Which is why he’d silently watched her, and wondered at the strange mood she seemed to be in. She had appeared almost … sad.
Though he’d intended to hate the woman, Ben’s instinct last night had been to comfort her, to make the sadness go away. He’d also wanted her to realize she was in a nearly naked man’s room, and that it was dark and cold outside, and warm and welcoming in his bed.
Dammit. He didn’t want to be attracted to someone who had stolen so much from him. To someone who, in her own words, hoped he was dead. But Michael was his son, and he wasn’t about to let a foolish bit of lust mess things up.
“You two didn’t cross swords today, did you?” Michael asked from beside Ben, his eyes nearly level with his.
He must have been scowling rather fiercely, Ben realized, because the boy’s stance was defensive. “No. It’s hard to fight with a shadow. I heard the plane take off and return once, and a truck come and go several times, but I was left to my own devices today.”
Michael continued to look at him thoughtfully. Suddenly he gave Ben a crooked grin. “I imagine that was wise of her. Wounded animals aren’t always kind to their rescuer.”
The boy then turned and walked out of the room, apparently no more worried than Emma about abandoning him. Not that Ben had minded being alone in the house all day. He had spent most of the time in Michael’s room, just sitting and looking around, wondering about the boy-child who was a stranger to him in some ways and so much like him in others.
Emma Sands was right. Michael was very old for his age—an enigma of youth and confidence and calmness. He had an ability to see past a person’s surface, and he had a teenager’s appetite. The boy was tall for his age, with dark brown hair in need of a barber and a peach-fuzz beard lightly shadowing his face.
It had been Emma, not Ben, who had given Michael his first razor. It had been his aunt, not his father, who had probably already talked to Michael about girls and safe sex and the wonder of young relationships. And it was Emma who was in the boy’s heart now.
It was hell, being so close to his son and not being able to touch him. Not being able to explain that he would have come for the boy the moment he’d known about him, or that he would have married his mother sixteen years ago. He would have made things different if he could have.
Ben shuffled back to his room, resolved to find a way to become part of Michael’s life. He would have to stifle any urge to punish Emma, or to find Kelly and punish her. He realized now how foolish he’d been to think he could have both his son and revenge. Sam was right. A boy doesn’t live with a woman for fifteen years and then walk away to a new life and new father, leaving that woman behind. Nor would he stop loving a mother just because she abandoned him. Michael had been only five at the time, but he would remember Kelly with the love of a child.
Which meant that Ben would have to be very careful how he went about claiming Michael without alienating him.
Over the next week, Ben had plenty of time to dwell on his course of action. He was left alone to heal as well as explore the grounds of Medicine Creek Camps. Michael was in school by day, and studying or cooking or repairing a contrary generator at night. Emma had three of her six cabins rented, and when she wasn’t guiding sports she was busy getting ready for moose season, which started next Monday. Ben became a silent, forgotten fixture as he slowly healed and, unsurprisingly, fell in love with his son.
He also became uncomfortably aware of Emma’s multiple attractions. He actually found his pants getting tight whenever she strutted away from him, her long legs clad in worn, form-fitting jeans that hugged a decidedly luscious bottom. And he couldn’t wait for each night, when she came to his room and opened his window, felt his forehead for fever, and covered him up to his chin. He didn’t speak to her again after that first night, lying there with his eyes closed and his conscience wrestling between anger and lust.
It was a long week.
Chapter Three
“Son of a bitch!”
Emma heard an animal’s loud snort, and knew Benjamin Sinclair had just met Pitiful. She shoved her homing pigeon back in the coop and started running for the front of the house. If Pitiful got playful Ben would be right back in bed, this time with more than just a few cracked ribs.
There was a loud crash, another curse, and the sound of pounding hooves just as Emma rounded the corner of the house and barreled straight into Benjamin Sinclair. The man didn’t even break stride. He simply tucked her under his arm and ran for the closest cover, which turned out to be the toolshed.
