by Hart, Taylor
Roman watched him go and irritation coursed through him. Snow was already gathered on the tip of his nose. He turned back and instantly the twinkle lights blinked out. He turned in a quick circle. The light that lit up the road had gone out, too. “Perfect.” He trudged toward the front door, taking care not to slip. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. He tipped it upside down, letting the key fall into his hand. He put it into the door and eased it open.
The first thing he noticed, other than the fact that it was very dark, was that the inside was cold, too. He put his suitcase down and tried to remember anything from those two trips about where furniture would be. Nothing. He pulled out his cell phone and pulled up the flashlight app. Two seconds later, his phone died. He’d been playing games on his phone during the whole flight. He growled and stuffed it back into his pocket. He had to rely on the small amount of light from the moon to make out the furniture and navigate toward the fireplace.
He felt for a switch to light it, hoping a nice gas fireplace would instantly light. No such luck. But he did find a box of matches!
After sliding it open, his heart plunged—the box was empty. He cursed and banged his fist against the side of the fireplace. “Seriously?”
Roman sucked in a long breath and tried to get his frustration under control. He felt like he was trying to throw a pass for a first down with no open receivers. “Uncle Jim!” He yelled and spun around, looking for anything that could be used for fuel.
He stumbled around, feeling the walls, trying to find the way to the kitchen. He needed to get in there, turn on a light and find some matches.
Part of a wall gave, and he pushed a door into the kitchen. He felt along the side of the wall and found a light switch. He flipped it.
Nothing.
He flipped it quickly back and forth and felt for another one. “Man!”
Keeping his hand against the wall, he felt his way around, hoping he could find the cupboards and rummage for something. Soft light poured in from the outside windows of the kitchen. The moon shone high in the sky, visible even through the snow that fell in fluffy clumps. The whole scene looked like something out of a storybook—all soft, cozy, and white. Well, minus the warm part of cozy. The very important warm part that propelled him to go to the massive cupboards and fling them open, searching for something helpful.
He thought he saw a box of matches and reached up, extending himself as far as he could to get the box, thinking that whoever usually got into these top cupboards must be a giant.
The box stayed just out of reach. It seemed like every time he almost touched it the box scooted back, evading him.
Without warning, the kitchen door burst open, and even colder air rushed through the room.
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” Roman tried to get a view of this person.
The sound of a shotgun being cocked put him on alert. Then the barrel of a shotgun came into view. His heart rate spiked. “Put the gun down,” he said calmly.
If he’d anticipated the assailant would calmly put the shotgun down, he’d been half right. The shotgun fell to the ground and the intruder ran straight for him, getting in a good shove to Roman’s ribs and knocking him off balance. He stumbled back and then tripped over a chair and fell.
At this point, all Roman knew was this guy would pay.
The assailant pounced on him, taking him all the way to the floor.
Roman was grateful he’d trained so hard to get his strength and agility back. He easily used his opponent’s momentum to roll them both. He stopped when he was on top and quickly secured both his assailant’s hands above his head, noting he wasn’t very big, even in all the snow gear he had on. “Mess with the bull, get the horn.”
“Ouch!”
As the adrenaline faded, Roman realized the body he was currently subduing was definitely feminine. He reacted as if he’d bit into a piece of cake expecting chocolate and realizing it was salt cake instead.
Immediately he yanked back his hold, pulling himself up. “What the—”
“Language.” The woman stood up quickly and gave him a look that told him she wished she still had the shotgun. She reached for something and then flipped on a lantern flashlight.
The first thing he noticed, besides the fact that she looked angry, was that her eyes were green. Cat green, as his mother would have said. His mother had been a cat fan. He’d often teased her about being the cat lady, but he’d brought her every stray kitten he’d found toward the end of the cancer, hoping something would cheer her up.
