Midnight Sons Volume 3

by Debbie Macomber

  Love. Was it possible that he actually loved Tracy? The thought terrified him. He didn’t want to feel this emotion, this…this vulnerability.

  Damn it all, leave it to him to fall in love with some fancy, highfalutin Seattle attorney. A lot of good it would do either one of them.

  Her life was in Seattle and his was in Hard Luck. Here it was, history repeating itself. His father had loved his mother enough to believe he could meld their worlds. In the end, they’d both been miserable.

  Loving Tracy wasn’t going to change a thing. He sure wasn’t going to give up his life and follow her to the city. As far as he was concerned, Fairbanks was overcrowded. He couldn’t imagine what life would be like in a city the size of Seattle.

  And as for her moving to Hard Luck, tempting though it sounded, Duke knew it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t ask a woman of Tracy’s education and temperament to give up the bright lights of Seattle for some dinky town in the Arctic.

  That didn’t leave much room for their relationship.

  It wouldn’t be easy to let her go, not when she was looking at him with stars in her eyes. He knew what she was thinking, because he’d had those same thoughts.

  But it wouldn’t work.

  Chapter

  5

  TRACY STIRRED in the chair at Duke’s bedside. She raised her arms above her head and stretched, arching her back. Swallowing a yawn, she worked the stiff muscles of her shoulders. It took her a few minutes to notice that Duke was awake. He was sitting up in bed watching her.

  “Hello,” she said, surprised at how shy she felt around him. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better than I did a couple of days ago. How about you?”

  “None the worse for wear.” She untucked her legs from beneath her and stood. “Any idea how long I’ve been asleep?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve only been awake for half an hour or so myself. Actually I didn’t expect to find you still here.”

  She saw the look of disapproval in his eyes and stopped herself from telling him she’d only left his side for brief periods since their rescue.

  “Shouldn’t you be back in Seattle?” Duke asked. “It’s been what? Two, three days now?”

  “The…the senior law partner told me to take as long as I needed.”

  Duke’s expression was grim. She could sense him shutting her out; it was like a gate closing, blocking her passage. Now that they were safe, now that they were back, he seemed to be saying he wanted nothing to do with her.

  “How much more do you need?” he asked. The words weren’t harsh, but their message was—she didn’t have to stay in Alaska on his account. In fact, he’d prefer it if she left. “Nothing’s keeping you here, is it?”

  “No,” she admitted reluctantly, averting her gaze.

  “You’ll make your flight reservations then?” She glanced up, and his eyes burned into hers.

  Her heart constricted, but she refused to let him know how deeply he’d wounded her. “I’ll call the airlines at the first opportunity.” Her hand trembled as she folded the blanket and set it on the small pillow she’d been using. Her lips trembled as she faced him again.

  She’d never been as intimate with a man as she’d been with Duke, and she wasn’t referring to anything physical. The closeness they’d shared was emotional. They’d touched each other’s lives in ways that went beyond the mundane. Together they’d stared death in the eye, clinging to hope and to each other.

  He wanted her to leave, but she couldn’t, not without thanking him. The words that formed so easily in her heart, however, stuck in her throat.

  “I won’t say it’s been fun,” she said, making a feeble attempt at humor.

  “That’s one thing it hasn’t been,” he agreed.

  She stood by his bedside and resisted the urge to brush the hair from his forehead. Often while he’d slept she’d felt free to touch him, to offer small gestures of tenderness. She knew he wouldn’t welcome the informality now that he was awake.

  Finally she managed to say, “Before I return to Seattle I want to thank you.”

  “Hey, you seem to forget I was the one who brought that plane down.”

  “No,” she corrected, “the ruptured oil line was responsible for that. Your skill as a pilot is what saved us both.” Then, because she felt it was important, she added, “I know what you did.”

  Even as she said the words she realized he’d pretend ignorance and discount what the investigators had said. “You risked your own life to save mine.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Tracy hid a smile. She felt she knew Duke better than any man she’d ever dated.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “You. I’ve talked to the men who investigated the crash site. They said that, from the evidence, you purposely put yourself at greater risk.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Let’s not argue,” she said, knowing it would do no good to press the issue.

