Someone to Trust

by Kay Lyons

  “Let me know if you change your mind about staying. I can fly you back to Anchorage tomorrow morning.”

  And she soooo wanted to do just that.

  The door shut behind him and Alexandra dropped down onto her bed, flopping across the top like a fish. What had she done to deserve the guy’s animosity? A zing? For Mr. It-Was-A-Perfect-Landing?

  Who was she kidding? The man cringed at the sight of her and at this point, the feeling was mutual.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  * * *

  DYLAN WENT TO HIS BEDROOM long enough to change into work clothes before he made his way to Zeke’s bedroom to check on him and Colt. They weren’t there. Colt’s room was also empty, several books and toys scattered on the bed and floor.

  Frowning, Dylan made his way through the lodge and found Zeke standing in front of the butcher block in the center of the kitchen. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy and watching a few movies before your guests arrived. Where’s Colt?”

  Zeke pointed toward his feet. “He wouldn’t eat the lunch you left so I thought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich might be in order. You’re late.”

  “There was a mix-up at the airport.” A big mix-up. “And one of your guests barely made it off the plane before hurling.”

  “Well, if they made it off, why are you complaining?”

  Dylan shot his father a glare. Ever since his glass half-full change in personality, Zeke was always reminding Dylan that things could be worse. Everyone knew that but sometimes a man had to let off a little steam.

  Zeke harrumphed. “Bad mood today, eh? Well, join the club. While you were gone, I got on the horn and found out why my doc’s been giving me the runaround on green-lighting me to fly. Anything you want to ’fess up to?”

  His father had to realize his limitations. “You had a heart attack. You have no business being in the air without a copilot.”

  “Then spit it out and say it to my face. Don’t go behind my back and have people treating me like a senile old man.”

  Dylan ran a hand over his face and rubbed. He’d tried that but Zeke continually insisted he would fly solo again. “I talked to the doc once, right afterward. He must have made a notation in your chart. Since you conned Lucille into snooping for you, couldn’t she have looked at the date of entry?”

  “Leave my darling Lucy out of it.”

  “She’s not your darling, otherwise she’d take the job of housekeeper and move up here.”

  “She says she’s not ready to retire and be surrounded by a bunch of smelly men. And she doesn’t want to give up her insurance. Can’t blame her for that these days.”

  No, he couldn’t, but if he was going to have to continue transporting Zeke’s guests and temporarily be their guide on excursions and perform the maintenance duties on the lodge and equipment, Dylan needed help keeping an eye on Colt. The amiable Lucille, the grandmotherly woman his father had been dating for years, would be perfect.

  Zeke flipped another piece of bread overtop the jelly and sliced off the crust. “I can tell you’re working up a good one,” he said. “I know you want no part of the lodge but I’m in a pinch right now since somebody went and told the doc not to sign off on my clearance. I’ll hire Sam to fly ’em in and out from now on. I’ll handle things around here, and Ms. Johnson can do the housework and cooking. That leaves you off the hook, so stop your whining.”

  Dylan moved until he could see Colt. Ignoring his father’s grumbling and totally unrealistic view of his capabilities under the circumstances, Dylan squatted down in front of his son. “Hey, buddy. Miss me?” he asked softly. “Look what I have,” he said, showing Colt the book he’d ordered for them. “It’s the next Toad story. See?”

  Colt hesitated for a split second before he continued playing with his horse.

  “We’ll read it tonight, okay? Sound good?”

  No verbal response, not that he expected one. But Colt didn’t give him a physical response, either, other than the brief pause.

  The pain of Colt completely shutting Dylan out hit as it always did. Helplessness and anger came next, followed by grief. How long before he heard Colt’s voice again? Wasn’t two years long enough?

  Dylan set the book beside Colt in case he wanted to look at the pictures and stood. “You’re going to have to revise your plan,” he informed Zeke. “Ms. Johnson didn’t show.”

  “What do you mean, didn’t show?” Zeke’s frown deepened to crater proportions. “Who was that woman with you and the boys when you pulled up?”

