep you.”
He said nothing, but the nape of her neck continued to prickle with awareness of him. Finally, unable to withstand the stress his quiet closeness caused her, she spun to face him and demanded, “What are you trying to do? Drive me crazy? If you want to say something, spit it out! If you just want to hang around the laundry room, I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”
He was a compelling presence, yet there was an air of isolation about him, as though he’d built himself an electrified fence to stand behind. You could see him, but you could not touch him—not if you valued your sanity.
His faint smile held a trace of sadness. “I’m not interested in loitering in the laundry room. I wanted to know if you’d bake some bread for the festival. It’s kind of potluck. Everyone on the island brings something.” He added solemnly, “You needn’t spend any time with me. There’ll be a lot of young men there who would enjoy your company.”
For an instant an odd yearning seemed to steal into his expression. Or had it? She searched his face, but saw nothing of the desire she’d thought she’d seen. Had it been mere wishful thinking?
“Sara?” he asked softly.
“Uh, of course, I’ll make some bread. I’ll make my hearty whole-grain bread,” she stated briskly. “When should it be ready?”
“The festival starts at one. The beach isn’t far. We’ll walk.” He paused, his lips quirking wryly. “I’ve tasted those hearty whole-grain breads. They tend to be pretty heavy. Are we going to need a forklift to carry yours?”
She was surprised that he’d made an effort to lighten the mood and eyed him narrowly. Though she refused to smile, her glower became less hostile. She didn’t know how Ransom did it, but somehow he’d managed to break the tension between them with his small joke. Shaking her head, she protested, “That’s the puniest attempt at humor I’ve ever heard.”
Mild amus
ement flickered in his eyes. “Careful Sara. Such honeyed words might turn my head.”
Rolling her eyes, she groaned, “Egomaniac. A kick in the shins would probably turn your head.”
His expression darkened. As he moved to go, he said, “I’m a normal man, Sara, not a masochist.”
AT ONE O’CLOCK, Sara removed her bread, steamy and smelling delicious, from the oven. A few minutes later, her contribution to the festival wrapped and put in a basket, she joined the others at the front door.
Ransom was holding his fish pie in one hand and the doorknob with the other. As soon as Lynn and Tag were outside, they ran on ahead. The weather had become overcast and foggy, a perfect complement to Sara’s mood. Engulfed in an uncomfortable silence, Ransom and Sara hiked side by side toward the beach. After ten minutes, something flickered in the murky distance.
“I see them,” Ransom said.
“Me, too,” Sara replied, knowing he was referring to the soft distant glow of three bonfires on the dark sand. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she asked, “What do you burn, considering there are not trees on the island?”
“Driftwood, discarded packing crates. Any wood scraps.” There was a break in his explanation when Sara could hear only the whispering sound of their footsteps as they trod through the thick grasses. “It’s said,” he began again, “that one can find a beautiful woman behind every tree on St. Catherine Island. And every man in the village will be quick to say he cut down the last tree looking for one.”
She squinted in puzzlement, hoping the fog would mask her curiosity, but it didn’t. “It’s a local joke,” he explained.
“Why didn’t you tell me the joke, then, and say you cut down the last tree? It wasn’t funny the way you said it.”
He shrugged. “Maybe because I’m not in the market for beautiful women.”
She stumbled slightly, upset and not sure why. What had she wanted? Some sort of mindless flattery? Maybe she’d wanted him to ask, Why should I look for a beautiful woman behind a tree when you’re here, my lovely Sara? Had she lost her mind? The man wasn’t interested in her, not really. Maybe he thought she was worthy of warming his bed briefly, but certainly not worthy of much effort. Unable to stop herself, she asked, “Why bring it up at all, then?”
“What?”
“The beautiful women thing. Why bring it up?”
“Why not? It’s a local joke.”
She shrugged and looked away.
“What would you have me say?” he queried. “You know you’re beautiful. Do you need to hear men tell you?”
She tightened her fingers around the basket handle and kept her eyes glued to the undulating landscape ahead of them. Did he really think she was beautiful?
“We fish for halibut on this island, Sara, not compliments.”
“I—I’ve never fished for a compliment in my life,” she defended herself, upset that he thought she’d wanted such a thing, although every word he’d said was true. Even in her distress, a glow of satisfaction warmed the pit of her stomach. Ransom Shepard had said she was beautiful. She wanted to curl up and die with contentment, to soar in the sky, to sob and laugh, but all she did was swallow several times and rasp, “If you’ll recall, I didn’t bring up the subject.”
“Anybody who asks about where we get our wood gets that joke. It’s a knee-jerk reaction.”
She raised diffident eyes for an instant to discover that he was watching her. Dropping her glance, she retorted, “I’m sorry I asked.”
The rest of the trek to the beach was shrouded with oppressive quiet. As they approached, the noise of the festive villagers grew louder, only serving to magnify Sara’s downcast mood.
When they neared the first roaring bonfire, she plastered on a grin and pretending to be as cheerful as the dark-haired, dark-eyed Aleuts Ransom was introducing her to. He, too, had adopted a laughing and bantering demeanor, but Sara could detect the truth. His dusky eyes smoldered with discontent.
The afternoon passed quickly, with a sack race, three-legged race, tug-of-war, volleyball tournament and enough food to keep a rocketship full of astronauts fat and sassy on a trip to Neptune.
