This was not good. Michael Sands was far too intelligent not to recognize the father he’d never met but probably knew everything about. The boy did own a computer; what were the chances his curiosity hadn’t led him through the internet to Benjamin Sinclair?
Her sister had never talked about Michael’s father to him, but that hadn’t stopped the boy from asking questions. And after Kelly had left, when Michael was five, Emma had answered every one of those questions with all the care and courage she could. She hadn’t made Benjamin Sinclair out to be an ogre; she’d simply told Michael that his father had been young and confused. And yes, he was handsome; yes, he was tall; and yes, he was just as intelligent as Mikey was.
This should prove interesting, Emma decided as she watched them stare at each other. Knowing Mikey, he wouldn’t reveal that he knew who Tom Jenkins really was. And their guest seemed just as determined to keep up the charade.
His eyes intent, Mikey reached out a hand. “Welcome to Maine, Mr. Jenkins.”
Benjamin Sinclair seemed completely floored by the gesture, and took an unsteady step back, looking as if he were facing a ghost.
What? The man who could tear her family to shreds was suddenly scared?
Mikey was still holding his hand out, and what Emma saw when she looked at his face would forever stay etched in her memory. Mikey wasn’t hurt, or angry, or even surprised. He simply stepped forward, picked up Ben’s hand, and moved it over his shoulder as he reached around his father’s waist to give him support.
“You’re a bit of a mess, Mr. Jenkins. And my aunt is right about your needing to see a doctor. Come on. I’ll help you into the plane. Go get his stuff from the truck, Nem. I’ve got him now.”
Emma realized she had also taken a step back, her mind numb and her heart breaking at the sight of the only person in the world she loved gently coming to the aid of the one person who could destroy her.
They were finally back at Medicine Creek Camps, with their guest tucked into one of the downstairs bedrooms of her home, drugged to his eyeballs with painkillers. Michael was in the Cessna cleaning up after their bloody passenger, and Emma was stretched out in her recliner with a frosted bottle of beer in her hand and a hot washcloth draped over her eyes.
For a man of few words, her battered guest sure could find choice ones when he wanted—which they had learned when Michael had removed Alice from the plane. Benjamin had cursed their ears red upon discovering that Mikey’s copilot was an old store mannequin with a hat and wig and aviator glasses. He’d then demanded to know what kind of person put a kid in the unthinkable position of landing on a spit of water so small it made aircraft carrier decks huge by comparison.
Michael, bless the boy’s heart, had calmly told Ben that Crazy Larry kept trying to report him to the FAA before he could turn sixteen and get his license. To that Ben had said—quite colorfully—they should both be turned in to Child Welfare. Emma had finally ended his little snit by poking the angry man in the back with her shotgun. He had gotten into the passenger seat, silent but fiercely glaring.
Alice was now floating facedown in Smokey Bog, where Ben had thrown her.
So much for her reputation. Not that the sporting camps couldn’t weather a few critics, but Emma took pride in their business, which she and Mikey had pulled out of drowning red ink. Though still very young herself, Emma had talked her sister into buying Medicine Creek Lodge with the insurance money from their father’s death. She and Kelly had run the lodge and camps together until Kelly had suddenly left Emma with the sizable mortgage and a five-year-old boy to raise.
Michael had been born an ancient in a baby’s body, looking wiser than God. Thankfully he had been a good baby—sleeping when he should, walking when he should, and talking their ears off with precocious babble. By the time Mikey was five, Emma had wondered if he would be going to school or teaching it.
There wasn’t anything the boy couldn’t do. Emma figured he’d be ruling the world by the time he was thirty. There was such a calmness about Michael, a gift of understanding and insight so deep, she was in awe—when she wasn’t intimidated.
She had finally stopped being amazed by the time Michael turned ten, and had learned to accept the fact that she was living with an old man. If she had somehow become the head of the family, Michael had become the godfather.
