A Promise of Fireflies

by Susan Haught

  “Fairy tales can also be mythical horror stories that would give Stephen King nightmares.” She chose the corner of the sofa and drew her legs under her.

  “Indeed,” he said. “I take it you’re a King fan?”

  “No one knows the human psyche better than the Master of Horror.”

  A sly smile lifted one side of his mouth and he nodded at the book in her hands. “Do you know Dickinson’s work?”

  “Packs a walloping message in a short verse.”

  “She writes from within. Favored her solitude,” he said.

  “I can relate to that.”

  Logan’s gaze remained fixed on her, and then he glanced away to check his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, the horses need tending.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you from your duties.”

  “It’s early, but night falls quickly here and the snow is accumulating faster than I expected. I must see to feeding the horses.”

  Ryleigh nodded.

  Logan slipped past her and disappeared through double doors at the far end of the Reading Room. For some time, she wondered where the doors led, and her eyes remained fixed on them. His imprint lingered there, a tall, masculine frame and handsome face revealing nothing but echoes of something much more intense beneath the calm demeanor. Emily Dickinson slipped from her grip and fell open in her lap, marked by some invisible bookmark. “‘I Shall Know Why—When Time is Over—,’” she read the title quietly. The poem was short, yet the despair settled heavily on her heart.

  She flipped the page. Tucked neatly into the binding was a torn paper, lines handwritten in a fluid, distinguished script, but she didn’t recognize the words. She read the poem, “Along the Road” twice, the weight of grief buried in each line.

  In poetry and in music, Ryleigh believed something of yourself lay hidden in the words. Were these Logan’s trademark poems? Ones he visited often to seek solace? Or remembrance? From what?

  Logan returned minutes later in a heavy zippered sweatshirt, the Yale logo worn and faded. He crossed the room in wool socks and tossed a down jacket across the sofa, snow boots in one hand, scarf draped across the other.

  “Snow’s accumulating quickly, Cabin Number Three,” he said, taking a seat to lace his Sorels. “We should see about returning you to your cabin.”

  “You know my name now, Mr. Cavanaugh. You can use it.”

  “The nickname suits you,” he said, adjusting the lining in his boot. “And it’s Logan, since we’re on a first-name basis.”

  “I suppose a nickname could be considered a first name,” she said with little regard to keeping the comment to herself.

  Logan hesitated lacing his boots and the subtlety of a half-smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Did you find something from Dickinson you enjoy?”

  “Not really.” She shrugged. “The one about time being over seemed a bit morose.”

  “I see.” Resting his arms on his thighs, he looked up from fully laced boots, and the intensity of his deep brown eyes seemed to burrow through hers. “And I see you’ve read Hamilton’s work as well.” He nodded at the paper she’d quite forgotten she held between her fingers.

  “Ditto on the morose bit.”

  His jaw muscles tensed. Long fingers parted a thick tangle of hair as he raked a hand through a hint of easy curls lightly dusted with silver at the temples. They gently kissed his collar, glinting in the firelight when he moved just so. “You’ll understand the true meaning of happiness when you’ve walked in sorrow’s shoes,” he said.

  His voice was infused with a sedate undertone that suggested his own what? Sorrow? Regret? Confusion? An understanding sigh tugged at her heart. “I thought maybe you wrote it.”

  “Robert Browning Hamilton,” he said in the same monotone. “I enjoy reading the written word in most any shape and form, but I leave the writing of literature to people like you.”

  Ryleigh leaned into her palm. “Rose exaggerates.”

  “Surely not our Rose,” he said with the suggestion of a smirk. Logan stood. “You should return to your cabin.”

  Without regard for the sudden urge to disconnect from the close proximity of this intriguing man, she leapt into a capricious moment of impulse. “Need help with the horses?”

  Logan momentarily froze. “You aren’t quite dressed for the occasion, Cabin Number Three,” he said, surveying her inadequate attire.

  “I’ll be fine. May I tag along?”

  He rested his hands on his hips. “Put your boots on.” He waited while she untangled her legs and pulled a boot over thick socks. “Penguins?”

