She slipped her hand to her chest. He was right. She really didn’t have any clothes on. No, she still wore panties.
She touched his chest. He was warm, and his chest was hairy. Brushing her hand over his skin, she caressed the soft hair on his chest. And stopped.
“Sorry,” she said, taking her hand away. She had to wake up, but it was hard, because she only wanted to sleep. And forget.
“You’re warmer now,” he said.
“Yes, thank you. I feel fine.” She always felt fine. “Except my foot . . .” Something was wrong with her foot. Her left foot.
“Hurts?”
“A little.” It was starting to throb, now that she was waking up.
“Hold on,” he said, shifting her off his lap and onto the couch. He pulled the blanket away from himself, and suddenly she was looking at his bare chest. She switched her gaze to his face, his eyes. His eyes were blue. Deep blue, warm in the firelight.
And he was watching her like she was watching him. Like they recognized each other. Like they had known each other, always.
The moment passed, he looked away and she closed her eyes. She felt him tucking the blanket around her, felt him moving off the couch. Then she heard the stove’s door creak open.
Pressing the blanket against her eyes, she waited. Oh God, this couldn’t be happening. Was he wearing anything? She had to look, and so . . .
She peeked. And saw that he was wearing a pair of black boxers. Relief washed over her.
He knelt in front of the stove, loading more wood into the fire. He was a big man. Tall. She remembered that. A lot taller than Greg. And unlike Greg, this man was dark. Dark hair, sort of long, trailing on his neck. He had several days of beard stubble and his skin was tanned, like he worked outside.
“You sprained your foot,” he said, as he stacked the wood. “Or you broke it.”
It didn’t feel broken. But how would she know? She’d never broken anything before.
“And I think you may have bumped your head.” He closed the stove’s door, creaking it on its hinges. Sitting back on his heels, he looked at her. His thighs were big, strong looking. His chest was broad, covered in fine dark hair, and his stomach muscles were ridged.
“I was worried about letting you sleep,” he said, “but I fell asleep, and―” He checked his watch. A heavy sports watch. “We slept about two hours.” And then, “Are you hungry?”
It seemed unreal, talking to this man in the black boxers, while she huddled almost naked under her blanket. But it felt safe.
He dipped his head and said, again, “Are you hungry?”
Her stomach felt tight, but not hungry. “I don’t know.”
“Did you hit your head?” He was still kneeling by the stove.
“I don’t remember. Hitting my head, I mean.” She pulled the blanket tighter and watched him.
“When is the wedding?”
The words jarred, out of place. “The wedding?”
“The one you’re rushing off to. Your wedding.”
“It’s . . .” It’s not happening anymore. But he’d seen the wedding dress. He thought she was getting married.
“I think you hit your head,” he said, as he looked back at her, his gaze never leaving her.
“No,” she answered, finally. He might as well think she was still getting married. That would be simpler . . . than explaining. “The wedding is the end of this month. The last Saturday of June.”
“I still think you hit your head.”
“No. I didn’t,” she said. I just made a bad decision.
· · · · ·
The last Saturday of June?
That’s when he was getting married. At least, that’s when he was supposed to be getting married. It wasn’t even a coincidence. Everybody got married on the last Saturday of June. It’s when people got married.
When did they get divorced?
“When’s your wedding?” she asked.
Right. My wedding. How had this happened, he wondered. That he’d become so involved with someone that he’d simply slid into an inevitable marriage.
“You said you were getting married, too?” She was waiting for his answer.
He watched her for a beat. This was good. She was making conversation. Maybe she wasn’t disoriented.
“It’s the same day as yours,” he said, as he stood up.
The rain made a soft pattering sound on the roof. She was looking at the fire. Or maybe not, because her eyes were tearing up, like she was thinking about something. Her eyes were green. Funny color. Very green. More green with the tears.
Never mind her goddamn eyes.
“We’d better eat something.”
He lifted his shirt from the chair by the stove. The fabric was stiff as a board. “This is dry,” he said, as he tossed the shirt on top of her blanket. “Put it on.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“On the table.” He tilted his head in that direction. “In a heap. Not dry. We’ll have something to eat and then I’ll hang them up.” He started toward the kitchen and saw her bra dangling off the back of the couch.
“But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Don’t you want your shirt?”
He smiled, and sighed. “I think you need it more than I do.” Grabbing the lantern off the table, he headed into the kitchen.
The cabin was around 600 square feet, probably a 25 foot square, with pine floors made of wide varnished boards. Half the floor space was taken by the main room along the front. A three-foot hallway divided the back half. The bedroom was on the left, an archway, no door. To the right was the kitchen, and farther down the hallway, behind the kitchen was the bathroom. The propane water heater was in the bathroom, along with a small sink, a tiny mirror, a toilet and a shower. And a stack of royal blue towels on the single shelf.
The long, narrow kitchen had a counter on the left that ran the length of the room. The counter was clear except for a two-burner propane stove. Nothing was under the counter except for an empty cardboard box that said Magic Mixers, and an old-fashioned ice chest.
