The Thawing of Mara

by Janet Dailey

  "Harve left in something of a rush, didn't he?" he commented.

  "He suddenly remembered an important appointment somewhere else," she returned.

  "A sudden appointment?" His expression was skeptically mocking. "I thought it was probably a severe case of frostbite."

  "Do you think it's cold in here?" Mara deliberately misunderstood his reference to her. "I'm quite comfortable myself. Maybe you should put on a sweater."

  "I don't need one," Adam retorted wryly. "I've become acclimatized to the chill." His gaze noted the papers she held. "I suppose that's the cottage lease."

  "Yes. Mr. Buchanan will be arriving Friday. Perhaps you'd like to look over the documents to make sure no one has taken advantage of me." She walked to his wheelchair and dropped the envelope in his lap.

  Her attitude puzzled him until he looked at the lease and saw the monthly rental fee. Triumph glittered in her eyes when Adam looked up.

  "What do you think?" Mara challenged.

  "It's excellent." He handed the papers back to her. "I'm just wondering how you did it."

  "Maybe it's one of the financial rewards of good, clean living," she suggested with a trace of sarcasm for the way he was always mocking her for being too righteous.

  His dark head moved as he exhaled a wryly amused breath. "Were you properly grateful to Harve for signing this deal? Or did you show him the door because he'd served his purpose and you no longer had any use for him?"

  Mara stiffened. "Harve is aware that I give him full credit for arranging the terms of the lease. Our relationship has always been purely a business one. I'm not obliged to have dinner with him just because the deal was concluded satisfactorily."

  "Poor Harve," Adam mused. "I should have warned him that gods don't mingle socially with us mortals."

  Mara was almost overwhelmed by an impulse to scream at her father to stop ridiculing her, but she fought it down to reply coldly, "I wouldn't worry about Harve. He already shares your opinion that I'm not human."

  He held her gaze for a long moment. Some kind of silent appeal gleamed from the depths of his brown eyes, but Mara couldn't fathom it and didn't try.

  Sighing, he turned his chair and changed the subject. "So on Friday you officially assume the role of landlady."

  "Yes," Mara automatically stepped forward to push the chair toward the study. "I'll be going into town Friday afternoon to pick up the items Mr. Buchanan requested. If there's anything you need while I'm there, let me know."

  "How about a loving daughter?" he responded in a low, weary voice.

  "You had one once." She didn't elaborate further. He knew the rest.

  FRIDAY AFTEFNOON Mara separated the grocery bags, leaving the ones destined for the cottage in the rear of the station wagon, and carried the rest into the house. The grandfather clock in the entry hall chimed the half hour. It was after three, later than she had realized. Hurriedly she began removing the perishable items from the grocery bags and storing them in the refrigerator.

  The door to the kitchen swung open to admit her father's wheelchair. "You're running late, aren't you?" he observed.

  "Yes." Mara didn't pause in her task. "Did Mr. Buchanan arrive while I was gone?"

  "No."

  "Do you have the key to the cottage?" She had left it with him before she'd gone to town.

  "Right here." He produced it from the pocket of his cranberry sweater, a color that intensified his dark good looks.

  Mara put the lettuce in the crisper and the cheese on the refrigerator shelf, the last of the items. Taking the key from her father, she walked to the back door.

  "I'm going to the cottage. If Mr. Buchanan arrives before I come back, send him down by the back trail," she instructed.

  "Will do," he agreed as Mara went out of the door.

  The red brick farmhouse sat on one hundred acres of wooded Pennsylvania land. The previous owner had cleared and farmed two hundred acres adjoining this property, intending someday to clear the rest of the woods. When Mara's father had bought the place some twenty years ago, he had sold off the farmland but kept the wooded land that surrounded the house. A neighboring farmer now leased the bulk of it to graze his cattle.

  The cottage was located in the far corner of the property. There were two ways of reaching it. One was a graveled lane that led to the country road. The second was a dirt track that wound through the trees to the farmhouse. In bad weather, the latter was sometimes impassable, but that wasn't the case today.

