Winter Dreams

by Simmons, Trana Mae

  The doe still had her legs on the edge of the hole, enlarged around her now by her flailing, which had broken off pieces of the thinner ice. Her head lolled weakly. He shook out the rope, gauged the distance, and gave it a toss. It settled over her head on that first try.

  Sandy dropped to the ice himself. He belly-crawled a few feet forward, since he barely had hold of the end of the rope and needed more to get a firm grip. Suddenly the ice creaked near him and he froze in fear. The fissure he expected didn't materialize, and he carefully turned his head.

  His stomach knotted and his heart hammered. Laura lay on her stomach not too far from him.

  "I won't come any closer unless you need me," she hurriedly assured him. "I just wanted to be close in case you did."

  "If you crawl even one inch farther," he snarled, "I'll push that damned deer back into the water and drown her myself!"

  "No, you won't," she said with a smile. "But I'll stay here."

  He dropped his head and shook it, but a jerk on the rope got his attention. The doe was struggling again, her strength renewed. It would be a close call as to whether he could give her enough help to get out of the water before the rope strangled her or not. She was large — not yet winter starved as she would be near the spring if she made it through the season — probably well outweighing his own one hundred and seventy pounds. He braced himself, but he slid a few inches forward. The doe's head disappeared again beneath the water.

  He twisted around, butting his boots against a patch of jagged ice frozen in a wave formation. It gave him enough leverage to lean back against the rope again, and when it tightened, the doe once again tried to climb out of the hole. She lunged and almost made it, but the pull on the rope jerked his upper body forward.

  Suddenly he felt Laura's arms around his waist, and he started to turn and shout at her. Just then the doe made a new lunge, and with the added strength of Laura's hold, they held the animal firmly. The doe scrambled onto the ice and stood, head down. The slipknot Sandy had tied loosened of its own accord, and the rope fell to the ground.

  "What's going on?" Laura shifted to peer around him, and Sandy twisted onto his stomach. Shoving on her shoulders, he sent her scooting across the ice before he scrambled to his feet and went after her. He scooped her into his arms and hurried back across the ice. When they got to the shoreline, he turned and looked back at the doe, already bounding toward the far side of the lake.

  "Oh, I hope she doesn't freeze to death now," Laura said.

  "We've done all we can. She'll probably keep moving until her coat dries. Or try to, anyway."

  He turned his gaze on Laura and saw the trepidation fill her green eyes. "Uh-oh," she murmured.

  He firmed his jaw, but she placed a tentative finger on his lips and the rigidity died a fast death. "I know," she said. "I broke another rule. I didn't obey you right to the letter, and it could have been dangerous. Dangerous for both of us. I'm sorry. I'll . . . I'll accept any punishment you pronounce, but please don't quit. Please."

  He heaved a defeated sigh. "You could have denied you remembered the rule."

  "I'm not a liar, Sandy. I remember everything you've ever said to me."

  That was totally dangerous conversation. And still holding her in his arms was even more dangerous. Why the hell didn't she struggle — insist he put her down? Why the hell didn't he put her down anyway?

  She was light in his arms, yet every inch a woman. A definite contradiction, he mused. How could such a little bit of nothing still have all the right curves — all the right feminine elements to tantalize and tease him? To be a complete woman to his masculinity?

  There didn't seem to be room in that slender body to grow a child, but . . . .

  He dropped her legs, yet had sense enough to hold onto her with his other arm. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she tightened her arms around his neck in reaction. It was a damned good thing they both wore all those layers of clothes and each a heavy coat, or he would have felt every delicious inch of her slide down his body. But he quickly realized not even the clothing protected him, because his mind remembered every part of her from that night in the kennel office.

  His gut kicked in response, as did his groin. Laura gasped, and he realized she'd ended up with her jacket wedged between them, pulled up far enough for her stomach to press against his beginning arousal. That knowledge was all it took for the full hardness to slam into him with the force of a knockout punch.

