by Karen Ball
“They really are.…” He stood there, watching her. She had no idea what a captivating picture she made … how her eyes glowed … how her hair danced in the breeze. A sudden, intense longing seized him. He wanted to reach out, take hold of her, and pull her close. Instead, he settled for lifting one hand to smooth an errant wisp of hair from her face. “And so are you.”
Her gaze flew to lock with his, and he saw a multitude of emotions reflected there: surprise, awareness, pleasure. She bit her lip, and for the life of him he couldn’t keep his fingers from reaching out to tenderly trace the line of her jaw, her mouth.
With the whisper of a sigh, she turned her face into his hand and, closing her eyes, rested her cheek against his palm. His breath caught in his throat and, cupping her face, urged her toward him. He leaned down to brush a gentle kiss across her lips. Just one, Lord, just one small kiss.
At least, that’s what he’d intended. But it seemed so right when his mouth touched hers that he moved forward, slipping his arms around her, drawing her close, cradling her against him.
She fit perfectly in his arms. Like she was made for him. And the realization sent his emotions reeling. When he finally raised his head, he felt dazed, as though he’d been spun in circles and turned upside down. He looked down at her face. From the look in her eyes, she was in much the same condition as he. And he exulted that she didn’t move, didn’t step away; she merely looked up at him with a faraway smile—
A sharp pang of guilt pierced him. What was he doing? He didn’t have the right to do this!
Self-loathing filled him, and he stepped back, dropping his arms to his sides. The look of startled confusion on Taylor’s face only compounded the accusing voices hammering at him from within.
“I’m sorry, Taylor.” He could hardly believe the hoarse voice was his. “I—”
What could he say? I shouldn’t have kissed you because you don’t really know me? I don’t deserve to have you care about me because I’m not who you think I am? How about simple and to the point. I’m a liar. I’m only here because of the wolves. I’m using you.
He clenched his teeth, shaking his head helplessly, and took another step away from her.
“Good night,” he croaked, then turned and walked away into the darkness.
Donelle leaned against the sink, watching out the kitchen window, her face furrowed with concern.
“If you caught one of the kids spying on someone, you’d have his head,” her husband’s voice came from behind her. She turned and went to sit beside him.
His eyes roamed her face. Then he leaned forward to stroke her cheek. “Trouble in paradise, love?”
“I’m afraid so.” Something just wasn’t making sense. “Holden, it’s painfully clear that those two are drawn to each other.”
“And?”
“And though they haven’t known each other long, it feels right for them to be together. There’s just something about Connor Alexander …” She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “I’m certain he’s trustworthy. But I get the oddest feeling that—”
“That he’s hiding something?”
Her eyes met his in surprise. “You think so, too?”
He nodded. “At the beginning of dinner he was fine. In fact, I think he was enjoying himself. Then just before he left, it was as though a cloud passed over his face.”
“Exactly!” Donelle was relieved it hadn’t just been her imagination. “He looked upset, almost angry. And then he left.”
Holden leaned back in his chair. “So, what if it’s true? What if he is hiding something?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t any idea how we could find out.”
“Well, I’m certainly not Sam Spade, and neither are you.”
Donelle’s lips twitched. “Sam Spade? Good heavens, dear, you’re dating yourself.”
“I’d far rather date you.” He reached for her hand.
She entwined her fingers with his, loving the warmth and familiarity of his clasp. He leaned forward, brushing a gentle kiss across her lips.
“It will work out, my love. We’ve seen God’s protective hand at work in Taylor’s life more than once. He’s not going to stop now.”
Gratitude filled her as they bowed their heads, taking their concerns and confusion to the One they knew could make all things right.
I am such a fool.
The thought kept going through Taylor’s mind as she got ready for bed, her movements stiff, almost mechanical. She felt like a spring that had been wound too tightly—ready to come completely, totally undone.
Tears threatened, but she refused to cry. She’d given all the tears she intended to give for Josh. No one else was going to get them. Her heart had closed itself off the day Josh died, and she had no intention of letting it open again. No one else was getting in, no matter how tantalizing he might be.
Liar, the voice in her head mocked. Liar. He’s already there.
“No,” she whispered, startled at the agony in her voice. “No!” She swallowed the lump of painful emotions. She dropped onto the bed. Pulling her knees to her chest and circling them with her arms, she buried her face.
You believed what his eyes were saying. You wanted to believe he cared.
“No.” She saw again the look in Connor’s eyes as he stepped away from her after kissing her … repulsion, disgust, rejection.
You trusted him. You let him in.
“No,” she repeated, but the hot tears coursing down her cheeks made it all too clear that she’d lost the battle with humiliation and pain. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow she would remember her vow, and her heart would remain safely closed.
No one—not Connor Alexander with his tantalizing smile, not Gavin MacEwen with his assurances of friendship, not even Brad Momadey with his burning, haunted eyes.
No one was going to hurt her again.
FIFTEEN
“WYLIE MARSTEN, YOU’RE A THIEF OF THE FIRST ORDER.”
Wylie chortled and rang up the purchase. “Maybe so, MacEwen, but since I own this general store and I’m pretty much the only game in town, I guess that means I can make the rules. Now, hand over your wallet.”
