“I wasn’t about to leave behind my family and friends.”
Yeah, it hurt. It hurt to know that he’d tried to have a family life twice—and failed twice. Miserably and publicly. It hurt even more to think about trying again.
Then he took a long look at Casey. Casey. With her sweet amber eyes a man could lose his soul in. He thought of her courage. Her sense of humor. Her passion. He thought of all those broken dreams she’d left behind—dreams he would like to mend for her, and for him. He thought of the child they could have together, a babe with her eyes and her hair. And he told himself, for the hundredth time, that it would be worth it.
“Wife number one stole my pride,” he said, “but I wasn’t about to let her steal everything else I valued. And wife number two was a mistake from the start” He held her gaze. “But I got a taste of what happiness could be in each of those marriages. I want that. I’ve always wanted it. I’d given up on it…until now.”
Her eyes widened. She pressed back against the tree. She turned her face away and thrust her fingers through her hair. She looked worn, pinched with exhaustion, and she wasn’t meeting his gaze. He sensed he was pushing her too hard, talking too close to his heart, and scaring the hell out of her.
So he swallowed the proposal rising in his throat. So he swallowed impatience. They had time, they had time. It would take days for them to gather their equipment. They might have to walk the remaining miles to the St. Lawrence River. He had time. Best not to bare his heart to a woman on the verge of hysteria.
So, instead, he mustered a smile. “Now, Casey,” he said, clutching his aching side, “do you want to tell me why we’re talking about my ex-wives while we’re both freezing, bleeding and soaking wet?”
She stilled and looked up at him.
“C’mon.” He curled his fingers around her arm, and tugged her, gently, downstream. “Let’s see what we can salvage of our gear, and then I’ll bind up those knees of yours.”
“Allô!”
At the sound of the voice, Dylan straightened too fast; he winced and stiffened as pain shot through his side.
“Dylan?” Casey tossed a pair of dripping-wet shorts across a lowlying branch, then limped to his side to peer through the trees. “Did you hear somebody?”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “Yeah, I think—”
“Allô!”
Casey gasped, then she sprang into action. “Over here!” She crashed past a branch fluttering with wet laundry. “Here we are! Over here!”
“Ah! Mam‘selle,” came the voice. “Je viens—I’m coming!”
With Casey out of sight, Dylan took the opportunity to wince. His side throbbed painfully. He had not wanted to alarm Casey, but he really did think he’d broken a rib. He’d almost passed out when he’d pulled the remains of the canoe off the debris that had caught it. One look at the ripped and tattered craft had been enough to tell him that they would be walking the last miles to the St. Lawrence River. With her battered, swelling knees and his aching side, the smart thing to do was send up flares or, better yet, use that cell phone of hers—if they could ever find it.
Still, he’d wanted to see if he could tough it out. He’d wanted to finish this voyage under his own steam. She knew they were close. But most of all, he’d wanted to stay here, in the solitude of these woods, until he could get Casey to look him in the eye again. She’d been squirrelly and jumpy for the past hour, and he’d wanted her warm and pliant at his side.
But now, by the sound of her babbling and the laughing response of a distinctly French-Canadian voice, it looked as though they were saved.
He straightened, inch by inch, as they came closer, and composed his face as best he could.
“Dylan, look—the cavalry.”
Casey limped into the small clearing with a dark-haired ranger in tow. The man nodded his head toward Dylan and held out a hand.
“Pierre Lefèbvre, Canadian Forestry Service,” he said, his words lilting with a Québecois accent. “I have met Mam’selle Michaels. You must be MacCabe.”
“Dylan.” He gripped the man’s hand. “It’s good to see another face.”
“Oui,” he said, glancing around at the debris. “I see that.”
“How did you find us?”
“Oh,” he said, shrugging, “it was easy.” He pulled a pile of frothy wet cloth from under his arm. “I followed a very pretty trail.”