  “One of your guests, Alexandra Tulane.”

  “But…” Zeke’s words trailed off and a confused expression flickered over his features. “Well, huh.”

  That’s all he had to say? Well, huh?

  “Where’d you put her?”

  “In the room you made up for Ms. Johnson.”

  “Good. I worked hard to make it more girly and comfortable than the others. Might as well get some use out of it. Only caught a glimpse of the woman but she’s a looker, ain’t she?”

  Alexandra was a looker and trouble because of it. The last thing Dylan needed was to watch over her when he had his hands full keeping track of the things Zeke wasn’t able to handle yet. There weren’t enough hours in the day. If Sam hadn’t agreed to take the hunters to the spike camp, Dylan didn’t know what he would have done.

  “She’s the one who got sick? Poor thing. You never could land smoothly when there’s a bit of a breeze blowing.”

  He pulled his knitted cap out of his coat pocket and yanked it on his head. “I’ve got work to do—and it was a perfect landing.”

  Chapter 4

  ALEXANDRA TURNED IN EARLY, slept through dinner and the night and didn’t awaken until the next morning. She should probably be embarrassed that she’d been out so long but after six months straight on the road and nearly eighteen hours of travel time yesterday, sleep was the only thing she wanted and something about the cold air, overcast sky and soft, comfortable bed let her sleep like a baby.

  She took a hot shower, put on her long underwear and clothes and went back to her room to dry her hair to keep from hogging the bathroom. And since she didn’t want anyone thinking she was trying to impress them—or that she was high maintenance—she strayed from her usual makeup routine and went minimalistic before she grabbed her camera and ventured into the common area of the lodge. She wanted to get started on the review as soon as possible, that way she could finish writing it before the week was over and be free to thoroughly enjoy her vacation.

  First thing she needed to do was meet her host.

  Good smells came from the kitchen so she headed that way. Alex spotted a half-full coffeepot on the warmer and practically danced toward the cabinet to search out a mug. One sip and the scent of the rich brew had her toes curling inside her insulated hiking boots.

  Her vanity ruled when she traveled, forcing her to always look her best because one never knew who might be sitting beside her on the plane or whom she might meet in the airport. But these boots were well-broken in and perfect for the temperatures and tromping about when even her vanity knew high heels wouldn’t do.

  Besides, who was Dylan to judge her shoes wearing expensive boots like his? The heels on his boots had looked to only be about two inches shorter than hers.

  She sipped the coffee on her way to the refrigerator, remembering Dylan’s comment about breakfast only being hot at six. She wasn’t picky. She caught a brief flash of something in the living-dining area and stopped short of her destination. Alex walked to the doorway and searched the empty room. Huh?

  Obviously you’ve gone too long without caffeine and food.

  Shaking her head at herself, she turned toward the fridge when something scuffed along the floor behind the couch. No mistaking that. She stopped again. Surely an animal hadn’t gotten into the lodge? “Is someone there?”

  If it’s an animal, do you really think it’ll respond?

  All of a sudden a small dar
k head fractionally taller than the couch ran down the same hall as her bedroom, startling her and sending her heart rate into orbit. So that’s who it was. Dylan’s son? Walter and Ansel had both mentioned the boy during the flight. So where was Dylan’s wife?

  Interested much?

  No, her musings were purely research for her review.

  Yeah, right.

  Relegating the subject of Dylan and his marital status to the realm of none of her business, Alex studied the kitchen and noted it was clean with recently washed dishes drying in the sink. The countertop was neat and orderly, and a pot of something was cooking atop the stove—it smelled wonderful but didn’t look quite ready to eat. Spying something covered in the oven, she bent over to take a peek.

  Oatmeal, biscuits, bacon, some fried apples. Breakfast was served. She’d meant what she said. She wasn’t a picky eater and growing up, her overnight stays at her grandparents’ house had often included similar selections. Her granddad might have been a doctor, but he’d grown up a Tennessee farm boy who liked home cooking, and everyone in the family appreciated simple foods as well as they did fine dining.