  Instead of pushing away from him in fright, Laura whimpered in her throat and her fingers tightened around his neck, pulling on a lock of his hair in a pleasure-pain way. His pleasure came from knowing she felt the same heady desire he did. The pain barreled right over the pleasure, carrying with it all his promises to never let this happen again. Carrying a reminder of the small amount of honor and respect remaining to him after he was forced to leave Alaska with his life in shambles, his future ruined — a reminder of his stupidity in allowing that to happen. Carrying the remembrance of the loss of the very substance that made him a man and his going down in defeat to another, lesser man, and the near disaster it caused his family.

  Not wanting to humiliate her by letting her think her effect on him was easily controlled, knowing he owed her this honesty, he reluctantly eased Laura away from him. Carefully watching her eyes, he could tell the moment her desire changed to the beginning of embarrassment. He had to get his hands off her, but when she started to push past him and head for the sleds, he growled her name in a voice that halted her.

  Keeping a distance between them, he jammed his hands into his pockets as she turned back to him.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I . . . ."

  "Shut up, Laura," he growled in a low voice. "The other night we only yelled at each other, and I should have explained myself then."

  He paused, trying to figure out the best way to say what needed said. Being Laura, she ignored his order to be quiet and filled the void with her own words — an attempt at her own excuses and apologies.

  "I should be totally ashamed of myself, I know. My God, if David had any idea . . . and what must you think of me — belonging to him and being so ready to stay in your arms?"

  "Shut up, damn it. I . . . ."

  "Maybe once I could be forgiven for. Maybe even twice. But a third — "

  He grabbed her and kissed her. Just to shut her up, he lied to himself. And somehow the great god of willpower gave him enough strength to let her go, step back and jam his hands into his pockets again. Somehow that same god kept his hands in his pockets when her eyes got dreamy and she touched her fingers to her mouth.

  "Listen to me, Laura. Please," he pleaded, and she ever so slowly nodded her head.

  "If there was any possibility at all of there being a future for you and me, I might fight for you. There's all sorts of rationalizations we could make. Believe me, I've made them to myself many sleepless nights. That you would be doing David a disservice by marrying him when you felt so strongly about another man. That you'd be doing yourself that same disservice."

  She nodded very slightly once more in agreement, but she must have sensed the fatalistic sentence to come because he saw none of the earlier sparkle in her eyes. They changed to a flat green, dark with dusty shadows. He had to keep them that way — deaden any slight hope she might have. Hell, any slight hope he might have himself.

  "I have no plans to ever take another wife," he said in an even voice. She flinched slightly, but her shoulders remained unbowed and her gaze on his face. "And I care too much about you to only have an affair with you and leave you behind when I go."

  When pain filled her eyes, he curled his hands into fists. "Yes, go," he repeated. "I haven't said anything to your father yet, but I imagine after — " He steeled himself for another lie. " — after I get back from Alaska, I'll probably leave Grand Marais." He never planned on even going to Alaska, but he couldn't tell her that. Cristy and Tracie's comfort depended on that lie being fostered for a while yet.

 
; "What will you do?" she whispered in a broken voice.

  "Something to do with my dogs." He shrugged. "The plans your father have for me include going into one of his businesses

  — the shipping business. I have absolutely no desire to become involved in that again." Another lie. He would give his eye teeth to use his mind once more, let alone the fact a position like that would enable him to provide a secure life for his daughter and sister.

  "I understand." Laura wrapped her arms around herself. "I won't . . . tempt you any more . . . ."

  "Damn it, you aren't to blame for this!" Pulling his hands free, he ran his palms down his face. When he looked at her woebegone face, he swiveled and stared out across the frozen lake to avoid her gaze — to keep his willpower strong. She was so tiny — so fragile. Yet so strong and impetuous, so much a woman capable of being a companion to a man rather than a woman a man had to feel responsible for and protect.

