Good God, the man can put on an act. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he was sincere.
“Well, then.” Myra turned to her daughter with a what-are-you-waiting-for look. “Get those boots.”
Allison shot Heath Oakes what she hoped was a withering look before she swung away and tottered off toward the Jeep. Her attempt at hauteur failed as one of her heels caught in the loose rocks and she had to scramble to keep her balance.
She imagined him smirking behind her back. She’d be glad when all this was over, the will had been read, and her mother, who would inherit her father’s holdings, could send him packing.
Pulling a pair of mud-spattered rubber boots—at a glance, several sizes too large—from the Jeep’s cluttered cargo space, she jerked off her pumps, and flung the shoes that had cost her several hundred dollars into the back of the dirty vehicle.
I’ll convince Mom to dismiss him, come hell or high water, the minute she’s in possession of the Chance. We’ll see how cocky he is when he’s out on his backside!
With the boots flopping a couple of inches from her heels, she stomped back to the tractor and the waiting couple. She caught a glint of wicked amusement flickering in Heath’s golden brown eyes. Prickling annoyance flooded through her veins. A black, short-skirted, designer-original suit did not coordinate with filthy, gargantuan Wellingtons.
“Are you ready, Heath?” Myra looked up at the man on the tractor.
“Ready when you are, Mrs. Armstrong.”
“Then let’s away.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He leaned forward and turned a switch. The motor sputtered, then roared to life. He flashed a triumphant grin down on Myra. Focusing his attention on the trail ahead, he put his hand over the gearshift and forced it into drive. All but unseating its driver, the old tractor leaped forward.
“Ride ’em, cowboy,” Allison sniggered.
“Allison, really!” Her mother’s rebuke reminded her of the solemnity of the occasion.
“Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”
Heedless of her taunt, Heath got the vehicle under control. As it began to jolt its way down the trail, he settled it into a slow plod through the ruts of spring-softened ground. Myra and Allison fell in behind it, skirting the wake when possible, walking gingerly through the mud when it wasn’t.
The mile-long trek to the burial site seemed interminable. Rankled to the core, Allison trudged along beside her apparently undaunted mother. Twice the cloying mud brought her up short and she would have fallen except for Myra’s hand grasping her arm.
“Mom, I can’t believe Gramps expected us to do this,” she muttered. “This trail is awful.”
“Heath’s managing, darling.” Myra paused to indicate the tractor and trailer slogging and lurching down the trail ahead of them. “And so am I. Gramps would have expected you to have appropriate footwear…and a bit of perseverance.”
“Mom…” Allison started to protest, but her mother had set off again, following the dirty, roaring vehicle, head held high in her wide-brimmed hat, spatters of mud on the Italian leather coat that looked entirely out of place above filthy farm boots. Her mother was one amazing woman. She shook her head and followed.
A half hour later they emerged into a meadow carpeted with the dry, dead grasses left over from winter. In the mist, it was a dull brown expanse surrounded by walls of dark brooding spruce and solemn white pine. Somewhere several yards ahead, obscured by the fog, the river thundered past, swollen with the freshet of melting mountain snows. Allison visualized its dangerous, swollen torrent. She remembered another springtime years earlier, when a gangly teenage boy had dared her to canoe its length with him. His challenge had earned her the only dressing down she could ever recall getting from her grandfather.
The tractor’s revving and roaring brought her back to the moment. Allison saw Heath backing its trailer up to a freshly dug grave beside a stone monument. She heaved a sigh. Soon, soon this will be over, and we’ll be on our way back to Toronto.
He parked with the back of the trailer at the lip of the yawning hole, cut the motor, and climbed down as Myra joined him.
“We made it.” Her mother put a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Heath.”
“Thanks aren’t necessary, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“Definitely. Allison, come over here, please.”
While the two women stood side by side next to the trailer, Heath released the restraining straps, pulled out a pin to allow the trailer to tilt, and let the coffin slide into the grave. It stopped with a dull bump.