Gavin did as Wylie commanded. As the older man pulled the appropriate bills from the wallet, Gavin thought again of Taylor.
He’d called her to see if she wanted to come to town with him, but she’d told him she and Connor had already been to town. To say he’d been less than pleased would be an understatement. Connor Alexander was becoming a definite nuisance.
Gavin hoisted his bag of groceries and headed for the door, only to run headlong into two small torpedoes as they burst through the door.
“Oops!” Mark Camus stepped back to give the Scotsman a sheepish look. “Sorry, Gavin!”
“Yeah, sorry,” Mikey echoed.
“No problem, lads. It’s clear you were on a mission of great importance.”
Two heads nodded vigorously. “We’re buying supplies for Mr. Alexander!” Mark said.
Gavin’s lips thinned. Alexander again! “Are you, now?” He did his best to keep his tone amiable.
“Yup!” Mark turned to glance at the aisle with hand tools. “And we gotta hurry, ’cuz if we get back soon enough, he’s gonna show us how to build a birdhouse.”
“Is he, now?” Gavin’s dry tone was lost on the boys. They just beamed up at him.
“Isn’t Mr. Alexander the best, Gavin?” Mikey’s adoration was evident in his young eyes.
“He sure is.” Mark grabbed his twin’s sleeve and tugged him toward the tool shelves. “C’mon, Mikey, I don’t want to be late.”
They drifted away, and Gavin walked out of the store, a sour taste in his mouth.
“Aye, he’s just a peach of a man, I’m sure.” He muttered the comment through clenched teeth. “A true gem! Why, it should be an honor that the fine Connor Alexander is tryin’ to steal my woman!” He yanked open the door of his vehicle, tossed his package inside, then slammed the door.
He leaned against the Blazer. Just what exactly did he know about Connor Alexander? The longer he thought, the deeper his frown grew. Realization dawned and he straightened.
He didn’t know much. Not much at all. And that just wasn’t acceptable. Gavin had learned long ago that the only way to deal effectively with an adversary was to know all you could about him. He turned and started down the sidewalk. It was time to pay a friendly, unofficial visit to his deputy friend, Amos Erdrich.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d ask Amos to do some friendly, unofficial checking on Mr. Connor—“the best”—Alexander.
SIXTEEN
THE ANSWER TO DONELLE’S PRAYERS CAME MUCH SOONER THAN she’d anticipated. Oh, she’d believed God would answer, but she’d never dreamed he would do it so quickly—or in such an unexpected way.
It happened several mornings later. Donelle had decided to spend the morning in bed getting caught up on her reading. She had just settled under the covers, her tea on the bedside table, a pile of magazines stacked beside her. She was thumbing through the pile, trying to decide which one to read first, when a cover caught her eye.
It was a wildlife magazine, one of her favorites. The articles almost always presented a balanced view of the issues, which she greatly appreciated. On the cover of this particular issue was a stunning picture of a timber wolf. The title of the article, which was printed on the cover in big bold letters, was, “Wolf: Victim or Villain—or a Little of Both?”
She arched her eyebrows. That was certainly a timely topic, considering the ever-increasing debates among their friends and neighbors regarding the rumored return of wolves to the area. She flipped open the magazine to the page indicated in the contents, settled back in her pillows, and began to read.
Soon she was absorbed, caught in the writer’s skillful work and the beautiful photographs accompanying the article. When she finished reading, she turned back to the first page of the article. Her breath caught in a small gasp, and her mouth opened into a silent oh.
She laid down the magazine and leaned back against her pillows, closing her eyes, a gentle smile dancing across her lips.
Thank you, Father. Her heart overflowed with both gratitude and understanding. You are a wonder.
Connor wanted to hit something. At the very least, he wanted to go someplace isolated and remote and yell.
Since the night he had kissed Taylor, she had treated him as though he had some contagious disease. Or as though he were one. Oh, she continued to work with him, even beside him from time to time, but in almost complete silence. Any conversation with her was stilted and awkward. She answered his questions with curt responses and seldom met his eyes. The easy camaraderie they’d shared had vanished as quickly as snow in August.
It was driving him crazy. At first he’d refused to believe her reserve could last, but it had been four days now, and, try as he might, he couldn’t break through the wall she’d erected around herself. Couldn’t even chip it.
Today, she was holding the ladder as he climbed to remove storm windows from one of the cabins and replace them with screens. He’d already made several efforts at conversation, and she’d squelched them. Well, he wasn’t done yet. If the subtle approach wasn’t going to do the trick, then he’d just have to be more direct.
“Where do you keep your rifles?” He felt a flash of satisfaction when she looked at him with a startled expression.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your rifles.” He kept his voice light, unconcerned. He handed her a window, then took the screen she lifted to him and turned to the window. “I mean, I figure you keep them in the house.” He snapped the screen in place, fastened it, and started down the ladder. “I was just wondering in which room.”
“They’re locked in a cabinet in the den. Why?”
He lifted the ladder and walked to the last window, where he set the ladder in place with a great deal more precision than was necessary.