  Alex fixed an apple biscuit and took a bite, leaning her hips against the counter. Outside the window she could see Chakachama Lake and its admirers.

  Ansel and Walter were dressed in waders and positioned along the lake’s edge. Dylan was the only one with a beard and not in the water, and he was pulling tools from a shed and loading them into the back of the green truck.

  Alex finished the last of her biscuit sandwich and downed the coffee, pouring herself another cup to carry with her as she explored the lodge. She took some shots of the interior, noting the aged, wide plank floors were worn to a soft golden-brown sheen. The stone hearth was welcoming and obviously old but well preserved, a low fire in the grate behind the screen.

  The sitting area was covered in more rugs like the one in her bedroom, and the couches and chairs had scratches and scrapes from frequent use, but were very comfortable. She made mental notes for her review and headed outside to get photos of the exterior. Her readers counted on the images she provided as much as they did her words. Her reviews were typically photo-heavy, with an overview of her stay and short captions beneath the photos as information filler.

  Alex paused on the porch and stared, feeling as though she’d been transported to another world. It was…beautiful.

  Yesterday she’d been too exhausted and too weak to appreciate the landscape. But now… “Wow.” It was breathtaking!

  Stepping off the porch, the nature lover in her was glad to see the exterior of the lodge was somewhat plain. An overly ornate structure would have been out of place here, but the rustic lodge was perfect, surrounded by the towering evergreens and snowcapped mountains that stretched up to the sky. The lake rippled against the shore and the water was such a deep gray-blue with little dots of— Were those birds?

  She looked through her lens and zoomed in, amazed at the sight of ducks landing to float gently on the surface. Alex captured the moment in rapid succession, enthralled at how graceful and beautiful something so simple could be. She’d grown up around mountains and streams and lakes in Tennessee, but this was amazing.

  Pausing, she pressed her camera to her face as the ducks rocketed into the air. She could already envision the layout. A two-page color spread, with the peaks of the mountain range taking center stage, towering above the lodge. Filled with a new zest for adventure, she set out to explore.

  It was a half mile or more before Alex spotted the lodge’s green truck parked outside a small cabin. She told herself to keep following the path because the last thing she needed was another run-in with Dylan, but to do her job she needed to see inside the cabins and get a picture if she could do so discreetly.

  The cabin door was ajar, and obviously unoccupied by guests. There was no fire in the potbellied stove, no sheets on the bed. The lodge was rustic but this was downright medieval.

  The banging she’d heard outside started up again and was interspersed with curses that came from beneath the kitchen sink. Dylan was occupied.

  Alex quickly got a picture of the interior before venturing deeper into the space. “Hello?”

  The pounding stopped with a surprised jerk of the feet and legs sprawled out across the floor. Dylan angled his upper body to see her, a curved pipe obscuring half of his face.

  She lifted her hand in hello. “Hi. I was out for a walk and heard the noise. Need some help?”

  He hesitated for a long moment. “I’d really like to say no but would you hand me the wrench over there?”

  Ah. Such classic male behavior. He didn’t have the right tool but he’d bang away until the wrong one worked. Her brothers did the same thing.

  Alex set her camera safely aside and grabbed the wrench to hand to him. More banging ensued followed by a lot of grunts and mutters. Not sure if she’d been dismissed or not, Alex waited, all the while staring at his hands and conscious of the fact that Dylan’s gloves were lying on the floor six inches from her feet, allowing her to note he didn’t wear a wedding band. Not all guys did, though, so that wasn’t necessarily an indicator.

  “You change your mind?”

  “About what?”

  “Flying back to Anchorage and staying somewhere else.”

  Oh, here she was thinking of his marital status and he wanted her gone? Nice. “Not at all. I’m just waiting to see if you needed me to get that loose for you.”

  Was he always so grumpy? Talking to him was beginning to resemble poking a sleeping bear.