Bouncing like a sack of grain, Emma began to understand what cracked ribs actually felt like. She lost her breath completely when she was tossed against the inside wall of the shed and suddenly plunged into darkness. Her rescuer’s yelled curses were now just muttered expletives, no less colorful for their lack of volume.
Emma didn’t ask if he had rehurt his ribs, figuring it was hard to pant and curse and talk at the same time. The toolshed suddenly shuddered as if a truck had rammed it, and loud panting came from the other side of the door.
“There is a deranged moose out there, Miss Sands. It only has one antler, and it’s got a huge orange bow tied around its neck. It charged at me just as I was stepping off the back porch.”
The shed door shuddered again. Ben stepped back and pinned her against a rusty old water tank, apparently trying to protect her from harm.
Emma felt like laughing, but didn’t dare. Lord, he was big. And warm. He even smelled nice, too. Thank God it was dark in the shed. His broad shoulders blocked any light that might reach her blushing face. Medicine Creek was getting warmer by the minute.
“That’s just Pitiful, Mr. Jenkins.”
His eyes caught the light from the dusty window as he looked at her with consternation. “I know. I was just minding my business when this animal ran out of the woods like a maniac. It was bellowing at the top of its lungs, its eyes rolling back in its head, that orange bow flapping like a cape.”
“It’s Pitiful.”
“I know that! It must have tick fever or something. We’ve got to shoot it.”
Emma snorted in an attempt to stifle a laugh. “No, Mr. Jenkins. That’s my pet moose, who’s named Pitiful.”
He looked at her as if she were the deranged one, then suddenly cursed again.
The shed vibrated with another bang and Ben snapped his head toward the door. The latch was failing. He looked around, then suddenly lifted her onto the water tank as if she were a sack of feathers.
“Crawl to the back of the shed,” he said, reaching for a broken oar leaning against the wall. “If he gets in here, he could kill us with that antler.”
Emma doubled over in laughter.
“Goddammit! Don’t get hysterical on me! If that crazy beast gets in here, you crawl out the window. Emma!”
She instantly sobered when she saw he might try to shake some sense into her. She opened her mouth to explain, but the shed door finally caved in, splintering the casing and ripping the door off its hinges. Ben swung around with his weapon raised, putting himself between her and danger.
Emma jerked the oar from his hands and threw it to the back of the shed.
“What the—”
“Pitiful! You bad boy! Stop that!”
The startled moose cocked his head to the side, looking at them from only one eye, then let out a bellow that shook the rafters.
Emma shoved at her rescuer’s back and jumped off the water tank. “Pitiful! You stop that hollering this minute. Now get out of here, you silly bull. Go on. Get!”
If ever a moose could look contrite, with an orange bow around its neck and one heavy antler tilting its head, Pitiful looked sorrier than a kid caught raiding the cookie jar. Startled to have her scolding him, he took a step back, shook his head, then bolted for the forest. Clods of muddy earth spewed up behind him, showering the shed and slapping Ben smack in the middle of his heaving chest.
Emma silently peeled the dirt off his expensive
canvas shirt. Darting a curious look at his face, she quickly snapped her eyes back down and industriously began to brush at the mud that was left, fighting to keep her shoulders from shaking and her giggles from bursting free.
She lost the battle. The picture of his wild tangle of dark brown hair, his cheeks crimson, and his eyes widened in shock was indelibly burned into her brain. A giggle erupted before she could catch it.
Then the broken door slammed shut and she found herself pressed between it and a hard, unyielding chest.
It seemed Benjamin Sinclair was not amused.
“I just lost ten years of my life, and you think it’s funny?”
Emma frantically shook her head, not raising her eyes above his chest, which vibrated like a deep-rooted oak weathering a gale. Two large hands came to rest on her shoulders, their thumbs nearly touching across her throat.