“Connor,” she said as he took the screen from her. Her voice had grown just a bit testy. That was fine. Anything was better than that inaccessible, remote tone she’d been using.
“Connor …” Her temper was clearly rising. He snapped another screen in place, his back to her, and indulged in a slight smile. Her rigid control was slipping.
“Connor Alexander! Will you kindly answer my question?”
“Hmmm?” He gave her a bland look as he made his way down the ladder. “Did you ask me something?”
She planted herself directly in his path, her expression murderous, her hands on her hips. Her eyes were burning with frustration, and the color in her cheeks had heightened from a slight pink to an exasperated red.
Now this was more like it! His stormy, exhilarating Taylor was back—for the moment at least. It was all Connor could do not to laugh out loud with relief.
“You know very well I asked you why you wanted to know where I keep my rifles!”
“Oh, that. No reason really.” Other than getting a rise out of you. He stepped around her, heading for the barn. “I’ll put the ladder away.” He let his grin loose now that she couldn’t see him.
But suddenly she was there, in front of him, her narrowed eyes burning with a dangerous light. “How dare you turn your back on me!”
He jerked to a halt, taken aback by the fury in her tone. “Taylor—”
But she wasn’t having any of it. “How dare you treat me this way! I thought we were becoming friends. I thought—”
At the catch in her voice, he set down the ladder and took a step forward.
Immediately she backed away. “Don’t.” The desperation in the one word froze him in his tracks. “Don’t you dare come near me. And from now on, Mister Alexander, keep this in mind. When I ask an employee a question, I expect an answer.”
Her tone was clearly insulting, clearly condescending, and Connor’s anger ignited in response. “Is that so, Mrs. Sorensen?” He ground the question out in carefully measured tones.
“Unless, of course, you have a problem with that.” Her angry eyes challenged him.
He started to answer, but she cut him off. “Because if you do, then maybe it’s time to find yourself another boss.”
He stared at her, and his fury almost choked him. “Actually, Mrs. Sorensen—” he kept his tone deceptively mild—“I don’t have a problem with your request.” He took a step closer, bringing them almost nose to nose. “However, I do have a problem with you.”
He wasn’t sure what kind of response he’d expected—a kick to the shins wouldn’t have surprised him—but what happened next did. She met his glare, held it for several seconds … then a sob caught in her throat, and suddenly there were tears running down her face. She spun around and fled from him, looking for all the world as though the hounds of hell were on her heels.
Every impulse inside screamed at him to follow her, to stop her and work through what had happened between them … not just today, but over the past few weeks. He wanted, needed, to understand what she was feeling. What he was feeling. But now was not the time. He had to give her a chance to recover, to get her emotions under control.
And then he had to tell her the truth.
So he stood there, watching her run, and as the sound of her sobs drifted back to him, his lips compressed into a thin line. The deceit ends here, Lord. Tomorrow I tell her why I’m here. It’s up to you where it goes from there.
He put his hands in his pockets and walked toward his cabin. She’ll probably hate me. I wouldn’t blame her if she told me to pack my bags. If she does, I’ll just have to respect her wishes. He dropped into one of the old-fashioned rocking chairs outside his cabin door and stared up at the sky. I can do that, Father. I can leave. This is nothing more than an assignment. If I fail, I fail. Regrettable, but not the end of the world.
He believed the reassurance, was convinced it was true. So he found it especially confusing, and irritating, that the thought of losing Taylor left his throat dry, and his heart constricted
with sudden, blinding fear.
SEVENTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN CONNOR emerged from his cabin. He rolled his aching shoulder muscles gingerly, stretching his neck one way and then the other as he walked. The dull pain that rewarded every movement brought a grimace to his face.
He’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, which hadn’t improved his state of mind. Even Taylor’s crack-of-dawn mom wouldn’t be up this early, so there wouldn’t be a warm breakfast to greet him.
Please, God, at least let the coffee be brewing.
He entered the still dark kitchen and turned on the light over the sink. Glancing around, he spotted the coffee maker already brewing a pot of the elixir of life, thanks to the timer Taylor had set.
God bless your socks off, Taylor. With a grateful smile, he started to feel uplifted. God was, indeed, merciful. He sniffed the air appreciatively and rummaged in the cupboards for a mug. He finally found a “man-sized” one and set it on the counter, waiting. Coffee makers were never fast enough.
He eyed the filling carafe, then grasped the handle with one hand and held the big mug right next to it with the other. With one quick movement he whipped the carafe out from under the stream of coffee and replaced it with the mug.
Didn’t miss a drop—
“Bravo, Connor. That was masterfully done.”
He jerked around and found Taylor’s mother watching him from the doorway.
“Morning.” He bit his lip. “I, ah … I wasn’t expecting anyone else up so early.”
“Oh, I had some trouble sleeping last night.” She smiled at him. “Too much on my mind, I suppose. And you?”
“The same.” She nodded as though she understood. Connor wished she did. He caught her looking at the rapidly filling mug he still held under the coffee maker. “Uh, it was taking too long …” Her face broke into an amused grin.
“Of course it was.” She came forward to set several magazines on the table. Her eyes twinkled. “Anyone knows that three minutes is far too long to wait for one’s first cup of coffee.”