He shook out the material until Casey saw, among the clothes, her high-cut cotton underpants. Her face brightened and she snatched the lingerie from his hands. “Saved by my underwear,” she muttered. “There’s a first.”
“I should inform you that this is littering,” the man said, his dark eyes bright and teasing on Casey. “Big fines. Jail time in certain parts of Quebec—”
“Yeah,” Dylan remarked, a jealous edge in his voice. “But you crossed the river. You’re out of your jurisdiction.”
“Seems so.” He sighed and gave another Gallic shrug. “It was all in the interests of international cooperation.”
“International…”
“The two of you have many people worried,” the ranger explained. “There are twenty Yankees in a hotel just over the border. They’ve called everyone but your American FBI to find you.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. His family must have been driving the Canadians crazy. “We’re a few days late.”
“Oui, so I’ve been told,” Pierre said. “And so, here I am, the search party.” His gaze drifted over the clothes and debris lying all around the clearing and settled on the battered canoe. “Bad accident, eh?”
“We lost most of our gear.”
“There’s a logging road a mile west of here. I’ve got a Jeep.” His gaze flickered over Dylan, then Casey, and lingered on her bloodied knees. “Let me drive you into Canada. There’s a hospital just over the border.”
“Yes,” Casey said on a sigh. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”
Dylan glanced at her sharply. He wanted to do this on his own. He wanted to arrive on the banks of the St Lawrence on his own steam, even if it meant walking across craggy ground for the last few miles. But Casey looked pale, tired, edgy. He knew he couldn’t push her any farther, even if he planned to push himself beyond endurance.
“You two go,” he said. “Take most of the gear. But I’m going to finish this.”
“Dylan—”
“I made a promise to myself that I’d see the St. Lawrence when this was all through, Casey, come hell or high water.”
“Go ahead,” said the ranger, giving his Gallic shrug. “We will wait for you.”
Dylan stilled, while the ranger’s dark eyes sparkled.
“The banks of St. Lawrence,” the ranger added, “lie a quarter mile to the north, just over that rise.”
CASEY RESTED HER HEAD against the seat in the back of the Jeep, grateful for Pierre’s unceasing chatter. He kept talking, even though she and Dylan were answering him in polite monosyllables. The Jeep lumbered and lurched over the old logging road, but Casey didn’t even mind the battering. She was so relieved that they were heading for civilization. She was so relieved that this whole trip was over.
Her knees ached. Her hands stung. Her head throbbed. She felt nauseous. Ever since the accident she’d felt as if the whole world was spinning around her. She needed to get away from Dylan. She needed to get away from herself. She needed to think.
She soon became aware that they’d reached paved ground. She opened her eyes long enough to see the steel rails of a bridge flying by, and below, the slate blue waters of a very wide river.
“The St Lawrence,” Dylan said, to no one in particular. “I saw it from that spit of land, sticking out from the southern shore. It was more impressive up close.”
At the other end of the bridge a guard waved them to a stop, but after a rapid conversation with Pierre in French, the guard rolled his eyes, laughed, and waved them through.
Pierre drove them straight to a small hospital on the edge of the bor
der town. He told her the lyrical name of the village, but it flew right out of her head. She was beginning to realize that she was in shock, for the memories of the past few hours were splintering right before her eyes—even as the pain in her knees and head intensified.
In the quiet emergency room they said goodbye to Pierre, who promised to drive straight to the hotel to drop off what they’d retrieved of their gear and inform the MacCabes where he’d left them. Then the nurses took her and Dylan to separate rooms for examination.
She needed a few stitches in both her knees. A pretty dark-eyed nurse ducked her tongue as she bathed the scratches that riddled Casey’s face and legs. Casey found out that they’d taken Dylan up to radiology for X rays.
“X rays!” Casey exclaimed. “For what? Where?”
“His chest,” the nurse said. “They think he might have broken a couple of ribs.”
Lord, Casey thought And he hadn’t said a word. And he’d stubbornly walked that last quarter mile to the banks of the St. Lawrence River and back: While she’d babbled and complained and done everything but have a nervous breakdown.
