Turnagain Love (Sisters of Spirit #1)

by Nancy Radke

  Zack was looking upward again, and once more she followed his line of sight.

  He was cutting the tree down. The top stopped circling, then steadied as the tree started to fall...slowly, hesitating a half-second, and then picking up speed.

  It was coming—towards her. Right where she was standing!

  Chapter Seven

  Transfixed, Jennel stared at the falling tree.

  “Jennel! Run. Run!”

  Which way? A leaning madrona stood three feet away. Struggling through the underbrush, Jennel reached it as the fir hit.

  The madrona shuddered with the impact. Terrified, Jennel crouched down, arms covering her head, hearing the fir scraping off the madrona’s red bark.

  Large branches snapped from both trees with the loud crack of rifle shots, then fell like spears. One landed near her, its pointed end embedding itself deep into the soil. Its length followed, knocking Jennel flat, pinning her down.

  The trunk landed five feet from her out-stretched hand with a loud “ker-whump,” shaking the ground. Above the ringing in her ears, she heard Zack storming through the branches, shouting her name frantically, over and over.

  “Jennel! Jennel! Where are you? Jennel!”

  In spite of being buried under the boughs, she laughed to herself. So this was what it took to make him stop calling her “Boston.” She might have known.

  The limb had knocked the breath out of her and it took a few seconds before she could reply. “Here!” she croaked as loudly as possible. “I’m okay...I think.”

  Her face was buried in the dirt, her body in the underbrush. The smaller end of the limb lay across her shoulders, its needles covering her like a blanket.

  “Where?”

  “Over here.”

  She could hear Zack’s muttered prayer as he scrambled to her and tried frantically to lift the branch. He swiveled it aside when he couldn’t pull the end out of the ground.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure?”

  There hadn’t been time to see if all her parts worked. She wiggled fingers and toes, then moved her head as he watched, frowning with worry. “Uh-huh. It didn’t hit me.”

  She started to rise, staggered, and he caught her, giving support until she regained her feet.

  “Nothing broken?” he murmured, cautiously brushing her face, then her body to remove the worst of the dirt along with numerous pine needles stuck on with pitch. The smell of pine permeated the air. His hand had a fine tremor to it, his voice low and catching.

  “No.” She stood still, letting her body recover, cocooned in the warmth of his concern. A new awareness of him coursed through her, making her skin ultra sensitive—all reaction to the near miss, of course. Her senses were extremely receptive to any tenderness shown.

  She felt grateful for his solicitude, but should’ve known it wouldn’t last. Once he saw her standing upright, dirty and scratched, but basically unharmed, his fright gave way to a raging red-hot anger.

  “Of all the crazy, stupid...!” He groped for words, his face white with fear, probably a reflection of her own.

  She started to shake hard with aftershock, in no shape to yell back.

  “What did you do a crazy thing like that for? You almost got killed!”

  “I...I certainly didn’t do it on purpose!”

  “You never, never, ever get close to someone running a chain saw!”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “You’re a walking disaster! You’re the most accident-prone woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet!” He was at full volume now, finding relief in hollering at her. His hands were white, clenched, shaking.

  He clearly had had a rough few moments there, seeing the tree fall on her and not being able to do anything about it. She had been too busy getting out of the way to have time to be frightened, although her legs were now trembling like a tuning fork testing middle “C”, and it wasn’t because she was afraid of him. She almost felt sorry for him.

  Like her mom had said, some men come unglued over things they can’t control. Unlike women—who had it happen often enough to take in stride—men were inclined to resort to anger rather than admit to feelings of helplessness.

  She started to explain. “I—”

  “I nearly killed you!”

  “But—”

  “If you’d have tripped...or...or anything, you’d be dead.”

  “I know, but—”

  “What were you doing out here?” The volume dropped as he took another large gulp of air and passed a hand through his hair, wiping out all resemblance of order. Was he going to give her a chance to talk? It seemed so, and she leaned for support against the smooth trunk of the madrona as she said, “I was out sketching... My case!”