  Ryleigh wiggled her toes. “I have a thing for penguins.” In truth, the little birds with Santa hats were the closest thing to Christmas festivities as she’d come this year.

  “I’ll save you a pebble.”

  “A pebble?”

  Logan smiled. “Gather your things,” he said and helped her to her feet. “We’ll drop them at your cabin.”

  Without Rose’s boisterous voice directing the constant flow of foot traffic, the resort had taken on an eerie quiet. The skies had turned a muddied gray, though sunset was still an hour away. Logan escorted her through the lobby and out the side doors. Snow fell relentlessly. “Better button up.” Logan zipped his coat. “We’re taking the snowmobiles.”

  She hesitated, and then hurried to keep up with his long strides. “We’re not walking?”

  “The Cats will be faster.”

  The idea was more than daunting. Exciting yes, but she knew nothing about snowmobiles or the man taking the controls and even less about his concern for safety—or lack of it. But Rose obviously trusted him. And Nat trusted Rose. She shrugged, tucked the messenger bag over her shoulder, and pulled on her gloves. As long as it was snowing, it couldn’t be too terribly cold and the horses weren’t far from her cabin. Were they? She swallowed an urge to recall the impulsive request.

  A half-empty garage housed the Arctic Cats. Logan grabbed two helmets from a nearby shelf, pulled one over his head, and handed her a pink one. He settled into the seat of the nearest snowmobile, stretched his fingers into driving gloves, and turned the key. The engine purred. Grumbling, she pulled the helmet over her head and Logan motioned for her to sit behind him. Cold pierced through her jeans and then she could have kissed whoever invented heated seats, but wanted to stuff whoever invented helmets into the nearest snowbank.

  “I’m ready.” She looked around for handholds. “I think.” She drew in a breath and hesitantly reached around his waist.

  “Hang on.”

  The vehicle lurched into the storm and she tucked her head into his back to avoid the wind stinging every millimeter of exposed skin.

  Barely a minute had passed when they pulled up to her cabin. Ryleigh jumped off and took only a second inside to drop off the computer and pull a knitted hat over her ears. When she returned to Logan, she tucked her scarf inside her coat and pulled the helmet back over her head. She straddled the seat and scooted next to Logan to block the cold. “Go, go, go!” A minute and a half and she was already a pro.

  “Careful what you wish for.”

  Logan maneuvered the Arctic Cat slowly, gaining speed as he turned to cross over Fall River and follow the path to the barn. Rounding a tight curve, he eased off the gas and drove into the forest.

  Ryleigh stiffened, a trickle of panic seeping through the exhilaration. “Where are we going?” The whine of the engine muffled the bubble of apprehension in her voice.

  “You’ll see,” he called back.

  “Surprises,” she grumbled. “Why can’t people leave them to those who enjoy being sucker punched?” What words weren’t lost in the faceplate of the helmet drowned in the drone of the engine.

  The Cat skied effortlessly over the pristine landscape and careened around a cluster of aspens. Logan drove parallel to the edge of a shallow ravine and cut the engine. The air stilled and the earth held its breath. But life echoed all around them.

  Tree limbs g
roaned beneath the weight of the snow. A flutter of wings dislodged a branch of snow that fell to the ground in a muffled thump. The lonesome bugle of a bull elk echoed through the canyon and Ryleigh leaned forward in the direction of the sound.

  A herd of Rocky Mountain elk passed below the cliffs, their scruffy brown coats a vivid contrast against the white landscape. Snow rose in powdery clouds with each forward lunge, and vapor billowed from their nostrils as they passed in single file.

  Ryleigh eased herself up, her weight teetering to one side to get a better view. “They’re magnificent,” she said with an airy whisper. She placed both hands on his shoulders and leaned into him, the breadth of him next to her as solid an anchor as the earth beneath her. “The view. It’s incredible.”

  “Incredible doesn’t come close to describing it, but the sun’s not long on the horizon. We have to go. Ready?”

  Ryleigh reseated herself and grabbed his waist. “Go!”