An hour later, Casey limped out to the waiting room to find Dylan waiting for her. He lumbered to his feet to greet her. She tried to stifle the strange flicker of panic she felt at the sight of him, all tanned and golden-haired and steady eyed. Somehow he looked different amid the bright white walls of the hospital. Bigger. Gruffer. More dangerous.
She let her gaze drop to his T-shirt, where she could see the padding of a bandage. “They told me you broke some ribs.”
“Naw,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Turns out they’re just bruised. They gave me some really good drugs, though.” His gaze dropped to her knees. “Stitches, huh?”
“Yeah. And no showers for yet another week.”
He smiled at her. She managed to smile back. Another man hovered in the background, and at the uncomfortable silence he stood and walked toward her. He held out his hand.
“Danny Anderson,” he said by way of introduction. “From what Dylan tells me, I missed a damn good voyage. Can’t say I’m sorry I did, though, looking at the two of you.”
Casey managed a weak laugh. She remembered Daniel as the man who had promised to drive her van up here. “So, how’s Bessie?”
“Bessie?”
“Her van,” Dylan explained.
“Oh. Well…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t say it’s good as new.”
“I didn’t ask for a miracle,” she said. “I just want it running.”
“Well, it’s running.”
“That’s all I ever ask of Bessie.”
An awkward silence ensued. She couldn’t seem to look at Dylan, though she felt his gaze hot on her. Danny just stared at both of them, one after the other.
“Well,” Danny said finally, clapping his hands together, “I’m sure the two of you would love to stay in this hospital for the rest of the night, but I’m supposed to bring you to the surprise party they’re holding at the hotel.” He headed toward the exit. “The MacCabes have been waiting for you for three days. If we don’t go now, there will be none of Pappy’s punch left for either of you.”
They arrived less than a half hour later. True to form, the MacCabes had taken over the small hotel lobby for the party. A glittering Welcome Home banner hung across the entrance. They’d twisted brown-and-orange bunting all over the lobby and pinned up pictures of pilgrims and turkeys on every spare inch of wall. Dylan’s brother had dressed up in buckskins and every woman who could had plaited her hair in two braids. It looked like a kids’ Thanksgiving Day party.
It would be quite a while, Casey realized, before she would get to lie down alone in silence.
The cameras started flashing as soon as they limped through the door. Someone thrust a cup of punch in her hand—a punch, Casey noticed, that had been liberally spiked. The noise quickly reached rock-concert levels and she did her best to nod and smile at all the vaguely familiar faces. Dylan and she soon got separated in the crush.
Somebody thrust a key into her hand. Apparently, Dylan’s family had rented every room in the hotel and saved a room each for her and for Dylan. Casey thanked the woman—she thought it might be Anne, Dylan’s sister—and put the key in her pocket. She curled her fingers around the key and fantasized about a long, hot bath and a wide, soft bed.
Then the crowd parted and she caught sight of Dylan wheeling an elderly man toward her. She glanced down at the man’s wizened face, at the thick woolen blanket covering his knees, and realized who this man must be.
“Casey, I’d like you to meet my grandfather.” Dylan came around and perched on the edge of the lobby couch. “Grandpa,” he said, raising his voice above the noise, “this is Casey. She came with me on the trip. Down the old trail from Canada.”
“I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. MacCabe.” Casey leaned forward and held out her hand. He tilted his head and peered at her through his glasses, which magnified his eyes enough so Casey could see where Dylan got his deep blue eyes. Dylan’s grandfather rifled his hand out from under the blanket, took her hand, and held it. Then, with surprising strength, he pulled it to his mouth for a kiss.
Around her came tsking and cries of “Grandpa!” The elderly man grinned, a grin that Casey was sure, in his younger years, had made many a fair maiden fall.
“Did Dylan tell you that we found your marker, Mr. MacCabe? It’s still standing.”
“‘Course, ’course.” He nodded, his voice croaky and low. “No other way t’find Morgan’s Pass.”