  “All day?”

  “Yes.” She looked around in dismay at the forbidding pile of tangled branches, tugging at first one and then the other. Most were either attached to the tree or had one end buried deep in the ground. Had her case and all her work been destroyed?

  “You missed Clyde.”

  “Clyde? Oh...I forgot all about him.”

  “You see what happened, don’t you?” he asked, his voice still unnaturally raspy. “I thought you’d gone...left with Clyde! I never dreamed you were still around.”

  “I’m sorry, Zack.”

  He sat down on the fir and let out two deep long breaths, not unlike the whales. He looked at her grimly, then shook his head and took one more long breath.

  He pointed meaningfully towards the end of the branch where it was still buried deep in the ground.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you. But if that had hit you, it would’ve killed you.” He wiped at his forehead with an unsteady hand, reliving the past few moments. “I could see you didn’t have time to get clear. I thought for a moment you weren’t even going to move.”

  “I couldn’t think.”

  He stood up, looked across the few feet at her. “At least you had sense enough to go to the side. No one can run fast through the salal.”

  “The salal?”

  “These bushes.” He kicked at the two-foot-high shrubs that made up most of the underbrush.

  The fir tree stretched out a good ten feet beyond where they stood, its top buried in the salal. If she had tried to run that way, she’d be dead. As it was, she was going to be bruised and sore. That branch had delivered a hefty wallop to her neck and shoulders.

  “I froze. If you hadn’t yelled....” The tremor went through her again and this time Zack responded to the residual terror in her eyes. His arms went around her, strong and sturdy, holding her against the solid comfort of his body.

  “It’s okay, okay,” he murmured, as she clung to him, very glad for support as the strong tremors continued to rack her body. “You made it...luckily.”

  The strong, rhythmic beat of his heart under her ear steadied her quicker than his words. He had a powerful heart beat, the mark of a long distance runner. Jennel closed her eyes to listen, and felt the worst of the reaction begin to leave.

  “What a mess!” His hand reached up to stroke her hair, undoing it to let the braid fall, checking its dark length, pausing often to remove pieces of bark, needles and dirt. “You might need help getting this clean.”

  “No.” Her hair was as sensitive to his touch as if it had nerve ends of its own. Her pulse accelerated with the sweet delight of his care, beating more fiercely than it had when the tree dropped. Startled by the strength of her reaction, Jennel stepped away from him, then hesitated, immediately experiencing a sense of loss. “Thanks, but I’ll manage.”

  “Are you sure?” Zack reached up and carefully separated a five-inch long twig from the crown of her head, seemingly unaware of the havoc he was causing.

  “Yes.” It wasn’t her hair she was worried about. It was the growing attraction she felt for this man and the increasing difficulty of hiding it from him. She needed to rein in her own volatile feelings.

  She had
to keep her mind upon her job. Not on Zack. In this, he was her opponent, and she had best not forget it.

  Her case was out there somewhere. Still dazed with shock, she staggered away from Zack, searching the tangled mass, finding it under a limb on the other side of the tree. When she couldn’t free it, Zack got his saw and cut the limb, then opened up her battered case.

  All her boards were there, mute testimony as to how she’d been spending her time, the top one covered with various layers of paint from the squashed tubes of color. The others were still in fair shape.

  Relief encountered reaction, and she sank to the ground, unable to stand on her shaky legs. The destruction of the top board felt like an enormous tragedy, although she knew it wasn’t.

  It was just the thought that it could have been her.

  Taking the elevations from her unsteady grasp, Zack sat down on the trunk of the fallen tree and carefully studied them one by one, a deep frown on his face while she watched in dismay. What would he do?

  His anger rekindled. “So this is what you’ve been up to! I might’ve known!”

  “I thought...if you could see what—”

  “You don’t know what John wants!”

