by Donna Alward
“Coffee would be great, thank you.”
He went to leave but turned back, his right cheek facing her so she couldn’t look at him without seeing the scar in all its angry, beastly detail. The funny tingling sensation she recognized as anxiety crawled down the backs of her legs again but she forced herself to hold his gaze.
“I’ll be back inside at dinner. Anna put a roast in the crockpot this morning, so we can eat when I come back.”
Anna? Hope felt a rush of relief. Perhaps they weren’t going to be alone, then. Maybe Gram had been wrong. Maybe Blake had a wife, or a girlfriend.
That would be very welcome news, because while Hope certainly lived in the twenty-first century, there was a small part of her that felt odd knowing it was just going to be the two of them under the same roof.
Wouldn’t her friends have a chuckle about that? Who knew she would be so traditional, after all? Of course she might just be feeling that way because, despite the scar and the cool attitude, she did find Blake rather attractive in a raw, rugged sort of way...
“Is Anna your wife? Girlfriend?”
He grinned then, and the sight of it changed his face completely, making her catch her breath.
“That’d give her a laugh,” he chuckled. “Anna’s my part-time housekeeper. You’ll meet her tomorrow.”
He stepped back and touched the brim of his hat, a gallant gesture that took her by surprise.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a few hours. And, Hope?” The momentary smile was wiped away as he frowned, and his face was all planes and angles again. “Get some rest before you fall over again.”
His boots clomped down the stairs and she heard the front door slam.
She sat to take off her boots and her pants chafed against her legs.
Dammit, he was right. About the pants, the falling over—all of it.
And it was probably a very good thing that she was too tired to care. It was going to be a very long ten days.
CHAPTER TWO
BLAKE opened the gate and brought the horses from the corral. Each one plodded to its own stall, where it was warm and where fresh flakes of hay and water waited. A storm was brewing. Blake could feel it in the air—a blend of moisture and expectation that he recognized after living his whole life in the shadow of the Rockies. The gray cloud cover that had made the day so bleak and the air raw was bringing snow. This close to the mountains it was bound to get ugly.
It was a good thing Hope had arrived when she had.
He closed up the stall doors and frowned. His grandmother had called after it had all been set up, and then Hope’s grandmother had followed up, calling him personally. He’d said yes to Hope staying here for one reason only: because Mary had promised that Hope would take pictures for him, providing professional shots to be used on the facility’s website and in promo materials for organizations all over western Canada. He appreciated the favor because money was tight and he tried to put every cent he could back into the facility. Bighorn needed a better professional presence, and he wasn’t going to get it with a few snapshots and a website he’d put together from a template. He knew where his strengths were. IT support wasn’t it.
But then Mary had insinuated that Hope was in desperate need of a holiday, too, that she was really struggling and a place like his was just what she needed.
He’d tried to ignore that last part because he had no desire to get personally involved. It was uncomfortable enough having her stay in the house with him, but what else could he do? Say no and ship her off to a hotel miles away? His mother would have something to say about that and the Western hospitality he’d been sure to point out to Hope just minutes ago. He’d resigned himself to having a house guest, and made sure that Anna had prepared the guestroom for her in welcome.
But he hadn’t expected a tall, elegant blonde with sleek hair and the slightest lilt of an acquired Australian accent to show up. She was the kind of girl who, in his high school days, had intimidated the hell out of him. The kind of girl who wore the best clothes and hung with the cool people and looked down her nose at guys like Blake. Guys who were less than perfect. He’d had her pegged the moment he saw the expensive high-heeled boots and the stylish scarf looped around her neck in some crazy, fashionable knot.
She’d hooked her hand into his and he’d felt the contact straight to his belt buckle as he helped her to her feet. Before he’d even been able to put the reaction into perspective she’d looked into his face.
He’d seen that look before. Revulsion. Disgust. Over the years he’d grown more patient with people. He knew the scar was ugly. Shocking, even. And the reactions were just that—reactions. People naturally expected a perfect face, and his was anything but. He never faulted anyone for a moment’s reaction. So why did Hope’s make him scowl so?
Maybe because she’d been worse than the others. Not surprise or a small wince before glancing away. She’d actually paled and swayed on her feet. His pride had taken a hit and he’d heard the echoes of his school nickname in his head... Hey, Beast. The Beauty and the Beast movie had been out a few years earlier than his accident and all the girls remembered the words from the songs, taunting him with them through the hallways when the teachers weren’t paying attention.
There was nothing he could do about his disfigurement. Nor had they understood the fact that the pain of it was nothing compared to the agony of losing his twin, Brad.
Enough time had passed now that the memories had become a part of who he was, so intrinsically a part of him that he usually forgot all about it. But not today. Today he was off his stride and she’d shown up with her superior airs, making it sound like he wouldn’t want her here when it was clear that she was the one who would rather be somewhere else. It was only his sense of hospitality and the promise he’d made his grandmother that had kept him from answering with the words that had hovered on his tongue.