No counter on the right side. The wall displayed an assortment of decorative plates mounted about five feet from the floor in a long row—sunflowers, daisies, different colored roses. There was also a plate with a picture of Niagara Falls and another of the Calgary Tower. Not something Pro would have put there.
At the end of the kitchen, under the window, a large porcelain sink took up most of the counter space. The window looked ancient with its leaded panes of glass. And, he shook his head, yellow checked curtains with white lace along the bottom. The curtains were open, showing the black night. Trickles of rain zigzagged down the window panes.
He opened the ice chest. Empty, of course. There was a block of ice waiting in the cooler in his truck. It could wait.
He positioned the lantern on the counter next to the stove.
Two open shelves hung on the wall above. One by sixes, painted white. The top shelf contained dishes, and the bottom, food. One can of Puritan beef stew, four cans of Spam, a small can of evaporated milk, a can of Tim Hortons coffee, and twelve jars of peaches. No label.
The peaches must have come from Pro’s oddball aunt. Canning peaches would be something she’d do. The curtains would be hers. So would the decorative plates.
Along with the dishes on the top shelf, there was an assortment of pots and pans, and a blue plastic box of cutlery. He found a can opener, opened the can of beef stew and considered the pots.
He chose a small one and dumped the stew into it. Then he set it on the propane burner, flicked the knob, and adjusted the flame.
A tarnished silver tray leaned against the back of the dish shelf. He set it on the counter and brushed his fingers over the ornate swirls. And smiled. He was preparing a meal for someone. He hardly ever prepared a meal for himself.
So. They’d need some bowls. And spoons.
The dish collection consisted of—two egg cups made
of a delicate white china, a wide red plastic funnel, a black mug with Canadian Bar Association in gold letters on one side and a pair of legal scales on the other, a six-cup coffee pot with a purple Melitta cone, a stack of yellow plastic measuring cups, three tin plates, two clear mugs with snowflakes embossed on the glass, and seven china bowls in different shapes and sizes.
He turned over a white, gold-rimmed dish. Royal Doulton. Another bowl was Wedgwood. A third was Royal Albert.
Leftover pieces of someone’s china collection?
Must have come from crazy Aunt Dizzy. No, not Dizzy. Something like that. He couldn’t remember what Pro called her.
The stew boiled over.
He turned off the burner, found spoons and a pot holder, scraped the stew into two bowls, and set them on the silver tray. Not exactly the way Catherine would do it, but it would work. He added one of Aunt Dizzy’s jars of peaches and . . .
“Do you have your shirt on?” Please let her have the shirt on.
She hesitated. And then, “Yes.”
He carried out the tray and the lantern.
She was sitting where he’d left her, snuggled into his Levi’s shirt, with the blanket over her lap. Her lacy white bra still dangled from the back of the couch.
With her hair curling around her face, she looked messy, but cute. She’d buttoned the shirt right up to her neck and rolled up the sleeves. Her left foot was up on the couch, poking out from under the blanket. He’d have to rewrap that tensor.
After setting the lantern on the floor, he kicked the chair in front of the couch, and arranged the tray on the chair. Then he sat beside her, on her right side.
“Some of it burnt a little,” he said. “Got stuck to the pot.” He handed her a bowl and a spoon.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You are. Eat.”
She reluctantly accepted the bowl. Then she scooped up half a spoonful, blew on it, and tasted.
“It’s good,” she said. She sipped another spoonful, and then another, her appetite taking over. She ate like she hadn’t eaten in a long time.
What was she doing out here? All alone. And who was she?
“I’m Ryder.” He reached out his hand, without thinking. “Ryder O’Callaghan.”
She dropped her spoon in the half finished bowl and shook his hand. “Toria Whitney,” she said.
“You’re still cold.”
“I’m better.” She released his hand.
He let go, too. He’d just shaken hands with her. Strange. Considering he’d been holding this almost naked woman on his lap for two hours. Some things were just automatic.
He took a bite of the stew. Hot, and salty, and satisfying. Toria . . .
“Vic-toria?”
“Yes. It’s short for Victoria. My mother doesn’t like it shortened.”
Neither does Catherine. Like it shortened. “What else doesn’t your mother like?”
Toria had just about finished eating. She was scraping some last bits of stew from the edges of the china bowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he said, wondering why he’d said it. But he’d bet her mother didn’t like a lot of things if she didn’t like her daughter’s name. “It’s not supposed to mean anything.” He took another bite of the stew. And then, “Where is your mother?”
“In Calgary.”
“Planning your wedding?”
“No,” she said. “I mean, yes.”
“Which?”
She paused and licked her spoon. “My fiancé’s mother is planning the wedding.”
Her fiancé’s mother? “That’s unusual.”
“It’s what she does. She’s an events planner.”
Events planner . . . like a wedding planner. His mind sorted the information and it still seemed odd. He couldn’t imagine Catherine turning the planning over to his mother.
“That’s convenient,” he said, trying to say something positive.
She waited a moment, considering. “Is your mother planning your wedding?”
“I don’t know. She probably has something to say about it. My fiancée is running most of it. I think.”