  “Same as you!” she flared up in defense, her temper running ahead of her tongue. The anger was good medicine; it effectively counteracted the last of the shock. “You’ve never met his wife.”

  “He okayed my designs.” Zack sat there, looking at her as if he would never budge on this point. She wanted to take a small branch—one she could lift—and hit him over his stubborn head. It wouldn’t do any good, of course, except make her feel better.

  “She’s got to live here, too,” she stated, struggling to her feet.

  “He married her, he must know what she likes.”

  “True, but maybe—”

  “What?” Zack was still scowling. If he’d stop interrupting her, she’d tell him!

  “Maybe they just don’t talk to each other. Some couples don’t. Some people never know what their mate wants...really wants. They go through life with their head in the sand, even when the other person, with broad hints, tries to tell them.”

  “Or maybe they’re having one whale of an argument, and we’re caught in the middle.” He sounded as disgusted as she felt.

  “I hadn’t thought about that. She seemed desperate to me.”

  “That’s odd. He’s a pleasant enough man.” He hesitated, then slowly added, “I got hold of him this morning. His wife was visiting friends, so he’ll still have to ask her about hiring you. But he said to stay with my designs.” Zack began to flip back through her work, stopping to study each one more thoroughly.

  Jennel sat down, slumped on the log beside him, forlorn, trying to keep back tears and control her voice long enough to make her point. As both anger and shock wore off, reaction had forced its way to the fore again. She’d had all the fighting spirit whumped out of her, and her voice quavered slightly. “Mrs. Van Chattan was afraid it would be too unpleasant for her to live in. Maybe she’d seen your designs and then called me. Maybe not. She didn’t mention you.”

  She paused, saw he was giving her his full attention, and continued. “I’m sure if you had met her, you would have softened things up. She’s such an overly feminine woman. You don’t meet many like her today.” There wasn’t much else to say, so she stopped, having hit a dead end and seeing no other way out.

  “That’s right, if what you say is true.” He put his chin down in his hand in thought, propping his elbow on his knee, while Jennel stared morosely at the ground.

  She was beginning to ache all over. Her beautiful elevations were smudged, the top one destroyed. She felt more grief over them than over her own battered self. What now?

  Zack watched as an expression of defeat settled across her expressive features, her shoulders slumped, proud head lowered. She’d put up a gallant battle. She really believed this was what Mrs. Van Chattan wanted.

  He examined the elevations with more care. It was amazing. Somehow she’d made the house a home—comfortable and welcoming, giving it a feminine touch that a man responded to in a positive manner. If this was her idea of pink lace, he liked it. He’d enjoy living in it himself.

  There was more to Jennel than just a beautiful woman who had managed to upset his well-arranged life in less than forty-eight hours. His irritation at her was gradually, reluctantly, changing to admiration. She was a do-or-die trier who wouldn’t give up. A tough chess opponent, and a first-rate designer.

  Her sketchbook was at the bottom of her case and he flipped though it, coming to a full stop at the five sketches of his face. The pencil lines were few, but revealing. The look of arrogant pride was clearly stamped upon his features. Did he look like that...to her?

  He too, carried a picture of her in his mind. Because of it, he had to get her off the island, or fix himself a different place to sleep. The first night hadn’t bothered him much, but this morning, when he woke up with her sleeping next to him, her silky black hair was spread over the pillows—his pillow as well as hers. He had lain there, imagining her in his arms every morning, the black silk streaming across his body, her lips welcoming his. The thought had severely tried his self-control.

  It had also distracted him so badly, he couldn’t keep his mind on his work. No woman had ever done that to him. And to think it had to be someone who was so— so untidy. So unorganized. Even her braid wouldn’t stay up!

  Zack rubbed the bristles on his chin, wondering how to announce his plans without losing face. “Look, I’ll send these to John and tell him to sit down and have a long talk with his wife. We’ll let them decide what they want.”