Now fifteen, Mikey was only allowing her to hold on to the fantasy that she was in charge. He had picked up the habit of giving her orders every now and then—usually when she was tired or frustrated or at loose ends. And like a good aunt, she always listened to him, allowing herself to be bullied or taken care of, whichever she needed at the time.
Emma pulled the washcloth off her eyes and took another sip of her beer when she heard the back door slam shut.
“He finally sleeping?” Mikey asked as he walked into the living room.
Emma carefully folded the washcloth as she watched him silently pad across the room to loom over her, his six-foot frame lanky yet graceful. “Our patient’s sleeping like a lamb.”
Michael snorted. “A lamb with fangs. I thought you were going to wash his mouth out back on Smokey Bog.”
“Get his claw marks out of the dashboard?”
“Jeez, Nem. You’d think a grown man could handle a little excitement without sweating bullets. It was close, but you got us airborne in one piece.”
“He had just survived a savage beating, and didn’t want to find himself decorating a pine tree forty feet up.”
Michael grinned. “You only clipped a small branch.” He suddenly frowned at her washcloth. “Another headache?”
“No. Just relaxing. Is everyone settled in their cabins for the night?”
He nodded. “Cabin three wants to head out again at first light. Apparently their little swim today didn’t discourage them.” He gave her a deceptively innocent, expectant look. “I could take the day off from school to guide our bird hunters in cabin five. Someone should stay around and keep an eye on Mr. Jenkins, and since I might be corrupted by his vocabulary, you should probably play nursemaid.”
Emma shook her head. “No skipping school. And if I stay in this house with that wounded … bear, I’m liable to kill him. Besides, I just called and arranged for Durham to guide cabin five tomorrow. Maybe working for me will keep him out of trouble.”
“I can’t believe this clear-cutting thing has escalated to violence. There are better ways to resolve the issue. Those men could have really hurt Mr. Jenkins.”
“Three cracked ribs, a concussion, and a wrenched knee is not fun.”
Michael started putting together a fire in the hearth. His back to her, he asked, “Does Mr. Jenkins look familiar to you, Nem?”
“Why?”
The boy shrugged and struck a match to his work. “No reason. I just wondered if maybe he’s been here before.”
“I can safely say that Medicine Creek Camps has never had the pleasure of his company.”
“You gonna keep him here in the lodge?”
“For a while. Any problem with that?”
He added logs to the crackling pine. “No problem. But you’re too busy as it is. And with me in school, you’re all alone, running in every direction and trying to please every sport who wants to shoot a few birds.” He searched her face, concern in his eyes. “Moose season starts next week.”
Emma threw her washcloth at him and stood up. “Then it’s time you helped me get an orange ribbon around Pitiful’s neck.”
He caught the cloth with ease and also stood up. “I am not going near that stupid beast. A well-placed bullet would be a blessing. He’ll never make it through the winter, Nem.”
“Sure he will. Pitiful’s not stupid.”
“No? That fool is in love with you. A two-year-old moose should know the difference between a woman and a cow moose. He’s missing some rooms upstairs, Nemmy.”
“I think he was grazed by a hunter’s bullet last fall. That’s why his right antler hasn’t grown back this year,” s
he explained in defense of her pet.
“I think he walked into the side of a logging truck. Face it, Nem, he’s becoming a pest. He trashes the garbage cans and keeps trying to get in the kitchen.”
“He likes my cooking.”
“And he swamped one of the boats yesterday. He was trying to climb in it!”
“We have to look out for the dumb ones, Mikey. I’ll make him a cake of oats and molasses, and you can tie the ribbon around his neck while he’s eating it.”
Emma left her nephew contemplating that delightful chore, and went to check on her guest before she turned in for the night. Benjamin Sinclair had made a tangle of his blankets and kicked them to the side, barely keeping himself decent.
For a city-sport, the man was amazingly fit. His deep-barreled chest was darkened with bruises that would have killed a lesser man. Emma quietly leaned over and pulled the covers up to his chin. She carefully brushed his hair back from his forehead, feeling for fever as she exposed a bandage over his left brow.
Welcome to Medicine Creek, Sinclair. Have we given you all the adventure we promised?