Red hair with soft curls tumbled down her shoulders. It was the color of leaves turning in the fall. He almost couldn’t breathe for a second. She looked so beautiful and fierce and like she would rip his head off if she could. He’d seen that kind of ferocity in only a few people—cancer survivors and three-hundred pound defensive tackles that were getting paid a heck of a lot of money to put him on his backside. For no good reason, it made him laugh.
It was evidently the wrong response. It made her ferocity increase. He could tell from the way her cat-green eyes narrowed before she bent to pick the shotgun up. “I wouldn’t laugh.”
He stuck his hand out. “Whoa. I think we’ve had enough of the gun for tonight, don’t you?”
“Who are you?” She used both hands to brace the shotgun against her shoulder and she placed one foot behind her as if she were preparing to fire.
If only there had been more time to truly appreciate the mussed up, angry, and still beautiful woman in front of him. “Look, just relax?”
This time she smirked, actually smirked, at him. “Excuse me, who do you think you are? I can have the cops here in two seconds.” She switched her stance and put the shotgun down and propped it against the table. She pulled out a phone.
The commanding way she said it, like some prison warden, made him laugh again.
With her thumb, she swiped the screen on her phone and pushed in a code. “Apparently you like to go around breaking into people’s places. What? Did you hear about Jim and think you could come squat here or something?” A horrid look washed over her face. She pinched her lips. “Well, you can’t.” She pressed a button and put the phone to her ear, pinching her lips in satisfaction.
On reflex, he took her phone away from her and pushed end. He didn’t need this kind of publicity for breaking and entering at the moment. His agent definitely wouldn’t be happy about something like that. “Now, hold on.”
Nails scraped his hand as she tried to retrieve what he’d taken. “Hey!”
Altering his stance, he held the phone out of reach. “I said hold on.” Apparently, she wasn’t really going to kill him, so that was a relief.
Relentless was what he would call her antics for getting the phone back. “Give me my phone!”
It wasn’t that he thought she was dangerous or that she wasn’t owed an explanation, but the aggressive way she reached for her phone made him want to keep it. He easily faked right and dodged left.
She fell fast. She’d clearly planned on the weight of his body to ram against but ended up landing on the floor instead.
It struck him that he was acting like a teenager. She clearly knew his uncle and was just trying to protect his property. “I’m sorry,” he said it quickly, but sincerely. He reached a hand out to help her up.
The woman scowled at his hand and stood by herself. She sucked in a long gulp of air, plucking her phone out of his hand. “You better tell me who you are and what you want.” Her eyes were on fire. He couldn’t help thinking it matched her hair.
He let out a breath and held back a laugh. “I’m the owner.”
The words hung in the air, and she studied him for a second, examining him the way he would examine a new play that coach had added to the playbook. Intensely. Carefully.
“You’re Jim’s nephew?” It wasn’t as much a statement as something that came out of her mouth with as much mystifying power as he felt. She looked him up and down, this time her eyes go
ing into slits. “The great Roman Young.”
This time, he did laugh. “Guess that description’s accurate.” He couldn’t say he didn’t like the way ‘great’ sounded in front of his name.
Without warning she laughed, hard and without humor. She shook her head and picked up the shotgun, putting it behind the kitchen door. “Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.”
He was confused. “What?”
She tsked her tongue. “Of course you don’t want me to call the police with the media coverage you’ve had lately.” She shuffled to the same cupboard he’d searched earlier and whipped it open, pulling out a box of matches. “Do you know how many things need to get done around here? How many times I’ve had to run over here to keep the riffraff out at night and check stuff? Do you have any idea how much needs to be done before people can stay here, and we’re supposed to be opening in two months?” She shook her head and held up the box of matches. Her expression shifted from anger to exasperation. “Seriously, why didn’t you start a fire? It’s cold in here.”
He ran his hand over the stubble on his face. Before he could move to help, she had already walked into the main room and was making noise. He followed and watched as she expertly built a fire, trying to blow off her little rant about his selfishness. People never understood him. “I couldn’t find a switch or matches.” The belated reply to her belittling observation about the fire sounded lame, even to him.