  “Why not?” he asked, his eyes flashing with warmth and humor. “It’s what you and I’ve done from the first. It feels right. You’re a worthy adversary, Santiago.”

  She bowed her head, acknowledging the tribute. “I’ll consider that a compliment.”

  His grin relaxed and he grew serious once more. “You did good,” he said, his gray eyes dark and intense. “It wasn’t any picnic out there, but you were a real trooper.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you.” There wasn’t a single doubt about that.

  “Sure you would’ve,” he countered swiftly. “You’ve got mettle and spirit. I was out of it most of the time and—”

  “Not all.” He’d held her and reassured her, when he was the one who’d sustained the worst injuries. She’d never forget that. The fear would’ve destroyed her if it hadn’t been for the solace she’d found in his arms.

  “I’ll admit you surprised me,” Duke said. “A city girl like you.”

  She wanted to tell him she wasn’t any different from Mariah or the other women who’d moved to Hard Luck in the past two years. Something in his eyes told her she’d be wasting her breath. In the past they’d taken delight in waging verbal battles—but the time for that was over. They’d progressed far beyond quarreling to a level of mutual respect. A week earlier she would’ve responded with indignation; now she let the matter drop.

  “You’ll go back soon?” He made it sound like he couldn’t be rid of her fast enough. Well, Duke never had been kind to her ego.

  “Soon,” she promised.

  “If I ever need an attorney,” he said brightly, “I’ll know who to call.”

  Of all the things he might’ve said, this affected her the most. She bit her trembling lip in an effort to stall the emotion that burned just beneath the surface.

  “Hey, what’d I say?”

  “Nothing.” Laughing a little, she shook her head. “You’re one heck of a man, Duke Porter. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m going to miss you like crazy.” Her heart hammered with the pain of the coming separation.

  “I never thought I’d miss you, either.” His face was pinched, his eyes shadowed. This time she knew it wasn’t due to his injuries. Parting was as difficult for him as it was for her. But Tracy sensed that he wasn’t keen on her knowing it, so she pretended not to notice.

  “Take my advice,” Duke said, “and ditch Gavin. You deserve a real man.”

  Unfortunately the only one who fell into that category was here in front of her—and he was sending her away. “I’d already decided that.”

  His gaze held hers, then he asked, “A kiss for luck?”

  She smiled and nodded. He held his good arm out to her, and she came into his embrace. She assumed he only meant to hug her, perhaps give her a peck on the cheek.

  But Duke gathered her close and directed her lips to his. The kiss was like the man. He held back nothing, twining his fingers into her hair, slanting his mouth over hers in a breath-stealing kiss. Her breath jammed in her lungs
as her fingers dug into his shoulders.

  She tasted his urgency, his hunger, experienced them herself. He wanted her and made no apologies.

  The kiss might have gone on even longer if not for a noise in the hallway outside the partially closed door.

  Duke released her with a reluctance that should have thrilled her, but didn’t. With little more than a kiss, he was sending her out of his life.

  “Goodbye, Tracy. Godspeed.”

  “Godspeed,” she returned in a choked whisper. And then, while she could still hold back the tears, she walked hurriedly out of the room—and out of his life.

  BEN HAD HIS EXCUSES neatly lined up in his mind. He’d meet Mrs. McMurphy and they’d exchange pleasantries. Next, he’d read over her résumé and ask half a dozen appropriate questions. Enough for her to believe he was giving her serious consideration. When the interview was over, he’d announce that he needed a couple of days to decide and would get back to her by the end of the week.

  That was the way situations like this were handled. Ben possessed enough business savvy to know how to give a job applicant the brush-off.

  He’d make sure Mrs. McMurphy and Bethany didn’t know what he had up his sleeve. That would be a mistake. Instead, he’d play along, let both women assume he was satisfied with the interview. Then he’d sit down and have dinner with Bethany and her family. Socialize with Mrs. McMurphy.