She straightened and turned to crack the window beside his bed, letting in the pine-scented autumn air, hoping the slight chill would help keep his covers in place. The full moon was shining starkly, drawing a runway on the lake, just like when they had landed two hours ago. That had been another first for her guest, and one he’d argued against. But again, Michael had calmly told him not to worry, that his aunt had been making night landings on moonlit lakes for years.
The lights in cabin three winked out. Emma leaned her head on the glass, breathed in the smell of what had been her personal heaven for the last fifteen years, and wondered how heavenly Medicine Creek Camps would be without Michael.
Even if Ben didn’t take him away to start the new life he was entitled to, Mikey would be going to college, and then on to bigger and better things. And she would be right here, ready to push him or pull him in the right direction—waiting for him to return a grown man.
The wheels of change had begun turning today.
“Why does the boy call you Nemmy?”
Emma didn’t turn around, unwilling to let him see her tears. “Because when he was a two-year-old he found Aunt Emma too big of a mouthful. He shortened it to Nemmy and it stuck. I hope that’s what he writes on my tombstone.”
“Where’s his mother?”
“Gone.”
“And his father?”
“I hope he’s dead.”
There was a moment’s silence. “You’re raising him all by yourself?”
She turned to face the bed. “No, Mr. Jenkins. Michael has been raising me.”
“He’s a remarkable boy.”
“There is nothing boylike about Michael, Mr. Jenkins. He’s older than all of us put together, most of the time. Don’t ever make the mistake of underestimating my nephew, if you want his respect.”
“You clearly have it.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, and it took me many frustrating years to get it. Have you ever tried urging an infant to crawl when he’s determined to walk instead? Or tried to explain to a five-year-old why he has to go to school to learn finger painting when he wants to learn how airplanes stay up? Or tried to tell a seven-year-old with a genius IQ that being a tree in a school play is a noble pursuit?”
“No.”
“Then you should try telling a fourteen-year-old that he can’t drive to town for supplies, or fly sports up from Bangor when we’re shorthanded. Or try to comfort a grieving child when his mother leaves when he’s too busy trying to comfort you instead. I gained Michael’s respect by never, ever underestimating him.”
“I’ll remember that, Miss Sands.”
Emma walked to the door of the bedroom and looked back at the bed. “Be sure that you do, Mr. Jenkins.”
Ben sat at the expansive kitchen table and watched Michael move around the kitchen until the boy eventually came to sit across from him. “Where did Medicine Creek Camps get its name?” Ben asked into the silence.
“From the mist that sometimes rises off the creek in winter, when it should be frozen tighter than Pluto.”
“There are hot springs here?”
“There might have been at one time. Now the creek just runs unusually warm, fed by springs deep in the granite. Medicine Gore was settled by some Swedes back in the early eighteen hundreds. Apparently the creek ran even warmer back then.”
“Ever see these springs?”
Michael took a bear-size bite of his sandwich, chewed slowly, then washed it down with half a glass of milk. “They’re contrary wonders, only active when the mood strikes them. Nemmy took me to the headwaters of Medicine Creek once.” He looked at Ben with unreadable, assessing gray eyes. “I was about eight.” He shrugged again and raised his sandwich back to his mouth. “Maine doesn’t really have any geothermal activity,” he said just before he took another bite.
Ben waited until the whole sandwich was gone before he asked his next question. “Who built the lodge?”
Michael got up and went to the fridge, pulled out a bucket of ice cream, and put it on the counter. Then he got down two bowls from the cupboard and began to spoon a mountain of ice cream into each of them.
“Local tribes would come here and soak in the creek in winter, believing the mist held great medicine. That’s probably why the settlers built this old lodge here.” He gave Ben a cocky grin. “To lure city folks with tales of healing powers.”
Michael returned to the table with the two heaping bowls, spoons stuck in them like chimneys. He slid one in front of Ben and sat down with the other one. “Eat, Mr. Jenkins. The ice cream will feel good on your mouth. It’ll help the swelling.”