She lifted a brow at Dylan. She’d thought his grandfather had long ago lost his memory, but it was clear he knew what she was talking about.
“I’m going to write about it, you know,” she said. “For a magazine. It’ll be a wonderful story.”
Dylan’s grandfather continued to look at her and smile, then he beckoned to Dylan to come closer. Dylan leaned in.
“A pretty one,” his grandfather said, raising a hand toward Casey. “Which wife is this?”
Casey stiffened. Around them, the family tittered, but it was a nervous sort of laughter. Dylan didn’t smile. He looked at Casey and held her gaze, then leaned even closer to his grandfather.
“The last one, Grandpa,” Dylan whispered, loud enough for only the three of them to hear. “The last one, I hope.”
12
“JILLIAN,” CASEY SAID into the phone. “You are not helpine.”
“Help? Of course, I’m helping.” Casey heard the distinct sound of Jillian sucking on a cigarette. “It’s ten o’clock, I’m alone in my Manhattan apartment, and I’m spending my Friday night listening to you. Believe me, that’s helping.”
Casey closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She swung her bare legs off the bed and curled her toes in the knotty hotel-room carpet She’d been on the phone for so long that her hair was dry after the bath, and so far Jillian didn’t have a word of wisdom for her. “I need advice, Jillian. I need guidance. Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”
“No, kid, you’re paying me to listen. And what I’m hearing sounds like one of my other patient’s fantasies.”
“Jillian!”
“Listen to yourself!” she exclaimed, and Casey could visualize her stubbing out yet another half-smoked cigarette. “You just spent three weeks playing voyageur in the grandeur of the northern woods with some hunky mountain man and you want my help?”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Honey, why don’t we turn the tables for a minute and have you give me some advice. Where did you find this guy?”
“I told you, I had to interview him on assignment.”
“I’m in the wrong business,” she complained. “All I see is whining neurotics and men who want to cheat on their wives. Do you know how hard it is for a woman over thirty to find a single man—hell, any man—in New York City?”
“But you don’t understand. This guy is serious.” Casey jerked up off the bed and starte
d to pace in a tight little circle, tethered to the hotel nightstand by the short phone cord. “He’s thinking long-term.” She curled her arm around her middle, remembering his words at the party, remembering the way he’d looked at her. “At least, I think he is.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“will…”
“Casey, are you sure you didn’t get knocked on the head when that boat capsized? ’Cause you’re sounding pretty demented right now.”
“Why? A guy wants to get involved with me—after all these years—and I’m supposed to be okay with this?”
“Hear this, Casey?”
Casey stilled and listened to the silence. “What? I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s the world’s smallest violin.”
Casey planted a fist on her hip. “You know, you could turn down that city sarcasm for a minute or so. It might make you seem more sympathetic.”
“From where I’m sitting in my big empty water bed, it’s real hard to muscle up sympathy for your plight, you know what I mean?”
Casey sighed. “I shouldn’t have called—”
“Wait! Wait!” Jillian growled in frustration and then gave a familiar long-suffering sigh. “Don’t hang up, kid. I shouldn’t be loading you with my problems. Just—don’t hang up.”
Casey sank down on the bed. She thrust her fingers through her hair. It felt funny against her hand, soft and dean, and when she let it go it fell into her eyes. She needed a cut. These past weeks, she’d gotten used to having bits of leaves fall from it. She’d gotten used to wearing it up, away from her face.
She’d gotten used to a lot of wonderful things, if she let herself think about them. She’d gotten used to having Dylan around. She glanced at the Spartan furnishings of the hotel room: the burnt orange carpeting, the stucco walls, the generic sailboat print. This was the first hour in almost a month that she’d been without him. She felt strange. Dislocated.
Maybe she shouldn’t have called. Jillian was right She was being whiny. Ungrateful. She was complaining about a situation other women dreamed of. But not every woman had lived her life. Not every woman knew how hard it was to rebuild castles in the air.
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