  Ben would lay odds that Bethany wasn’t serving any tofu burgers this evening. Not with company. He was dreaming of Southern fried chicken, potatoes mashed with real butter, and sour-cream gravy. Dreaming—that was all he’d be doing, knowing Bethany.

  Mrs. McMurphy was due any moment, so Ben slowly made his way downstairs. The café was empty and lifeless. He missed the old hustle and bustle. In the past, he’d sometimes gone an hour or two without a customer, but that was different. This kind of silence was downright eerie.

  The grill was stone cold, but if he closed his eyes, he could hear the hiss of bacon and hash-brown potatoes frying in the pan.

  Anticipating the woman’s arrival, Ben put on a small pot of decaffeinated coffee—Bethany would approve—and pulled out a chair. As he sipped from his mug, he watched the Baron aircraft land. Sawyer was back—with the infamous Mrs. McMurphy.

  Ben caught his first view of the cook and was surprised at how tall she was. She wore a long black wool coat and carried a wicker basket over her arm, like little Red Riding Hood come to visit the big bad wolf.

  Sawyer escorted her to the café personally, but stayed only long enough to check that Ben was downstairs.

  “So you’re Mrs. McMurphy,” Ben said after Sawyer left. “Ben Hamilton.” He extended his hand.

  “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” the tall slender woman said.

  Years earlier Ben had seen a plaque that said never to trust a skinny cook. He was inclined to accept that advice.

  “Come in and make yourself comfortable,” he urged, motioning to the table where he’d been sitting. “May I take your coat?”

  “Please.” She slipped out of it; she wore a practical denim dress and boots. She put the basket down on the table and sat quickly, almost as if she feared her height would alarm him. Ben was a big man himself, well over six feet. It took more than a reed-thin woman to intimidate him.

  “Could I get you a cup of coffee?” he asked, still playing politeness to the hilt.

  “No, thank you.”

  She was prim, a bit shy, with friendly blue eyes that seemed to take up half her face. Her dark, gray-streaked hair was gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. It was difficult to guess her age; she could be anywhere between forty and sixty. Plain. No rings, he noted. No jewelry at all, for that matter.

  Ben pulled out his chair and sat down himself.

  “I’ve enclosed some letters of recommendation,” she said, retrieving an envelope from her purse. Her hand shook slightly.

  She was nervous, Ben realized, and found that puzzling. If he raised his voice, as he tended to do, he’d scare the poor thing out of ten years of her life.

  He peeled open the envelope and took out three single sheets of paper. It wasn’t until he started reading that he noticed the most enticing scent. A blend of apples and spices. It distracted him so much that he couldn’t finish the letters.

  He hesitated and glanced at the wicker basket. His mouth watered. What was it Bethany had told him about Mrs. McMurphy’s specialties? Oh, yeah—strudel and cinnamon rolls. Could it be possible…?

  His eyes were riveted on the basket.

  “I brought along an apple strudel,” Mrs. McMurphy said, following his gaze. “Mrs. Harris was kind enough to invite me for dinner this evening, and this is my way of thanking her.”

  “Did you bring anything else?” Bethany wouldn’t hesitate to drag him before a firing squad for asking.

  “Cinnamon rolls,” she said. “You’re welcome to look over my résumé, of course, but I felt my rolls would speak for themselves. The recipe was my grandmother’s.”

  “How thoughtful.” Ben all but leaped from the table. He hadn’t moved with this much agility for weeks.

  Before another minute had passed he’d grabbed a plate and fork. His eyes feasted on the dish Mrs. McMurphy took from the basket.

  Huge cinnamon rolls were piled high on the small platter. The frosting had melted over the top, just the way he liked.

  “Please, Mr. Hamilton, help yourself.”

  Ben didn’t need a second invitation. “I believe I’ll have a taste,” he said, as if he felt morally obligated to sample her wares since she’d gone to the trouble of bringing them.