Ben stared at the bowl in front of him, wondering what small nation he could hire to help him eat it. “So your aunt bought the lodge and built the new cabins?”
“My aunt and my mother.”
The boy filled his mouth with a huge spoonful of ice cream. Ben wasn’t ready to go down the path of Michael’s mother yet, so he picked up his spoon and dug into his own monstrous bowl. And it did feel good rolling around in his mouth and sliding down his throat.
Between silent bites, Ben looked around the huge kitchen. Everything was aging but as neat as a hospital. There was a polished old wood-burning cookstove backing the great room, its pipe going into a massive wall of stone separating the rooms. There were yards and yards of countertops, worn patternless in places and chipped in others. A sink big enough to bathe a cow in sat under a bank of windows that looked out on Medicine Lake, making the water and nearest mountains appear almost touchable. And on the windowsill over the sink, running in each direction, was an eclectic assortment of rocks, moss, gnarled twigs, and Mason jars full of sand and broken glass and pebbles.
The old but obviously well-maintained lodge was more of a home than an inn, and a child’s gifts brought in from the wild had been lovingly kept and displayed.
Michael had arrived home from school less than an hour ago. He had built a small fire in the cookstove, and then he had begun the task of filling his tall growing frame with food. He hadn’t stopped eating since Ben had limped in and sat down.
“Your aunt doesn’t make dinner?”
He had to wait for Michael to swallow. “Sometimes. Usually I cook supper.” The boy suddenly smiled, as if he were comforting a worried child. “We’ll eat in about an hour, Mr. Jenkins. Nem usually forgets to have lunch, so she’ll be as hungry as a bear. I hope you like venison.”
Ben didn’t know which bothered him more—that Michael was expected to look after himself or that the boy took it upon himself to look after Emma. He should be playing football after school, not cooking dinner. Or he should be on the phone making plans with friends, not making meaningless small talk with a stranger.
“You got many friends around here?”
Michael gave Ben a look that said he was nearing a no-trespassing line. He pushed himself away from the table, unbuttoned h
is cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, then picked up his empty bowl and Ben’s half-full one. He took them to the sink and started filling it with warm soapy water.
“I’ve made friends of sports from all over the world,” he finally said, his back to Ben. “I still write to many of them. I’ve been invited to Germany next summer to stay with a family that vacationed here this past summer.”
“You going?”
“No. Not without Nemmy.” He turned and pierced Ben with serious eyes. “My aunt is all that’s important to me, Mr. Jenkins. I would give my life to protect her, and my soul to see her happy.”
Where in hell had that come from?
“Is this your standard warning to all male … sports?”
Michael shot him another serious look, then turned back to the sink and shut off the water. “Not all of them. Just the potentially dangerous ones.”
“You think I’m a danger to your aunt?” Ben couldn’t believe this. He might be a danger, all right, though not in the way Michael was suggesting. But how had the boy sensed anything at all?
“Yeah, I think you are, Mr. Jenkins. But I don’t think you realize just how much.”
Ben stood up, limped to the woodstove, and held his hands over the firebox. It had suddenly grown downright chilly in the kitchen.
Emma Sands was a beautiful woman, if a man liked glowing health and energy. And if he liked straightforwardness and courage, well, she fit that bill, too. The woman possessed nerves of steel. Hadn’t she pulled a loaded plane off a puddle of water last night only to land it on a darkened lake? A person wasn’t born knowing how to fly like that. Ben might have been scared as hell, but he had also been damned impressed.
So, how was he a threat to Emma Sands?
A sexual threat?
She had fit rather nicely under his arm for their trek to the truck yesterday. She had smelled like the forest, and gunpowder, and some animal he couldn’t identify. But that hadn’t stopped him from wondering what she would do if he took that shotgun out of her hand and kissed her.
Ben had marked the bizarre thought down to distracting himself from the pain. But he hadn’t been in much pain last night, when she’d come to his room and set her gentle hand on his forehead. She’d smelled all fresh and delicious when she’d leaned over and touched him, awakening more than just his mind.
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