  “You will? Really?” She lifted her head to stare at him, unbelieving, her blue eyes shining with a misty hope. It was the prettiest sight he’d ever seen, and he had to harden himself against it.

  “In return, I want you off the island!”

  “Oh, but—”

  “For your own safety.” He neglected to tell her he felt it best for his own peace of mind. Decisively, he stood up and handed her the shattered case. “If Clyde doesn’t come tomorrow, I’ll take you back myself.”

  She peered up at him, her soft lips parted expressively, the tip of her tongue barely visible. Zack found himself imagining what her lips would feel like under his, and almost missed what she said.

  “But what if the Van Chattans want to use my interiors?”

  “I’ll pay you for any they want to use. I just want you out of here.”

  “But couldn’t I stay until—”

  “Until what? Until you’re dead?” He never again wanted to feel the terrible helplessness that shook him when he had looked over to where he planned to fall the tree and saw her standing, transfixed, in its path. He tried to knock loose the wedge he had just hammered in, but already the tree had separated from its stump, leaving him powerless to change its direction. “Don’t you realize I nearly killed you?” He didn’t shout this time, but spoke with teeth clenched.

  To Jennel, the cold restraint was more alarming than his shouting. “But you didn’t know I was there,” she stammered. “It was an accident. You weren’t to blame.”

  “You’d have been just as dead, whoever was to blame. I’ve never come that close to killing a person before; I don’t care to repeat it.”

  “But I’ll be careful—”

  “What made you come running up on someone with a chain saw? That’s the most idiotic...” He paused, hands moving in large frustrated circles. He looked like a man who had greatly exceeded his measure of patience.

  Jennel stopped trying to argue with him and tried reason instead.

  “I didn’t realize it was a saw.”

  “Everyone knows the sound of a chain saw,” he pointed out.

  “Maybe they do where you come from. It sounded like a weed cutter to me.”

  “A weed cutter?”

  “Yes. A large, gas-powered one.”

  “A weed cutter!” he repeated, lo
oking stunned.

  “They sound almost like your saw. I’ve heard lots of them. What did you cut the tree down for, anyway?”

  He kicked at the forest floor debris. “To clear an area for the helicopter to land.”

  “Oh!” She stopped long enough to remind herself that he did things on a grand scale, then asked, “Are you going to take out any more? If so, I’ll stay clear.”

  “One more this evening. That one.” He pointed to a tree next to the fresh stump. “There are three close to the house that need to come out before they fall on it. And there are a couple where the pool will be. When the ’dozer gets here, we’ll push those down. No need to cut them. I have to cut these so the chopper can bring in the tractor and backhoe.”

  “I see.”

  “A gas-powered weed cutter,” Zack mumbled dazedly. “They do sound alike!” He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He’d been doing a lot of that in the last few minutes, his face gradually regaining its natural color. Jennel nodded, glad he could see what happened. She hadn’t acted out of stupidity, just ignorance. Although that didn’t sound very sharp either.

  He shook his head slowly, giving her a faint smile. “You’ve got dirt on your face, needles in your hair, and your clothes are covered with soil and pitch. Why don’t you go inside, take a nice hot shower and get cleaned up. Then if you feel up to it, see what you can fix for our dinner while I cut this trunk into movable lengths.”

  It sounded like a wonderful idea, but she jumped cautiously at it. “There’s hot water?”

  “Yes. There’s a gas water heater. I started it earlier.” Still plainly upset from the near tragedy, he picked up his saw with the slow movements of an old man. “Don’t come out here while I’m cutting.”

  “I won’t,” she promised earnestly, clutching her battered case. Dodging trees was not her idea of fun.

  “See to it.” He waited until she had worked her way across the clearing before re-starting the saw. She could hear its deep whine as it cut into the tree.

  He was going to send her designs to Mr. Van Chattan. She was happy, and she should’ve been jumping for joy. Instead she felt defeated. The added conditions were not what she wanted.