  The pounding ceased for a fraction of a second. “I think I can get it.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.” Stop poking the bear!

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Restraining a laugh at the forced patience she heard in his tone, she leaned against the single cabinet facing the sink. “Walking, exploring. The usual stuff.”

  He stretched out a hand to retrieve something lying on the floor by his legs but couldn’t quite reach it.

  Their gazes met and Alex raised her eyebrow.

  “Hand me the grips. Please.”

  Not quite a request but since he’d added the please, how could she refuse? “Here you go.”

  Their fingers brushed in the exchange. Alex barely felt the contact through her gloves, but in the dim light filtering in through the window atop the sink she saw Dylan jerk his hand as though touching her had inflicted torture.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I forgot.”

  “Forgot what?” Alex stared at him, trying to figure out his reaction but not having any luck. “Why are you sorry?”

  * * *

  ALEXANDRA’S QUESTIONS MADE Dylan pause. In his experience, either people already knew him and the source of his scars, or they didn’t recognize him, saw the scars and avoided the subject—and him—entirely because they were uncomfortable with the sight of them.

  Her? She asked questions.

  “Now you really think I’m rude, don’t you? Okay, I confess I saw your scars yesterday but didn’t say anything because that’s usually what you’re supposed to do in situations like that. But just now you flinched. Did I hurt you? Do you have nerve damage?”

  Why so many questions? “You didn’t hurt me.” Dylan took in the look of concern on her face, the open curiosity, but surprisingly he didn’t see anything other than genuine interest. It appeared as though she didn’t recognize him, always a good thing. But did his scars really not bother her? “They make some people uncomfortable.”

  “Ah. And for some reason you think I’d be someone they would bother.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and she seemed offended by the implication. But one glance at her stylish clothes and the care she put into her appearance and image, and yeah, he’d have banked on it.

  “Hmm, I’m going to ignore the fact you think I’m that shallow,” she said pointedly, “and stick to the subject. What happened? You don’t have to tell me, of course, but I come from
a family of doctors and spent my summers volunteering at the hospital from the time I was ten until I graduated high school. I know burn scars when I see them. And I know I’m breaking all sorts of social rules and my mother would be appalled but— Do they have something to do with flying in one of those tiny wannabe planes?”

  So that’s where she was headed with this. She was afraid of flying—or rather crashing and burning. And while he’d certainly crashed and burned, it wasn’t by plane. “No, they have nothing to do with flying.” He told himself to stop talking and maybe she’d go away but he couldn’t help but ask, “Why would your mother be appalled?”

  His question brought out a smile that put a sparkle in her unusual eyes. “Oh, my mama does not believe in veering from social etiquette. Asking someone I don’t know such a personal question simply isn’t done. If she were here she’d be tapping her foot and calling me into a corner to talk.”

  His tension eased when he found himself chuckling at the image her words created. “Even if you’re right? They are burn scars, from a house fire.”

  But why had he volunteered that information? Maybe to test her?

  Dylan clamped his mouth shut, tensing again when he heard Alexandra release a soft sound of empathy.

  “Oh, relax. I’m not going to go all gooey on you because you’re obviously a guy who doesn’t like that sort of thing. But I am sorry you went through what you did. Burns are extremely painful.”

  Her bluntness was, too. That was going to take some getting used to. No doubt mama had called her to the corner for a lot of talks over the years. “Thanks.”

  “For the record,” she added, her tone firming, “I’m not that shallow and they don’t bother me.” She tucked a lock of her glossy hair behind her ear and lowered herself to one knee to peer beneath the sink. “Need a flashlight?”

  Dylan blinked at the quick change in topic. That was it? He searched her expression, trying to find signs of deception. He saw nothing to indicate she was putting on a show or pretending she didn’t already know the story behind his injuries. The fact that she was a photographer put him on edge and made him leery. Maybe there was actually more grit and sincerity beneath the shiny surface of her than he’d first thought? “A light would be nice. There’s one in the toolbox.”