A sharp sob escaped Myra Armstrong, but she waved away Allison’s attempt to put an arm around her. Allison backed off and waited. She knew she’d forever remember the image of her mother, dressed in black, standing beside the open grave, head bent, eyes closed.
Heath, who’d been standing to one side, reached for a shovel stuck in the mound of earth beside the grave.
“Wait…please. I want to say a few words before you…” Allison’s heart ached at her mother’s request.
He nodded and stepped back.
“Come, Allison.” Holding out a hand, Myra Armstrong moved to stand on the brink of the grave. She paused and closed her eyes. Allison saw tears trickle from beneath the closed lids and slide down her mother’s cheeks.
“Join us, Heath,” she startled Allison by requesting as she held out her other hand.
“Yes, ma’am.” Heath pulled off his hat.
“Let us pray.” Holding both their hands, she bowed her head. “Dear Lord, please welcome Jack Adams as he welcomed all those who came to his door. Give him a place in eternity as beautiful as this land he loved, and let him share it with the woman who was his best friend and soul mate. Amen.”
“Amen.” Heath’s voice edging on a croak outraged Allison. Damn, he’s good at pretending he really gives a rat’s behind!
“Dad,” Myra startled her daughter by continuing while she held their hands. “Your wishes will be carried out. I’ll see to it. Rest in peace.”
As if in answer, a robin in a nearby burgeoning birch tree burst into song.
She released their hands and nodded to Heath. “You can begin.”
He pulled off his coat and was about to drop it to the ground with his hat, but Myra reached out to take them.
“Thanks,” he said. Their gazes met. Allison saw an empathy flash between them. What is going on here?
Heath pulled the shovel from the pile of earth beside the grave. The harsh sound of the first clump of dirt hitting the coffin in the misty hush of the meadow cracked the restraint she’d been mastering all day. He was really gone.
“Gramps,” she whispered. “Oh, Grampie.”
“Come along, darling.” Myra put her arm around her shoulders. “We’ll take a walk down to the river and let Heath do his work.”
Allison paused a moment to look at the man shoveling earth into the grave, feet braced, lean muscular body moving mechanically, easily, it appeared, through the heavy task. His lips were hard set in a grim line, a tick worked in his jaw.
Two-faced bum, putting on an act for my mother. Well, he’s not fooling me.
She started around the excavation toward the river. At the granite monument, she stopped.
“Maud Adams. Grandma. I didn’t know she was buried here.”
“She died in December of that year, you’ll remember.” Myra touched the stone. “You, your Dad, and I came for the funeral. The ground was frozen, so burial had to be delayed until spring. When the time arrived, your father had several serious cases he couldn’t leave, and you were deep in some kind of business merger. I came down alone. After cutting through mountains of red tape, Dad and Ethan Jarvis, the undertaker, had arranged for it to be here. At that time your grandfather had the monument erected and arrangements made to be placed beside her when his time came. Now come along,” she urged as Allison felt her eyes fill with tears. “Gramps hated crying women. He never knew what to do with them
.”
Allison followed her mother away from the gravesites and across the sloping field. When they reached the river, they paused. The torrent thundering past reminded Allison of her tall, barrel-chested grandfather with his thick mane of white hair and booming laugh. He’d had a wonderful tenor voice and often entertained his guests at the Lodge from a repertoire that included everything from show tunes to country-western. Allison had especially enjoyed the times he’d sung “Annie’s Song” to her grandmother, who often accompanied him on her acoustic guitar.
What a pair they’d been. Until Gram had been diagnosed with cancer and died slowly before Jack Adams’ helpless, desperate eyes.
He’d never sung again. He’d remained jovial with his guests, always appeared happy when he visited Allison and her parents in Ottawa, but he’d never again radiated the overwhelming joie de vivre that had once been a nimbus around him.
Was that what love meant? A song bursting in your heart when you had it and silence when it was gone? She’d never know. Her heart had been turned to stone years ago by the man shoveling earth into her grandfather’s grave.