A flash of lightning illuminated the dark windows. Three seconds later, the crash of thunder followed. The trees shook off some water and the rain swept over the roof. The wind had picked up again.
Make it stop raining, he wished. Make the partnership hassle go away. Make the wedding go away.
The wedding?
At least, make the poodle go away.
Maybe he had jitters. Grooms were supposed to get jitters, weren’t they? “Do you ever get the jitters? About getting married?”
“All the time.” Not a second’s hesitation.
“You do?”
She laughed, a musical sound. “I can’t believe I said that. Can we eat these peaches?” She reached for the jar.
An image of her wedding dress blowing in the wind played in his memory. “You’re running away, aren’t you?”
“No,” she said, simply. Not arguing. She gripped the jar, twisting the lid. Not budging it. Then she handed it to him.
He took the jar from her and with a light twist, the seal popped.
“I think you may have been getting married,” he said, giving her the jar. “You’ve got the dress—it’s a nice dress, but―”
“Thank you.”
“―I think you called off the wedding.”
She scooped several peach wedges into her empty bowl.
“So?” he asked.
“What?”
“Are you calling it off?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Postponing it then?” Why was he questioning her? Did he want her to be a runaway bride?
“These are good,” she said, tasting her first peach.
“You could postpone, I suppose.” He felt like he was talking to himself. “You can’t very well hobble down the aisle with a broken foot.”
“Why not?” She ate another peach slice. “And it’s a sprain. It’s not broken.”
“My fiancée wouldn’t hobble down the aisle with a broken foot.”
“She probably wouldn’t break her foot three weeks before the wedding.”
“I thought you said it was just a sprain.”
“You should try these. They’re great.” She scooped several more slices into her bowl and poured in some of the juice. A lot of the juice.
A log shifted in the little stove. Sparks flashed and the fire burned brighter for a second. The strangeness of their conversation hit him.
What did it matter? If she was getting married, or not? It was none of his business.
He set his empty bowl on the silver tray. He didn’t like peaches. At least, not canned. He liked them fresh. But, he needed to eat something else, and it looked like peaches were the something else. He’d rewrap her tensor first.
“Give me your foot.”
“Why?”
He closed his eyes. Why did she have to be so difficult? “The tensor is loose. Your ankle needs some pressure on it.”
“The bandage is fine,” she said.
“No, it’s not. It will fall off while you’re sleeping. I’d better rewrap it.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. Give me your foot. I’m going to rewrap the tensor, then I’m going to eat some of those peaches and then I’m going back to sleep.”
She shrugged, turned on the couch, and plopped her foot onto his lap.
“It doesn’t hurt at all now,” she said, yawning.
She looked like she was fighting sleep. Or more likely, she had hit her head. She ate her last peach slice and then drank the rest of the juice out of the bowl.
Her foot was purple but the swelling seemed less. He rewrapped the tensor, still damp from being in the rain. Then he poured the rest of the peaches into his own bowl.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said, pushing aside the blanket.
“I’ll help you.”
�
��I can do it myself.” She was on her feet, swaying.
He plunked his bowl on the tray and stood, catching her just before she fell.
“I can do―”
“―it myself.” He picked her up in his arms, bent his knees to catch the handle of the lantern, and carried her down the hall and right into the bathroom.
After he set her on the floor, she said, “Are you going to stay?”
“You can only hop so far.” He set the lantern on the floor. “I’ll be outside.” He left her, closed the door, and waited in the dark hallway.
There wasn’t any sound for a few minutes and then she turned on the tap. Running water, so he couldn’t hear her pee. Cute. It was like taking one of his sister’s toddlers to the bathroom.
Then he heard the toilet flush. And then she must have been washing her hands. And judging by how long she was taking, her face too.
She opened the door, holding the lantern, and looking very sleepy. He would have said drunk, except she hadn’t been drinking.
“You hit your head back there.”
“No. I didn’t.”
He picked her up again. This time she held the lantern.
Once he had her settled on the couch, he loaded more wood into the stove. And then he went to the bathroom himself.
When he got back, she was curled on her side at the end of the couch, and she was sleeping. Snoring lightly.
He sat on the other end of the couch, picked up the bowl of peaches, and tasted one. The rich mellow flavor melted in his mouth. They were good—just as Toria had said. And they should be, considering how much brandy was in them.
Terrific. Another of Aunt Dizzy’s magic recipes.
He looked over at Toria. Her hair had fallen over her face, and her hands were folded together and tucked under her cheek.
He looked down at the peaches and sighed. She wasn’t making a lot of sense, she probably had a concussion, and he’d just fed her a lot of brandy.
Chapter Three
Catherine Margaret Forsythe ordered her usual double-double and a low-fat apple muffin, scanned the early morning Tim Hortons for an empty table—and didn’t find one.
But she did see Jimmy Bondeau.
He sat at a table at the back, in the corner, hunched over a Calgary Sun newspaper and eating a bagel. His stylishly cut hair and his green striped polo shirt made him look out of place among the crunch of construction workers grabbing a quick breakfast.
On the Way to a Wedding Page 3