  He placed the largest one on the plate and licked the sweetness from his fingertips. This was heaven. Forget all that nonsense about bran and tofu.

  Trying to disguise his absolute delight, he read over her résumé as he took the first bite.

  “As I explained earlier, the recipe was my grandmother’s. Although it’s more expensive, I use real butter.” She said this hesitantly, her eyes studying him.

  Butter. She used real butter.

  “I’ve tried margarine,” Mrs. McMurphy said with regret, “but the rolls don’t have the same richness or full-bodied flavor. If I come to work for you, Mr. Hamilton, I insist on using the best ingredients, and that means baking with butter.”

  Ben licked his fingers clean. “Of course.”

  “If you’d like, you could try another,” she said, gesturing to the plate. “I brought plenty.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He had to rearrange the stack in order to get the largest of the remaining four.

  “I suppose you’d like me to tell you a bit about my background,” she said after a moment. Ben was far too busy eating to ask her questions.

  “Please.” He gestured for her to continue.

  She listed a number of restaurants where she’d been employed in the past twenty years.

  Ben barely listened. His eyes were half-closed in ecstasy as he chewed and swallowed.

  “I understand there’s a housing shortage in Hard Luck at present,” Mrs. McMurphy said next.

  Oh, yes, that was something he’d wanted to bring up. A convenient excuse and, despite Bethany’s interference, one he intended to use when he regretfully informed Mrs. McMurphy he wouldn’t be able to hire her.

  “I asked Mr. O’Halloran about the possibility of flying in from Fairbanks on a daily basis. Naturally it would depend on the hours you need me, and the flight schedule, but he seemed to think we could arrange something. Mrs. Harris also mentioned the lodge, and I called and spoke with Mr. Caldwell. They have a room I could rent during the week and then return to Fairbanks for the weekends.”

  Ben merely nodded and began to reach for a third roll.

  “Perhaps you’d care to taste my strudel,” Mrs. McMurphy suggested.

  “Only if you insist.” He shoved his empty plate toward her.

  “I’m a widow,” Mrs. McMurphy continued as she sliced off an ampl
e portion of strudel and lifted it onto his plate. “My children are grown now, with lives of their own.”

  “Mrs. McMurphy—”

  “Please, I’d be more comfortable if you called me Mary.”

  “All right—Mary,” Ben said.

  “The strudel is an old family recipe, as well,” Mary said. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

  Ben slid a forkful into his mouth. If he’d been impressed with the cinnamon rolls, the apple strudel…well, the apple strudel was her triumph. The apples were tender and tart, and the delicate pastry seemed to dissolve on his tongue.

  “Again, I use only real butter.”

  “Butter,” he repeated, finishing the last exquisite bite.

  “Yes. It’s my one stipulation when it comes to baking. Seeing that you enjoy sweets, I wish I’d baked a cheesecake.”

  “I prefer the strudel.” The first piece was gone so quickly he hardly knew where it’d disappeared. He helped himself to a second serving, taking a thinner slice this time.

  “I imagine you’re wondering why I left the Sourdough Café after five years,” Mary said. Ben felt a little—only a little—embarrassed that she had to conduct her own interview. After all, he was checking out her qualifications and couldn’t ask questions at the moment. His mouth was full. “It broke my heart to leave,” she explained, “but the café recently changed hands, and the new owner was cutting corners.”

  “I see.” Mary McMurphy might be thin as a rail, but the woman knew her way around a kitchen. That much Ben would say for her. But there was far more to running a café than slapping together an apple strudel, he thought righteously.

  It was as if the woman could read his mind. “In addition to the baking, I’m an excellent short-order cook. I can see from your menu that you offer hamburgers and so on. But I also have a number of specialties, including Southern fried chicken. People have been telling me for years that mine’s as good as any colonel’s.”

  “Fried chicken?”

  “I hope you aren’t partial to instant potatoes. Now, I realize that up here in the Arctic real potatoes might be hard to come by at times. I’m not a stickler for this the way I am about using butter in my grandmother’s recipes, but I do prefer to cook with real potatoes.”