His mother had raised him to be a gentleman, after all. And so by the time he’d got Hope’s suitcase to her room he’d calmed his temper and attempted pleasantness.
He shut the last stall door and slid the bolt home with a loud thunk. Before he left he ventured into the storage area of the barn and ran his fingers over the wood of the sleigh he’d bought from a rancher near Nanton. It was old, but solid. The green paint had been chipped when it was delivered. Now it was stripped and sanded, the runners reinforced, and the whole thing waited to be repainted. He’d been planning this for a while, keeping his eye out for a used sleigh he could refinish—one big enough to seat a driver upfront and a group of kids in the back. A group of kids who needed help making the kind of Christmas memories that Blake had known growing up. The kind that came with hot cocoa and cookies and visits from Santa Claus.
It shouldn’t bother him that a look of surprise and aversion had touched Hope’s face. He had more important things to think about. But it irritated him just the same. His hands moved over the gentle curves of the wood as he considered, picturing her flawless skin, her waterfall of soft hair, her sweetly curved body... She was tall and long-limbed and, despite being jet-lagged, moved with an innate grace he admired.
Maybe he’d been working with physical disabilities too long if he could make that complete an assessment of her based on a five-minute acquaintance.
As usual, working with the animals helped him sort out his thoughts. While the ranch catered for children with visible disabilities, he was well aware that not all problems could be seen by the naked eye. He dedicated his life to helping people look beyond the scars and disabilities of others. Not a day went by that he didn’t think of Brad and how they’d planned a life that was no longer a possibility. It was the driving force behind Bighorn Therapeutic Riding, after all.
Maybe, just maybe, he owed that same courtesy to Hope. If he didn’t, he’d be as closed-minded as all the people who had turned away from him over the years. So, he mused, as he turned out the barn lights and closed the door, he’d put his first impressions of Hope aside
and give her the benefit of the doubt.
It was silent inside the house, and for a minute Blake wondered if Hope had taken a nap. She’d been dead on her feet, her eyes slightly unfocused as she’d stared at him in her room. The scent of roasting meat, garlic and bay leaves permeated the hall from the kitchen and his stomach growled. Should he wake her for dinner or save her a plate?
And then he found Hope sitting at the breakfast counter, laptop open, her delicately arched brows wrinkled in the middle as she focused on something on the screen, prissy little glasses perched on her nose. The stylish kind of spectacles that looked more like an accessory than anything else.
“So, not asleep, after all?”
She started at the sound of his voice. “Oh, goodness!”
“You didn’t hear me come in?”
“I tend to block things out when I’m editing,” she explained, tucking a silky sheet of her hair behind her ear. “Sorry.”
“Editing?”
“Of course. I find the imperfections in the pictures and then work to make them better. Come look,” she said, turning the laptop a few degrees so he could see the screen better.
He was off step again, expecting one thing and finding another. He’d been about to apologize for his earlier coolness and here she was looking refreshed and businesslike, as if things hadn’t been awkward at all.
He went to the counter and peered over her shoulder.
The picture was of a female model, posed in a white overcoat and stilettos, her hair artfully blowing around her face.
“Looks good,” he said. Truthfully, it looked a bit sterile and lifeless. There was too much white and the model looked like she might be blown away with the first stiff breeze to ruffle her umbrella. With her hair blowing like that, and a coat on, he would’ve expected an outdoor shot rather than...what? It looked like she was standing inside a cube. Why would she need an umbrella in a cube?
“Let me show you the original.” She brought up another picture and put them both side by side. “See?”
Her smile was wide and expectant as he looked at the screen again. Honestly, he couldn’t see much difference.
“You’re clearly a pro,” he commented, stepping back.
Her brows knit closer together. “Don’t you see? Look right here.” She pointed to the model’s jaw. “This line is totally different now. And that spot?”
He had to lean right in to see where she indicated.
“It’s gone in this one. And I lightened everything just a bit as the exposure wasn’t quite right. It’s totally different. Now it’s nearly perfect.”
“And perfection is important?”
She looked at him like he’d suddenly sprouted an extra head. “Of course,” she chattered. “I mean, I’m always looking for the perfect shot. That’s what I do. I haven’t found it yet, but I will someday.” Her lips took on a determined set. “Until then I keep trying, and I tweak and fix what I have. It’s so different than in the old days, before digital.”
Perfection. His mood soured. If she was looking for perfection, boy, was she in the wrong place.
“Yeah, well, I’ve always been a point-and-shoot kind of guy.”
He went to the counter next to the sink and took the cover off the Crock-pot. Steam and scent assaulted him and he breathed deeply. No one did elk roast like Anna.
“Dinner’s in ten—I’m going to make some gravy,” he said, taking out a large platter.
He put the roast in the center and scooped out potatoes, carrots and golden chunks of turnip, arranging them around the roast. Then he tented them all with foil while he poured the broth into a saucepan and set it to heat, mixing flour and water to thicken it. He marveled at the change in her. Not only had she traded her wet clothes for dry, but the dazed look in her eyes was gone and she seemed full of chatter. Like she was two entirely different people. Which one was the real Hope?