  The station wagon thumped across the cattle guard, which, along with a fence, kept the neighbor's cattle from straying into the house yard. The autumn scarlet of the sumac lined the way. A thin carpet of gold and brown fallen leaves covered the trail, rustling and whirling as Mara drove slowly along. Overhead the trees had exploded with color, most of the leaves still clinging tenaciously to the branches.

  It was a gorgeous Indian summer afternoon with cloudless blue sky and briskly invigorating air. The heavily ribbed turtleneck sweater of ivory wool was all Mara needed in the mild temperature of this September day. The pale color drew attention to the silky black of her hair and complemented the forest green plaid of her slacks.

  Rounding a curve, she glimpsed the cottage through the trees. Where a second fence line intersected the trail was another cattle guard. Mara slowed the car as she crossed the iron grate and parked in front of the cottage.

  The slanted roof of the low building was covered with shake shingles. The exterior siding was stained cedar and the windows and doors were trimmed with a burnt shade of rust. The cottage blended in appearance with its woodsy setting.

  Balancing a bag of groceries on her hip, Mara unlocked the front door and walked into the living room, dominated by a large, native stone fireplace. The sparse furnishings didn't do justice to the potential of the room.

  To the left was the kitchen and Mara's destination. All the birch cabinets had been stripped and restained, and the counter tops resurfaced. A small table and chairs occupied the breakfast nook and shiny copper pots hung above the stove. The atmosphere was distinctly warm and homey. Mara set the one bag down and went back to the car for the others.

  The third and last room of the cottage was the bedroom with a full bath off it. Mara didn't classify the small utility room as a room since it was little more than a large closet.

  Despite possessing only three rooms, the cottage gave the impression of spaciousness. But Mara didn't have time to admire its efficient design. All the supplies and food had to be put away.

  The last bag was half-emptied when Mara thought she heard the sound of a car out front. She paused to listen and heard the slam of a car door. Leaving the can of coffee sitting on the counter, she made a detour on the way to the front door, stopping to glance out the kitchen window for an advance look at the cottage's new occupant. She had a brief glimpse of a tall, gray-haired gentleman approaching the front door before he disappeared out of her angle of sight.

  Reassured somehow by the sight of that gray hair, Mara had barely straightened from the window when there came a loud knock at the door. Unconsciously she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin to a lofty angle. The familiar aloofness settled over her as she went to answer the knock.

  When she was opening the door, her mouth automatically curved into a detached smile of greeting. Her gaze first encountered the towering bulk of the man outside, then met a pair of smoky blue eyes. Her expression froze in place. Tiny shock waves disassembled her previous image of the man and threw it away.

  This was not some old, distinguished gentleman facing her. This was a rawly virile man, suntanned and vigorous. The civilized impression given by the tweed jacket and dark trousers was banished by the unbuttoned shirt and the hard, browned flesh it revealed. The fact that his thick mane of hair happened to be iron gray was purely incidental.

  All the while she was staring at him, he was studying her in an odd way, as if she wasn't what he had expected to see, either. Maybe there was some kind of mistake.
Mara clutched at that straw.

  "Mr. Buchanan?" she questioned.

  "Yes." There was the faintest inclination of his head to affirm his identity. "I stopped at the farmhouse and Mr. Prentiss sent me down here. Are you his daughter?"

  The soothing pitch of his low voice was strangely unsettling, but Mara didn't betray her feelings. Instead she drew her invisible cloak of aloofness more tightly around her.

  "Yes, I am. Mara Prentiss." The introduction seemed to demand a perfunctory handshake.

  She offered him hers and found her slim fingers swallowed up in the grip of his. She didn't like the sensation of being engulfed by his sheer physical presence. It was somehow diminishing. Her temperature dropped by several degrees as she withdrew her hand from his grasp.

  There was a lift of detached amusement to his mouth. "For some reason, I expected to meet your father's wife or sister."

  "My mother is dead." Mara didn't know why she offered the information.