“You’re cold.” Myra put an arm about her daughter and hugged her to her side. “Heath must be finished. We can head back. Dad wouldn’t want any of us to catch pneumonia.”
“I would have dressed more appropriately if you’d told me these plans.” Cold and tiredness brought testiness into Allison’s tone.
“I was afraid you’d protest and, frankly, my darling, in the past day and a half since Dad died, I wouldn’t have had the strength to argue with you. Especially since your father had several critically ill patients and couldn’t come with us. Gramps would have understood his not attending the funeral under those conditions, but you know how I rely on your father’s strength at times like this. I need you to be with me, physically and emotionally.”
Exhaustion settled over Myra Armstrong’s delicately featured face.
“Ignore my whining. I loved Gramps.” She gave her mother a quick hug. “I’m willing to do whatever he wanted.”
“Are you?” Her mother’s green eyes looked into hers, searching deep. “Are you really, Allison? You do know why your grandfather named his lodge and wilderness retreat the Chance, don’t you? He thought of it as a place that gave people a chance to find themselves, to discover who and what they really are.”
“Of course, but what…?”
“Ready to leave, ladies?” Heath climbed back into the driver’s seat. “This time you can ride on the trailer, if you think you can hang on.”
“We’ll definitely give it a try.” Myra headed for the decrepit conveyance. “My feet are killing me, and I’m sure Allison’s are in much worse condition.”
Chapter Two
“Let’s go.” Allison’s teeth chattered as she huddled against the car, hugging her body while Myra searched her pocket for the key. The black designer suit was poor protection from the cold mist. “Hurry, Mom, hurry. We have to catch that flight back home.”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Her mother paused with her hand on the door and looked out at her daughter from beneath the brim of her hat. “You’ll be staying at Chance Lodge. I have to go back immediately—the fundraising drive for the new children’s wing at the hospital is at a crucial point—but a family member has to be here for the reading of the will.”
“Me? Stay, at the Lodge—with him?” Allison was sputtering. “No way! I have to get back. My job…”
“Darling, the Shawville Corporation won’t go belly-up simply because you’re absent another day or two. Get your suitcase out of the trunk and go with Heath.” She glanced over her daughter’s shoulder and smiled at the man waiting beside the mud-spattered Jeep.
“If you’ll give me your key, I’ll get your daughter’s luggage, Mrs. Armstrong.” He strode forward.
“All right, all right.” Allison threw up her hands. Taking charge, bullying his way into their lives. Damn the man! “But as soon as the lawyer reads that will, I’ll be on the next plane to T-O. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Myra handed the key to Heath. As he went to the rear of the car, she embraced her disgruntled daughter. “Thanks, sweetie.”
“I’m not sure how Paul will feel about this arrangement, but safe journey, Mom.” Allison softened at her mother’s imminent departure.
“There you go. You’re doing better already. Take care of my girl, Heath,” Myra continued to the man who had returned, Allison’s oversized suitcase in his hand. “And be forewarned. She recently passed self-defense training with flying colors.”
“Noted.” He handed her the car key. “Safe journey, Mrs. Armstrong.”
“Thank you.” She slid into her car, waved, and drove off, windshield wipers battling the thickening mist.
“Who’s Paul?” he asked as they watched her out of sight.
“Paul Bradley, my sort-of significant other.”
“Sort of? Sounds serious.”
She turned on him and recognized disdain in his expression.
“Don’t!” she snapped.
“Don’t what?”
“Mock me. And don’t think you can take advantage of me now that my mother is gone.”
“Right.” Sarcasm colored the word. “Let’s go.” He headed for his Jeep.
“What about the tractor?” she asked as she stumbled along behind him in his too-large boots.
“The farmer I borrowed it from will pick it up later today. It’s safe. Who’d want to steal the thing?”