The chatter was annoying on one hand but somehow pleasant on the other. The house often felt too quiet with just him here in the winter months. He supposed that one of these days he should get off his butt and think about having a family of his own.
And yet every time he considered it something held him back. Something he didn’t want to examine too closely. Things were better the way they were now.
“Mr. Nelson?”
He paused, his hand on the flour bin. “It’s Blake, remember?”
“I just... I want to apologize for earlier. I think we got off on the wrong foot. I was terribly tired, you see...”
Her voice trailed off, but her blue eyes looked both hopeful and perhaps a touch bashful, which surprised and pleased him. They were both aware that she hadn’t slept, so he saw the apology for what it was—trying to smooth the awkward moment over. He could be graceful and accept it, or reject it. Considering they had to spend the next week and a half together, rejecting it probably wasn’t such a smart idea.
“What brought you around?” He chose to move the conversation along and start over. “When I left you, you looked ready to drop.”
He turned his head and looked her square in the face, waiting for her answer. To his surprise she smiled.
“Your coffee. It’s very good.”
“Kicking Horse. Comes from a place a few hours that way.” He thumbed ambiguously toward the west.
“Oh. Well, it’s delicious. And I snooped in the pantry and happened to find a jar of the most delicious cinnamon cookies. Caffeine and sugar have given me my second wind.”
“Good to know.”
He turned back to his broth, now bubbling on the burner.
“Can I help?”
“You can set the table if you like,” he replied, focusing on running a whisk through the gravy, trying not to think about how soft and sweet her voice sounded. “Plates are to the far right of the sink. Glasses one door in.”
As she busied herself setting the table, he whisked thickener into the boiling broth. “So, what are you editing, anyway?”
“Just a shoot I did a week or so ago, for a fashion magazine. I’d rather wait to sleep tonight and try to reset my clock—know what I mean? Working keeps me alert.”
“You brought work on your vacation?”
She shrugged. “It’s hardly a vacation, is it? I’m here to take some pictures for you to use for promotion, right?”
“And take some downtime. Mary said you needed it.”
Hope’s hands paused on the knives and forks. “What exactly did my grandmother say anyway? That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that I ‘need’ to be here.”
Satisfied with the gravy, he poured it into a glass measuring cup which doubled as a low-class gravy boat. Ah, so he’d struck a nerve, if the edge to her voice was anything to go by.
“All she said was that a place like this could do you a world of good. She didn’t elaborate.”
“‘A place like this’?” she repeated, her words slow and deliberate. “This is a rehabilitation ranch for children with injuries and disabilities, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. And clearly you’re not a child. Nor do you have any disabilities that I can see.”
He met her gaze then, and something sparked between them. She was about as close to flawless as any woman he’d ever seen. Without her hip-length coat now, and changed into casual jeans and a soft sweater, he could appreciate the long length of her legs and the perky tilt of her breasts beneath the emerald-green material. Her eyes looked the slightest bit tired, but her lips were the perfect balance between being full without being overly generous, and her eyes were the color of bluebells when they bloomed in the pasture in summer. Her silky hair framed a flawless face. Yep—she was beautiful, and his reaction was purely physical.
But he wasn’t sure what could be responsible for the reciprocating spark on her end. He certainly wasn’t anything to look at. He’d accepted that long ago. In a way he considered his disfigurement part of his penance for being the one left behind after the accident.
The marks were a pa
rt of who he was. Take it or leave it. All it took was a look in the mirror to remind him why the ranch and the program were so important. It was all because of Brad and a desperate need to have something good come of their family tragedy. And as Blake had been the one who’d made it out alive, the one who’d been left behind, it was up to him to make it happen.
Her lips thinned as she straightened, her posture was flawless, too. Regal, even. He felt a flicker of admiration.
“I think there’s some mistake,” she said, her voice clear. “I don’t know why on earth my grandmother would have said such a thing, but rest assured, Mr. Nelson. I am perfectly fine and I’m only here because I would walk over broken glass for her.”
So he was Mr. Nelson again, and she had made it perfectly clear that she certainly wasn’t doing him any favors.
“She sounded like she would do anything for you, too.”
Blake chafed at her abrasive tone but kept his patience. Tired or not, Hope’s pronouncement sounded an awful lot like denial. And he’d put money on it having something to do with her extreme reaction to his face.
“I’ll take pictures for you, as she promised on my behalf. But I’m hardly in need of any sort of rehab. In any way. As you can see, I’m perfectly fit.”
Oh, she was fit, all right. The way he was noticing the soft curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts beneath the soft sweater was proof enough of that.
“She didn’t say it was physical. She led me to believe that it was more...” He was used to talking about these things in a practical manner, so why was it suddenly so difficult with her? So trite and clichéd? “More emotional,” he finished. “A different kind of hurt.”
Something flickered through her eyes. Fear, vulnerability, pain. Just as quickly it disappeared, but he’d seen it. Her grandmother was right, wasn’t she? Hope was doing a fair job of hiding it, but something was causing her pain.