She whipped her head back. The red curls and her green eyes looked enchanting backlit by the flame. She grinned, and, at that point, he knew she was every bit as bewitching as he’d first thought, but not at all helpless. “The power’s out, genius. Oh, and don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you beat up on a girl.”
Awkward. After all, what was she? He cocked his head and sized her up. Probably five foot eight, definitely slight of frame. Underneath that snowsuit he couldn’t imagine her being too big. Without thinking, he checked her left hand. Checked the finger that would matter. For some reason, he was disappointed that a band encircled it. “Sorry.” He meant it.
She laughed, and this time it was rich and wonderful. He told himself to stop even thinking about her laugh.
“Jim’s nephew.” She shook her head. “Wow. I mean, I knew you owned the place, but I … Jim said you weren’t the kind that would come. He said I’d probably have to communicate via email.” She grimaced and moved for a small closet off of the main doors. “Well, I have to go.” She tugged out a sleeping bag. “Power’s off. Here’s a sleeping bag. You’ll have to sleep on the floor in front of the fire tonight if you want to keep warm.” She tossed it at his feet and then paused.
He couldn’t believe this. “What do you mean? Won’t the power come back on soon?”
She took off toward the kitchen, waving him back with her. “Uh—don’t hold your breath.” She walked through the swivel kitchen door and he followed. She picked up a piece of paper off the table and shoved it at his chest, taking a match and lighting another lantern. “Good thing you’re here, here’s a list of all the stuff that needs to be fixed. You saved me having to email it to you.” She moved to the kitchen door and threw back a grin. “I’ll see you in the morning if you survive the night.”
He couldn’t decide if he liked her or not. He rushed to the kitchen door and threw the door wide. “Hey, isn’t there a hotel or something?”
She moved for a snowmobile, but turned back. “Maybe you should have come to the funeral and you could have met someone who might be willing to help you out.” Her cat-like eyes flashed wide.
He jerked back, unprepared for the direct emotional hit.
She slung her leg up and onto a snowmobile. “You are in a bed and breakfast.”
He moved out onto the deck, ticked off, their eyes locked.
She grinned and the rip roar of the snowmobile sounded into the air. She winked at him and Roman knew it was meant to taunt him.
It worked. Anger flared inside him and he cursed. Turning back into the house, he shut the kitchen door, locked it and huffed back to the living room. Staring at the fire, he pushed open the sleeping bag, thinking that this sleeping bag was probably the same one he’d used all those years ago when his uncle had taken him camping. He rustled in his bag and found his phone charger, taking care to plug in the phone and hoping the power might come back on so it could get a charge.
He laid back on the sleeping bag, staring at the fire and shook his head. “Well, Uncle Jim, I’m here.” He blinked. “But you’re not here to tell me one of your ghost stories.” His mind flashed, again, to the red head and the way she’d winked at him. He did not like her he decided.
Getting up, he got into the bag and begrudgingly tugged it up into place around his head. He forced himself to take in deep breaths and try to relax. He would get some sleep and then meet with the attorney tomorrow and figure out how to get this place sold. Then he would get as far away from the Alaskan Inn as he could get.
Chapter 2
The next morning Roman woke to the sound of clicking. He jerked awake, rudely brought back to the reality that he lay huddled in a sleeping bag, in yesterday’s clothes, with a cold nose. Last night he’d fallen asleep ticked at the red-haired crazy woman, and he’d woken just as ticked. How dare she tell him he should have come to funeral? She knew nothing about him and his life. He hadn’t even known about the funeral. Who was she to act all superior and judge him? He tried to pull the zipper back, but it had been cold last night, and he’d zipped the mummy bag as tightly as he could. He struggled for a few seconds. Then he heard the clicking again. “Hey!” he yelled. It wasn’t a problem to roll to his front and maneuver himself to his feet in one core-tightening move.
Click, click, click.