  "It's both of us," he said sternly. "I sure as hell didn't beat you off. In fact, I'm the one who let this get out of hand. I'm older and I've been married. I know how strong the feelings can get between a man and woman, especially on a man's part."

  A snowflake feathered down, and he quickly examined the sky. Black clouds were blowing in. He should have kept the weather in mind, as he usually did when out on the trail. Almost at once the snowflakes thickened, and he quickly turned back to Laura.

  "It's starting to snow. We've got to get back, because this looks like it's setting in for a while." Suddenly he noticed her ungloved hands. "Laura, when did you take your mittens off?"

  She shivered. "When I decided to help you with the rope and the deer. If I'd have had to help you pull, the mittens wouldn't have let me get a good hold."

  "You know how easily your hands get cold. Get your mittens back on."

  She complied, and he motioned for her to follow him back to the sleds. The lazy flakes continued, beautiful, but deceptively dangerous. He pulled her snow anchor free for her as she climbed onto the runners.

  "You might need to push Blancheur a little to get back before this gets too bad to travel in," he said. "If you do, I'll make sure he rests tomorrow to make up for it."

  "All right." She reached for the handles, and her hands fumbled, her right one refusing to grip. She grimaced and tried to wrap her fingers again.

  "Laura, let me see your hands."

  "They're all right. I'll be fine."

  "Damn it . . . ."

  "Will you quit cursing at me?" she cried. "You've said 'damn' or 'hell' a dozen times in the last few minutes!"

  "Don't change the damn subject! If we were in the Alaskan race and ignored possible frostbite on your hands, you could end up having both of them amputated. Get those blasted mittens off and let me look at them!"

  "Get your mittens on, Laura," she mimicked. "Get your mittens off, Laura." She pulled them off and held her hands out.

  "Oh, God," he breathed as he took her hands in his and examined the patches of white skin, which could easily turn into frostbite. "All this over some damned deer, which will probably die anyway from exposure. I should've just shot her and put her out of her misery."

  "You wouldn't do that, either," she said logically. "And just give me a few minutes here. I'll warm my hands inside my coat sleeves. . . ."

  He clasped both of her small wrists in one of his hands, then quickly unbuttoned his jacket, followed by a couple buttons on his shirt. Carefully he placed her hands against his chest, cringing at their coldness. Inadvertently he'd laid her hands very close to his own nipples, and they contracted, sending a message downward.

  Hell, cold was supposed to suppress desire, wasn't it? Yet the fragility of her small hands and his worry combined in an emotion as powerful as his sexual drive. He wrapped his jacket around the both of them, satisfying that protective need the only way he could. How the hell he could have thought she was so strong a few minutes ago? Right then he wanted to wrap her in a cocoon and do nothing with the rest of his life except make sure she never got cold again — never wanted for anything.

  He could never provide Laura Goodman everything a woman of her station would want, though — not now. Not after his life had fallen apart. He suppressed a sigh.

  Suddenly he realized she hadn't spoken a word since he took her hands. She hadn't moved her hands, either, and she stood docile in his embrace. He pulled her a little closer, hoping she would lay her head on his chest and knowing that was the very last thing he should be wishing for. Damn, he'd just listed all sorts of reasons why they had to keep away from each other, and here he was wanting a closer embrace!

  The snow thickened even more, and he cursed himself for not paying attention to the sky and weather. They needed to get going, but he wouldn't risk one tiny finger on her fragile hands.

  "Sandy?"

  "What? Are your hands completely warmed?"

  "Almost," she whispered raggedly. "But you've got a hell of a way of making me keep my hands to myself."

  "Don't curse, Laura." He pulled her tight against him and buried his face in her hair.

  ***

  Chapter 12

  On the way back to Ladyslipper Landing, Sandy stopped Laura every mile to check her hands. If he could have gotten by with it, he'd have left her dogs out on the trail and taken her back on his sled, wrapped in the furs he carried and lying there like a helpless female. Helpless female she was not!