“That’s good. Because I don’t see anything funny about nearly getting killed by a deranged moose.” He used his thumbs to raise her chin. “Do you?”
Emma finally found the nerve to lift her gaze and immediately wished she hadn’t. Benjamin Sinclair sure as hell wasn’t in shock now. His eyes were narrowed, and his jaw could probably chisel stone.
The sound of crashing branches and a pitiful wail came from the forest.
A loud, exasperated sigh blew over her head, all but parting her hair.
“Look at me.”
She didn’t want to, but those two thumbs became insistent. Emma looked up again … into the eyes of a man whose agenda had suddenly changed.
“Don’t, Mr. Jenkins.”
His mouth descended as if she hadn’t spoken. His lips, which had looked so hard a minute ago, softly touched hers. His hands shifted to cup her head, holding her just firmly enough to deepen the kiss. Then he tilted her head back and used those so-handy thumbs to open her mouth and invade it with his tongue.
Warmth. Unholy heat. Emma’s knees went weak and she grabbed his shirt, steadying herself against his salacious assault. Her world began spinning, a charge of sensuous energy suddenly filling the shed. Damn, the man could kiss. Every nerve touched by him, from her knees to her hair, crackled to life as Emma fought to contain the passion building inside her.
He came here to steal my nephew.
He is huge and scary and not the least bit nice.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, going on tiptoe, turning her head and touching her tongue to his.
Pitiful bellowed again, the mournful sound pulling Emma back to reality. She tore her mouth free and rested her forehead on Ben’s throat, her eyes closed and her heart pounding so violently her ribs hurt. “Don’t, Ben,” she pleaded.
Every muscle in his body went rigid. His breathing suspended and Emma felt his own heart pounding with enough force to bruise her.
“What did you just call me?”
She looked up, meeting his gunmetal stare. “Ben. Michael’s father. The man who’s come to take my nephew away.”
She was suddenly back up against the shed wall, all signs of passion completely gone. “How long have you known?”
“Since I found you on the logging road.”
His hands went back to her shoulders, and those damn thumbs lifted her chin again. “Does Michael know?”
“Probably.”
He slammed a fist into the wall over her head, shuddering the entire building. She closed her eyes when that hand returned, this time wrapping ever so securely around her throat.
“My son was stolen from me fifteen years ago—and you, Miss Sands, are directly responsible for the last ten of them. Tell me why I shouldn’t hate you.”
“Because that would take your son from you forever, Mr. Sinclair.”
He pushed away from her, kicked the water tank, and spun back to face her. “Why didn’t you try to find me when Kelly left?”
“Because Michael wasn’t ready to know you yet. He was only five. Did you expect me to introduce a child to a father who had abandoned him before birth when he’d just been abandoned by his mother? Michael needed stability. He needed me.”
“I didn’t abandon him. I never knew about Michael! I never knew Kelly was pregnant! Why didn’t you contact me later?”
Emma just stared at him.
“Dammit! Who the hell do you think you are, playing God with my life!”
“Your identity has never been kept from him. I expected Michael to look you up himself, once he was grown. The decision is his, not mine.”
Emma turned and opened the door, then looked back. “I don’t know if I believe you. Kelly said she told you she was pregnant, and that you didn’t seem all that concerned. But I do know you have a wonderful, very precious son, Mr. Sinclair. And if you ever do anything to hurt Michael, I will hunt you down and kill you.”
It took every ounce of courage Ben possessed to walk into the kitchen that evening. He nearly faltered when he saw there were only two places set at the table, and that Michael was sitting at one of them.
The boy knew who he was. Maybe. Probably, Emma had said. Michael had probably known all along that the bastard who’d seduced his mother and then walked away sixteen years ago had sat across the table from him every day for the last seven days.
How had he done it? How did a fifteen-year-old boy look a father he had never seen before in the eye, and talk to him about the history of his home, his problems with a generator, his schoolwork, and the weather? Everyday things. Meaningless, casual conversation.