  "Mara Prentiss. M. Prentiss?" He referred to the signature on the lease.

  "The same," she admitted, stiffly holding herself erect as if she needed every centimeter of stature.

  Behind the cloud blue of his eyes, there seemed to be a wicked light dancing. Mara thought she had glimpsed it a couple of times previously, and it gave her the impression of danger rather than mischief. It was like that opaque gleam in the eyes of a cat playing with its prey.

  "I presume everything is in order for my arrival," he prompted.

  And Mara realized she was still barring his entrance into the cottage. "Yes, it is." She stepped back to admit him. "I was just putting away the supplies you ordered."

  One gleaming shoe had just crossed the threshold when a female voice halted him. "Sin, darling, shall I bring any of the luggage when I come?"

  Mara's gaze jerked beyond him to the sleek gray car parked next to her station wagon. A stunning redhead was just stepping out of the passenger side. Her white silk blouse was unbuttoned to show off her cleavage while a pair of midnight-blue slacks tightly hugged her hips. Despite the suggestiveness of her attire, the overall impression was one of chic sophistication.

  "Leave it," was his answer. "I'll carry it in later."

  Tearing her gaze away from the scarlet-haired beauty, Mara let it touch briefly on the man entering the cottage. Sinclair Buchanan, aptly shortened to Sin, she concluded without being sure why.

  Mara blamed her brief start of surprise at the presence of the woman on two things. All her attention had been focused on Sinclair Buchanan, so any distraction would have caught her off guard. The second was the length of time the woman had waited before making her presence known. Mara would have thought that she would have accompanied him to the door. Most wives would have exhibited more curiosity or been more eager to see their newly leased cottage.

  Sinclair Buchanan was inside now and Mara redirected her attention to him. Aware that this was the first time he'd seen the cottage other than in photographs, she felt she should make some attempt to familiarize him with the place.

  "This, of course, is the living room," she stated the obvious. He was already making a slow, sweeping survey of the interior. Mara couldn't tell by his expression whether he was disappointed by what he saw or not, but she felt she should offer some excuse for the starkness of the room. "As Mr. Bennett told you, the cottage isn't completely furnished. If you wish, I—"

  "No, I'll see to the rest of it myself." He refused her offer to finish decorating the place before she had had a chance to complete it. "Is the fireplace usable?"

  "Yes. The chimney has been swept and the flues checked," she assured him. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Bennett and I had a fire going in it just a few weeks ago to be certain there was no problem."

  The touch of his gaze gave her the impression that he had put a romantic connotation on her elaboration. In actual fact, there had been workers around finishing up the repairs, but she felt no compulsion to explain further.

  "What about firewood?" he questioned.

  "There's some wood stacked behind the cottage. You're welcome to gather the deadfall in the woods, but not to cut down any trees," she told him.

  Instantly she visualized him stripped to the waist against a backdrop of woods, splitting logs for the fireplace. She could even picture the sheen of perspiration glistening over the powerful muscles of his arms and chest. The image prompted a sudden surge of life to throb through her veins, which unnerved her because she couldn't control it.

  In unconscious self-defense, she turned away from him to break the crazy spell. As she did, the redhead walked through the open door. Mara smiled as if it had been her intention all along to greet the woman just entering the cottage, but the woman didn't even glance at her.

  The redhead's brown eyes were alight with excitement as she made an inspecting circle of the living room. When she came to a stop beside Sinclair Buchanan, her expression was alive with delight and anticipation. She circled one of his arms with both of hers and hugged him.

  "It's charming, Sin," she declared. "So rustic and quaint! Can't you picture an old sofa in front of the fireplace? We'll have such fun decorating this place."

  His look was indulgent, as if faintly amused, as he gazed at the upturned face of the woman. Fiery clouds of scarlet hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Mara was beginning to feel superfluous.

  "Be honest, Celene. You're just looking forward to spending my money." His tone fell halfway between teasing and taunting, as large a difference as between love and cruelty. His true attitude was a matter of interpretation.