By nine o’clock, Sara was so full she felt like a beached whale. She’d sampled everything from raw halibut eaten with native wild celery called pooch-key, to numerous kinds of roasted, boiled, barbecued and dried island meats. One of her favorite discoveries was a deep-fried bread called aladekes and another local jam made from cloudberries. She sighed heavily, wishing she’d enjoyed the food a bit less. But after all, it was a festival, and Sara had to admit she couldn’t remember when she’d had such a good time.
She lounged in her folding chair amid other adults who were watching from the sidelines as their teenagers, home for the summer from school in Anchorage, danced to the raucous disharmony of Hot Scum. The teens seemed to thrive on the whiny discord, twitching and lunging as though they were having an allergic reaction to the very air. Sara was hard put not to hold her ears as the five animated members of Hot Scum slithered and jumped, grimaced and screeched out their rendition of “Hotsy Stomp Yo’ Ya-Ya.”
“What do you suppose that means?” shouted Lilly Merculieff, her toddler wriggling in her lap.
Sara shook her head. “I think it’s best we don’t know.”
Both women laughed and relaxed as the teenagers cavorted on the sand. Sara was amazed to see her chubby sister flailing about as if her freckled body had been possessed by a gawky fertility goddess. The spectacle wasn’t up to even the most gullible’s standards for erotica, but it was... interesting. Sara wondered if, as a teen, she, too, had exhibited that same ungainly pseudo-sexy picture when she’d boogied to pop music. The thought made her burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
She looked up to see Ransom standing beside her chair. Wiping away her smile, she shrugged. “Nothing. Just watching the kids slough off a million years of evolution.”
Her last shouted word came out a trifle loud, for Hot Scum had reached the clamoring end of their abuse of the human eardrum.
“Whew!” Lilly exclaimed with relief. “Now Dan’s band takes over, and we old folks can have some fun.” She scooped up her son and gave Ransom a bright smile. “Nice to have you back at one of these, Rance.” Glancing at Sara with not-very-subtle approval, she said, “Enjoy the dance.”
Ransom smiled at her and took the seat she’d vacated. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked as Hot Scum left the platform and an older group of shaggy-haired musicians took their place.
Sara nodded. “Nice people, your Pribilovians.”
“They seem to like you, too.”
Wondering at the slight edge to his voice, she pretended to take special note of the thirty-something drummer as he sat down and set up his equipment. Had Ransom been bothered by the fact that several of the island bachelors had monopolized Sara that afternoon? Had it troubled him that she’d won the three-legged race partnered with a very nice young man named George? Probably not, considering he’d had no problem finding attentive female companionship. Still, his tone had been, well, peculiar. Unsure of what to say, she murmured, “Food’s good.”
“Pretty soon they’re going to start grilling halibut for dinner,” Ransom said.
She couldn’t avoid looking at him anymore. “Dinner?” she repeated in an agonized whisper. “More food?”
He appeared casually amused. “We’re celebrating the beginning of summer, and looking forward to a good halibut season. The festival will go on until early in the morning.”
Her mouth fell open, but she had no response.
He smiled. “When we Pribilovians party, we party.”
“Apparently.” She allowed herself a long, weary sigh.
Music began to drift from the bandstand. Sara concentrated on trying to recognize the tune, but failed. When the audience started to sing along, she realized they were doing so in a language unfamiliar to her. The drummer was standing now, beating an ancient-looking wooden drum with a sti
ck. The tune was rousing, and the locals were laughing and swaying to the music.
“It’s a song in the Aleut language about a good fishing season of several years ago,” came Ransom’s explanatory whisper.
Disconcerted by his nearness, Sara shifted slightly and said, “It’s very nice.”
He nodded. “It’s especially nice if you consider that when my mother was a child, she was forced to speak English. If she spoke Aleut she had to eat soap. Even so, she and her friends, would sneak off and talk it, anyway. It’s nice to see a culture that was almost lost being brought back.”
“Do you speak Aleut?” Sara asked in genuine interest.
“Sure.” He cleared his throat and said something in a language she didn’t understand, then gave her a smile that sent her pulses racing.
“What did you say?” she asked, unsure if she wanted to know.
“I said AT&T is up three-tenths of a point.”
She countered doubtfully, “That’s not what you said.”
“Okay, my Aleut’s a little rusty. Maybe I asked if you’d like to dance.”
“It’s not very flattering when a man isn’t sure whether he asked you to dance or gave you a stock-market tip.”
“I hadn’t realized it was flattery you wanted from me,” he murmured.
“Well, I, uh...” Words failed her. Ransom’s eyes glistened with such tormenting allure that Sara lost her ability to protest, and her face grew fiery. It frightened her to realize how unnerving his glance could be, so she decided to make a quick exit before he could pull her into his arms.
Obviously anticipating her retreat, Ransom took her hand in his and drew her toward the span of beach used for a dance floor. As they took center stage, the Aleut fishing song faded away, somehow drifting into a very credible version of Buddy Holly’s “True Love Ways.”
Sara was filled with a confusing mixture of emotions— both dreadful hesitance and heady anticipation. The last time Ransom had taken her in his arms, he’d kissed her and sent her senses soaring, then stalked impatiently away. The memory flooded back in all its painful glory as he drew her close now, making her breathing quicken and become labored. Her embarrassment was so strong she couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she focused on his muscular chest, swathed in red flannel and tried to calm herself. After all, they were only dancing!