He jumped toward the kitchen and the sound. “Helloo!” All he needed was another unwelcome guest. What had the crazy red head called the people she had to keep at bay last night? Riffraff? He wouldn’t think this small town would have much riffraff.
Before he could get to the swiveling kitchen door, it slammed open, banging him right in the head.
He fell back, turning into a face plant as he fell. He caught himself before he hit too hard.
“Oh land sakes, what’s this?” a loud voice called out.
Roman squiggled his way to his side, not knowing what to expect, and found himself staring up into the face of an older lady that looked faintly familiar.
She held a frying pan in her hand with something in it. She already had a rolling laugh coming out of her. She wore jeans and tall black boots. She had her hair pulled back into a bun at the top of her head and wire-rimmed glasses on her face. She peered down. “I heard you were here, but I didn’t realize Katie had locked you up in a mummy bag.” She lifted the pan. “Made you some pancakes.”
The playful, yet stern look on her face didn’t put Roman completely at ease. “Oh.” It was all he could think of to say at the moment. “My zipper’s stuck.”
At this, she slapped her leg and cackled out a laugh, making a strand of hair fall out of the flimsy bun. “Well, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard a man say that.” She took two steps to the table and put the pan down on a worn hot pad. “Well let’s see if we can fix you up, Mr. Roman.”
Mr. Roman. He flashed to being eleven and being teased about how many pancakes he could eat. “Mrs. K?” He couldn’t believe he remembered that.
She bent over him, smelling of talcum powder and eggs. She pulled back and grinned, fiddling with the zipper. “That’s right. That’s a good boy.” She winked. “Boys always remember old ladies that feed them.”
While she fiddled and finally won with the zipper, he wondered exactly how old she must be. He sat up and stepped out of the sleeping bag, emerging like a snake from a skin. “You have no idea how much better that feels. Thank you.”
Mrs. K only paused for a second and studied him. “Well, you’ve grown up, Roman.” Her eyes looked him up and down, not like a woman checking him out, but more like a grandmother appraisin
g him. It was the same way his own mother used to look at him. Then she folded him into her arms.
For a second, he didn’t react, but when she didn’t let go, he hugged her back. He didn’t know what to say. “Er, thanks?”
With a slight crook to her walk, she moved to the table and retrieved the pancakes. “Come on, honey, let’s go sit at the table and talk.”
Even though he had a dietitian that watched everything he ate to ensure he got the right amounts of protein, carbs, and fat, he would definitely take her up on her pancakes. If he remembered right, Mrs. K’s pancakes were something of an experience. His stomach grumbled. “I’ll be right in, I just have one call to make real quick.”
He retrieved his phone from the charger against the wall and pressed the attorney’s number.
“Hello.”
“It’s Roman Young. I’m in Wolfe Creek, I need you to meet me over here sometime today and get the paperwork signed."
“Oh, dear …”
“Mr. Burcher, I need to get this done today.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Young. The roads up the canyon have closed. It looks like it’ll be a couple of days.”
“Days?”
He sighed. “These storms take on a mind of their own. But I promise you as soon as the roads open, I’ll be there.”
The kitchen looked different in the daylight. The mahogany cupboards were not as polished as he remembered. They looked worn. The large table matched the cupboards and Roman vividly remembered how much he loved this kitchen. He took in the faded apple décor, from the little curtains over the sink window to the wallpaper. But, it was still clean and tidy. Mrs. K put the pancakes down next to a steaming plate of eggs and motioned for him to sit. “It’s been almost a year since I’ve cooked for anyone except your uncle in this kitchen.” Her face turned sad. “For a long time he wanted to keep having groups of people come because he enjoyed that, you know. He enjoyed the company. He enjoyed seeing other people appreciate the amenities that Wolfe Creek has to offer: the lakes, the skiing. But this place got so run down it couldn’t compete with those new developments up the hill, ya know.” She heaped a pile of eggs and two pancakes onto his plate without asking him what he wanted. Syrup was dumped on the top before he could do it himself. She folded her arms. “Will you say grace, Roman?”