  LOGAN RESTARTED THE engine and turned the Cat back toward the barn. More incredible than the scene playing out before his eyes was the feeling coursing through him as Ryleigh braced herself against him. Logan’s senses churned, acutely aware of her body against him and her arms wrapped firmly around his waist. Despite his best efforts to toss the errant thoughts to the wind, he couldn’t deny the sensation was pleasant, yet felt deceitfully wrong.

  Right or wrong, he couldn’t shake it, nor could he name it. The desolation he’d grown to accept as armor against the realities of a neatly packaged world wavered and then slipped. Even breathing could shatter what he’d only begun to feel. Disturbing the moment seemed inconceivable. But he dare not linger. Not here. Not ever. The horses needed tending.

  Logan blew out a misty breath, and regained the upper hand of a careless rout of emotions, but resisted the urge to confess the handholds were below her.

  Though the accumulating snow had nearly covered their tracks, Logan followed the trail without fault to the main road. Once back on course, he zigzagged around the clearing that surrounded the barn, the blinding snow a cool balm against the intrusion of misguided thoughts. Ryleigh’s grip tightened, her laughter clear, her words a gentle sigh. He pulled to the barn doors, stepped off the Cat, and removed his helmet.

  “This is crazy cool!” She grinned and removed the helmet, cheeks flushed from the cold air. “Can we go again sometime?”

  “After the storm,” he said, extending his hand to her. “The Rockies are breathtaking. Winter or summer.”

  RYLEIGH TUCKED HER hand securely in his and swung her leg over the Arctic Cat. Joy creased the corners of Logan’s eyes, and they came alive as if the snowstorm had chiseled away some tiny piece of collateral damage.

  He grasped her gloved hand, his grip a firm comfort to unsteady feet. “Watch your step. Ice forms under the snow here and it’s—”

  “Whoops!” Ryleigh’s foot shot out from under her and she fell backward into the snow. Unable to break the fall, Logan slipped and fell beside her. Icy snow sneaked under the backside of her jacket and she inhaled sharply an instant before her laughter filled the muffled silence of falling snow.

  “Cold-cold-cold,” she said, barely able to squeeze the words between chattering teeth. “Help me up?” She reached for his hand.

  Logan took her hand. Her fingers disappeared into the warm sheath and he tucked them both against his chest. He rolled to his side, mere inches from her face. The smile that played on her lips faltered and then collapsed altogether under the palpable desire to succumb to the consequence of shared closeness.

  Logan gently wiped the snow from her cheeks, the sweet sigh of leather supple on her skin. He found the small of her back and eased her toward him, a gambol of unanswered questions sequestered behind eyes like deep pools of espresso. He leaned into her and cupped his hand to her cheek, the sting of cold skin evaporating with his touch. With a moment of subtle hesitation, he brushed his lips to hers.

  Blood pulsed through her in animated gasps. Her heart stumbled. They drew breath as one, but her lungs refused to breathe as though he’d sucked the air from the world. In a moment of impulse, she reached around his neck and brought his mouth more firmly to hers; she was lost in the tentative, unwritten invitation.

  The storm swallowed her voice, the silence a mere whisper of falling snowflakes and the far off whine of the wind through evergreen boughs. All around them the snow continued to fall, but she felt no sting, his body a shelter, a pledge of safety against the power of the storm.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, breaking apart.

  “Are you always this enterprising toward your guests?”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, tucking a sodden strand of hair under her hat.

  Short bristles of beard stubble glistened as snowflakes melted into tiny drops of dew.

  “Don’t be,” she whispered, pressing her cheek into his touch. “I’m not.”

  “We need to get moving,” he said, carefully standing, “or you’ll be soaked.”

  “And the horses need tending.”

  “Yes. The horses.”

  Logan extended his hand to help her up. Holding her steady, he led her across the ice toward the barn’s entrance. “Watch your step. The horses trample the snow and it’s slick.”

  “I can manage—Oh!” she gasped, nearly tumbling to the ground again.

  Logan gathered her around the waist, his grip unwavering, and held her upright. “I won’t let you fall.”

  With the full strength of his body next to hers, she matched his long strides with two of her own into the barn. Logan flipped the light switch, dousing the barn with a mellow, dim light and muted hum of electric current. The horses acknowledged their visit with a chorus of chuffed nickers, and the sweet aroma of alfalfa mixed with the pungent odor from the stalls.