“Your aunt’s not joining us tonight?”
“Nemmy’s away.”
Ben stood behind his chair and looked at his son. “But her truck’s still here. So’s the plane.”
The boy stared back at him, his eyes a calm gray ocean of unreadable depth. “She’s gone into the woods.” He took Ben’s plate to the stove and filled it.
Ben pulled out his chair and sat down. “What does that mean, she’s gone into the woods?”
Michael set a plate of stew and dumplings in front of him. “It means she’s troubled.” He sat down and picked up his fork, resting his arms on the table, looking at Ben with still calm but questioning regard. “Do you happen to know what could be troubling her, Mr. Sinclair?”
Ben picked up his fork. “She told you who I am.”
“No. I’ve known since you walked up to me at Smokey Bog.”
Ben snapped his gaze to Michael’s. “Then why the pretense all week? Why didn’t you say something?”
“You chose to come here under another name. It was your move.”
Ben took a deep breath and blew out a heavy sigh. “Only once I got here I couldn’t decide how to make that move. I didn’t know how to walk up to you and say, ‘Hi, I’m your father.’” He shrugged. “I still don’t know what to say to you.”
A slight grin crept into the corners of Michael’s mouth as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “You could have said how glad you were to finally meet me.”
Well, hell. It seemed this boy—this man-child—didn’t resent him, but simply was glad to meet his father. “You sent me that letter.”
“What letter?”
Well, someone had sent that damn letter. “About a month ago a letter was sent to me, unsigned, from Medicine Gore. All it said was that I had a son, and that I should … I should come meet him.”
“So you came.”
“I’d have come sooner if I’d known about you.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I never would have left if I’d known about you.”
“I didn’t send it.”
“Would your aunt have?”
Michael drove his fork into his stew. “Nope. Not Nem. She hates your guts.”
“So I gathered. Mike, do you believe me? That I didn’t abandon you?”
The boy shrugged as he took another bite. “Probably, knowing Kelly. She could be … self-serving sometimes.”
Which was why Ben had eventually been relieved when Kelly had turned him down sixteen years ago, when he’d asked
her to come home to New York with him.
“Could Kelly have sent me the letter?”
The boy looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “Not likely. My mother hasn’t been heard from in over ten years. And you said it was postmarked Medicine Gore.” He looked toward the bank of windows over the sink, seeming to take stock of all the gifts adorning them. Ben saw a shadow of pain move over his face before he turned back. “Nem must have sent it.”
“But why? She loves you. She wouldn’t want to risk your leaving with me.”
“Because she does love me. Because this clear-cutting war scares the hell out of her. She would do anything to make sure I’m safe.”
Ben lowered his gaze. “I know about Emma’s father.” He looked back at his son. “Your grandfather was killed just before you were born.”
Michael stared directly into Ben’s eyes. “Someone blew up the dam the paper company was building. Grampy Sands got caught in the flood.”
Ben nodded. “It happened the day I left.”
“Yup. The very same day you disappeared.”
As he stared into his own young eyes, Ben suddenly realized what Mike was implying. “You think I had something to do with that dam blowing up?” He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus. You and Emma and Kelly believe I’m responsible for Charlie Sands’s death?”
“The whole town thinks you’re responsible.”
“Good God.”
“I’d keep the beard and a low profile if I were you.”
“I didn’t do it. I didn’t blow up that dam!”
“Well, the loggers sure as heck didn’t.”
“Neither did the environmentalists. That would have been counterproductive. The flood would have damaged the very land we were trying to save.”
Ben stood up and stalked to the counter, leaning his hands on the sink and looking out the window. There was nothing but darkness outside and the reflection of the kitchen staring back at him. He could see Michael sitting in his chair, his back to Ben, his arms resting on the table. He spoke again, not turning. “Mike. I swear to you, I didn’t blow up that dam. And I would have known if anything like that was being planned.”
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