  He tried, though. Only when she reminded him that his stubborn arguing was allowing the storm to heighten — and that he would also have to tie her hand and foot to the sled — did he give in. She led, since she knew the trail home even blindfolded and being ahead gave her a little satisfaction. So infrequently did she get a one-up on Sandy, and his admission of her knowing the landscape better than he in the storm made up a little for her stupidity in not putting her mittens back on immediately. She'd spent twenty-one winters in the Northland. She knew darned well even days the sun made look deceptively warm could be deadly to exposed skin.

  Sandy's cabin finally came into view, lights shining from every window, then the welcoming sight of her own house and the kennels. She whoa'ed her dogs, and Sandy was beside her before she could step off the runners.

  "You go inside and get warm," he ordered. "I'll take care of your dogs today."

  "You said one of the rules — "

  " — is caring for your own dogs," he overrode her. "But I'm breaking my rule this time. Get inside."

  Suddenly something glimmered in her mind, but Laura refused to acknowledge it. Instead, that crazy hint sent her pushing past him toward the back porch. But when she reached for the doorknob, the thought hit her that she'd be leaving early in the morning, pending the storm not turning into a blizzard. She wouldn't see him again for two weeks.

  She turned. She could barely make him out through the heavy falling snow, but make him out she did. He hadn't started unharnessing the dogs yet. He stood there unmoving, and though she couldn't really see well enough to determine which direction he was looking, her senses told her that he was watching her. Snow mounded on the shoulders of his coat and hood. She should get inside, because something told her that he would stand there until he saw the door open and her pass through.

  Something else told her that he was filling his own mind with his last glimpse of her for two weeks, even though he couldn't see her clearly. Then that hint she'd tried to ignore blasted into her consciousness.

  He cared for her, more than just a casual liaison type of affection. He'd indicated that a couple hours ago out on the trail, but she'd been much too involved in fighting her own feelings to comprehend the magnitude of it. Yet there were definite reasons Sandy would never pursue his attraction to her, not the least of which was her betrothal to David. Something else held him back.

  She waved a hand, waiting a full five seconds before Sandy returned the gesture. After she went through the door, she moved over to the window on the mud porch to look out as she took off her wraps. He stood there for
another long time, then began to unharness the dogs.

  Removing her boots last, she set them on the mat inside the door and went into the kitchen. Katie waited at the table, two cups of steaming chocolate on the surface.

  "We were worried," she said. "Tracie and Cristy just left. We thought you'd be back before this — right after the snow started falling so heavily."

  "We were on our way," Laura said evasively. Katie's discerning look told her the misleading statement didn't go overlooked, but the elderly woman didn't comment as Laura sat down and gratefully reached for the hot chocolate. "Ummmmm." She licked her upper lip. "Delicious, as usual."

  "Thank you," Katie murmured. "I made some cookies, too, unless Tracie ate all of them."

  She heaved herself to her feet, and Laura let her go, since Katie would frown that deadly glare if Laura offered to get the cookies herself. While she waited, her mind wandered back to the trail.

  Perhaps Sandy hadn't realized exactly what he was saying, she mused. Or perhaps he hadn't thought her perceptive enough to realize he'd left out much more than he actually said. She was certain something unfortunate shadowed his life. He didn't appear to be the type of person who would drag his child and sister away from a good life such as they were making for themselves here in Grand Marais to the rigors of harsh, wilderness living. Not unless he had no choice.

  Katie set a plate of cookies on the table, and Laura reached for one. "Is Father home?" she asked.

  "In his study," Katie told her. "He's slowing down to half days for the holidays, like every year."

  Laura stood and picked up her cup. After a smile of thanks at Katie, she wandered out of the kitchen, down the hall to the study. But the room was empty, and she retraced her steps. She found her father in front of the huge stone fireplace in their living room, ensconced in the overstuffed chair he preferred when reading. This time he didn't have a book, however. He only sat there, relaxing, his feet on the footstool as he watched the snow fall outside the huge bay window. A cup of chocolate sat on the little table by his side.