  Four horses, two coal black and two dappled gray, stretched their necks expectantly. Their nostrils flared and ears twitched with anticipation of dinner.

  “It’s nice in here,” she said, gazing around.

  “Winters can be bitterly cold in the Rockies, so heaters were installed last fall.”

  Ryleigh stroked a black horse’s velvety nose, his breaths materializing in warm chuffs against her hand. Long eyelashes drooped over kind eyes. “They look identical, Logan. How do you tell them apart?”

  “Apollo has a faint star on his forehead. Windsor is jet black.”

  “And the grays? What are their names?”

  “Sterling has knee-high dark gray socks and Lancelot—Lance—has more silver in his mane and tail.”

  “I see. I guess,” she said, bending to check Sterling’s legs for the so-called socks, but rose abruptly at the gratuitous display of equine affection she’d nearly come face to face with.

  A deep, rumbling laugh came from the next stall as Logan tossed flakes of alfalfa into the cribs.

  “Smart-ass,” she mumbled. Sterling snorted in a spray of alfalfa and horse snot. “That goes for you too!”

  Windsor’s tail swished from side to side, dislodging the ghosts of summer flies as Logan threw the last flakes into the cribs. He moved beside her and leaned against the stall. “They’re actually quite easy to tell apart.”

  “How—without inspecting their, umm…anatomy?” An embarrassing tickle crawled up her neck.

  “Read their nametags,” he chuckled, “on the stalls.”

  He was smirking. “Smart-ass,” she sassed, this time loud enough that Apollo raised his head and bobbed it in what was surely an acknowledgement of the impish sense of humor.

  Logan laughed openly, a deep, infectious timbre that accentuated the lines around his eyes, but the distance buried there refused to give way to complete joy. “I’ve been called worse.”

  Ryleigh turned and leaned against the stall, the spirited gift of his laughter still humming inside her. “Justifiably so.”

  Bits of chaff glinted in the dusty light as Logan brushed loose hay from his hands, the distance between them marked only by the brushing of fabri
c against fabric. She shivered, an involuntary reaction to the close proximity of this intriguing man.

  “You’re shivering.” He removed his scarf, wrapped it around her neck, and held the ends.

  “I don’t know why I should be,” she said. “It’s not cold in here.”

  The inviting half-smile preceded a deep chuckle that tingled her flesh. A rich line framed his mouth on one side, a tenacious punctuation of what he kept hidden there.

  “I find it rather warm myself,” he said, and without warning, twined the scarf around his hands and pulled her against him.

  Gentle eyes cradled hers in a tentative embrace, the power lurking there an anchor to restless avidity, and though his smile had dimmed, his face bore an inward tenderness ripe with compassion. He took her face in the broad span of both hands and brought his face to meet hers. He touched his lips to hers and following the absence of reservation, he kissed her.

  His tongue met hers in an invitation as patient as it was longing, and then he deepened the kiss so completely and with such powerful gentleness, her body, her mind, and her resistance failed completely.

  Logan dipped his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to apologize this time, Cabin Number Three,” he whispered. “But I will.”

  A rueful smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

  Run.

  A mirror reflection of her thoughts.

  Stay.

  A labyrinth of mixed emotions jammed inside her, clogging any rational course of escape.

  Think.

  She was powerless to move and as resignation set in, she allowed herself to let go, to be immersed in the solidity of his embrace. “Please don’t apologize.” She searched his discriminating features. For what? Answers? Answers to questions she didn’t know how to voice. “Logan, I—”

  “You’re shivering. It’s time to head back.”

  Ryleigh’s teeth chattered, but she wasn’t cold. Every ounce of her bathed in the steady flame of his warmth.

  Obscured by the storm, the sun slipped below the mountains and dusk settled over Fall River Valley. Snow continued to fall, covering their tracks and concealing secrets. The lampposts sparked to life and snowflakes danced in the amber wake of light. No, she wasn’t cold. A spark had kindled a sense of renewal in the aftermath of a malignant year.