For the first time she caught a glimmer of humor in his golden-brown eyes. A smile struggled against her taut lips as they looked at the mud-spattered vehicle and homemade trailer, both scrap-yard ready.
“It did the job.” She followed him to the Jeep and flinched as he flung her suitcase into the back. Apparently Italian craftsmanship meant nothing to him.
“Sure did. Jack would have gotten a whale of a belly laugh out of it.”
He strode to the driver’s side and swung into the seat. Allison slogged around to the passenger side, started to get in, and found herself hobbled by her fitted skirt. No way was it going to allow her to climb into the Jeep without hiking it up higher than she had any intention of doing in his presence.
“What?” he asked, looking over at her as he leaned forward to put the key in the ignition.
“This thing wasn’t built with my skirt in mind.”
“Argh!” He swung out and strode around to her side of the vehicle. Before she could protest, he’d swept her up into his arms.
A shock shot through her as her knees fell over his arm and she felt her back cradled against his shoulder. A murmur of some brand of masculine soap whispered over her senses. The strength beneath her was astounding. His powerful, easy confidence not only astonished her, it made her heart flip.
He paused to look down at her, and the expression in his tawny eyes melted her like snow in a heat wave. Butterflies sprang to life in her solar plexus, and a shock of something hot and magic shot through her body. Handsome, strong, utterly self-assured in a dangerous, untamed way, the man captivated her physically even as her mind fought to reject him. She now understood Candace Breckenridge’s “delicious” and “wild-woods-hero” adjectives. As she looked up into the ruggedly handsome face, her lips parted.
“No.” His response crashed over her like a bucket of ice water as he swung her into the Jeep and plunked her down in the passenger seat. Damn and double damn. He guessed what I was feeling, what he did to me. And worst of all, I’m blushing.
He strode back to the driver’s side and swung into place.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Allison avoided looking at him as she snapped the dirty belt into place across her damp suit jacket. “Surely you can’t be vain enough to think…”
“Look, Ms. Armstrong, I’ve been propositioned by enough rich city women over the years to recognize a ‘take me’ invitation when I see one.” He leaned forward to turn the key in the ignition, annoyance in his words and tense bo
dy movements.
As the engine roared into action, he gathered up his own seatbelt and snapped it into place. He glanced over at her, contempt flashing from eyes fierce with anger as he shifted into drive.
Allison glared a death threat in his direction as the old vehicle lurched to life. She’d never been so insulted in her life. He may have discovered soap and deodorant, but his manners were still those of a hoodlum fresh out of a concrete jungle. How could he possibly imagine that she, Allison Armstrong, daughter of one of Canada’s leading neurosurgeons and CFO of a major Canadian corporation, would be interested in him? She worked out at her Toronto gym three mornings a week. His wasn’t the first hard body she’d seen.
But it was the earthiest, the most naturally virile, an annoying thought nagged.
She glanced over at him. He did personify a romantic savage, with just the right amount of polish to be a female fantasy come to life, a genuine thrill for the neglected wives of wealthy men.
A vision of Heath with Candace Breckenridge flashed across her mind. Damn. She flicked it away like an unacceptable TV channel. Fixing her gaze on the road ahead, she remained silent.
A half hour later when they turned into the lane that led to the Lodge, a gasp escaped her lips. Although it had been years since Allison had visited her grandfather’s wilderness retreat, the joy and sense of expectation she’d always experienced on returning resurfaced in a flash.
Over two miles long, the private road was a tunnel hewn out of the branches of an ancient forest of birch, pine, spruce, cedar, and maple. Jack Adams had believed in destroying as little of the natural environment as possible. When he’d established the Lodge, over forty years earlier, he’d uprooted as few trees as possible in making a road to the river. The rest he’d left to grow into a living canopy.
In the mist, diamond-like droplets decorated the needles and awakening leaves that formed this living tunnel. Every tree and shrub glistened in soft green expectation of a new beginning. The air held the fresh rain scent only a place far from pollution can offer.
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