  With a mock pout, the woman named Celene chose the first interpretation. Mara wasn't in a position to argue with the decision. Celene was obviously better acquainted with this man's moods and meaning than she was.

  "You know that isn't true, Sin," the redhead denied. "I enjoy spending anybody's money." She laughed. "I pride myself on being totally impartial. Come on, let's see the rest of the cottage."

  Before replying, his gaze swung to Mara. There was something prompting in his look. Mara didn't know what it was that he wanted, so she left it up to him to explain.

  "Shall I show you through the cottage or would you prefer to explore on your own?" she inquired.

  "We'll find our way around. I don't think we'll get lost," he assured her in a dry voice.

  "I should hope not!" Celene laughed at the comment that Mara had found more cutting than amusing.

  "If you'll excuse me," she murmured coolly, "I'll finish putting the groceries away." She paused to glance at the redhead. "Unless you would prefer to do—"

  "Please go ahead, Miss Prentiss." It was Sinclair Buchanan who answered. Mara couldn't help wondering if he made a habit of interrupting. His gaze slid down to the woman on his arm. "Celene is helpless—or should I say hopeless—in the kitchen."

  The woman smiled at the taunting observation. "Sin knows me," she sighed, and turned her soft brown eyes on Mara. "But then I've never claimed that my talents were in that area."

  "I'm sure you're very good at whatever you do." Mara's response was merely polite words, a murmured reply to be taken at face value.

  It drew a low chuckle from Sinclair Buchanan that earned him a playful slap of reprimand from the redhead. Celene's "talents" were obviously a private and intimate joke between them, and Mara wanted no further part in it. Turning quietly, she walked into the kitchen.

  The cottage was too small for her not to hear the murmuring of their voices as the couple wandered from the living room to the bedroom. She tried to drown out the sound with the whir of the electric can opener on the can of coffee.

  Pouring a portion of the grounds into the coffee canister, she set the rest inside the cupboard. She had just lifted the bag of flour out of the grocery bag when the two entered the kitchen.

  "This is your province, Sin. I'll leave you to inspect it," the red-haired Celene declared. "There's something I want to get from the car. I'll only be a moment."

  As the woman dep
arted, Mara was conscious of Sin Buchanan remaining in the kitchen. She opened the flap of the flour bag and reached for the canister. As she emptied the flour into it, she was aware of his movements, checking the appliances and the cupboards. His silvered gray hair was like a beacon.

  "I bought everything you had on the list," Mara informed him as she pushed the canister into its position with the rest of the set, "I hope you won't have difficulty finding anything."

  "I doubt it," he replied. "Everything appears well organized." It was an observation rather than a compliment.

  The dumping of the bag had left a fine film of flour dust on the counter, and Mara dampened a dishcloth to wipe it away. While she finished up in the kitchen, her new tenant wandered back into the living room. His return coincided with the entrance of Celene. There was nothing to keep their voices from carrying into the kitchen.

  "I found the wineglasses, so I brought in the champagne to toast the new cottage," Celene's voice announced in husky invitation. "The ice cooler chilled it to perfection. Here, open it, Sin."

  An assortment of spices and herbs was at the bottom of the grocery bag. Mara tried to remain deaf to the conversation in the adjoining room as she began arranging the bottles on the spice rack.

  "Don't you want to leave the celebrating until later?" The pop of the champagne cork made his question insignificant.

  But Celene answered it anyway. "No, I want to start now." Her voice was a throaty purr. "This is the first weekend I've ever had you all to myself. No phone calls, no business, no interruptions." The last negative was emphatically stressed. Celene proposed the toast, "To our first weekend alone."

  It was followed by the clinking of crystal and then silence. An inner voice seemed to order Mara to keep quiet and not betray her presence in the cottage, but she refused to obey it. The bottles thudded onto the spice shelf with the same regularity.

  "Mmmm, you know what let's do tonight, darling," Celene answered her own question without giving Sin a chance to respond. "Build a roaring fire in the fireplace. Then we'll lie down in front of it and…" The rest of her suggestion was made in a whisper.