All he needed was time and patience, yet this blue-eyed girl with her soft southern drawl was snatching both away. He wanted her. Without knowing her, without knowing why, he knew that much! And he was a man used to getting what he wanted.
But Abby was already moving away up the path. “Is it all right if I borrow your bed again for a while? My knees are starting to give way.” She was careful not to look back. And without waiting for his answer, she disappeared into the tent, leaving him standing there.
• • •
After a short nap, Abby spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon in a glade in the forest. She could still hear the roar of the river and catch a glimpse of figures moving along its bank, but she carefully averted her eyes from every glimpse of Jack Gallagher. It was pointless. She was not going to risk getting involved, not going to risk anything! The things that mattered, the things that were possible, were waiting back home. There was no sense breaking her heart over something she couldn’t ever have—like that shiny, red ten-speed bicycle years ago. She was older now, wiser now. So she looked carefully, stubbornly away from Jack Gallagher.
She leaned against a Ponderosa pine, her sketch pad on her lap, a good mystery in her pack on the ground next to her. Safe, solitary occupations. The sun slid through the branches, shifting the shadows slowly. After a little while, her heart slowed its wild flutter, and her aching muscles relaxed.
She must have drifted back into sleep, because the next thing she heard was the rattle and rumble of the van winding down the dirt road to the camp.
Getting up, she winced at the stiffness in her arms and legs, gingerly brushed herself off, and headed slowly down to the long ride back to Estes Park, her motel room, and, eventually, home.
When Abby reached the camp, Elaine and her two beaus were standing in the middle of the clearing, gulping cold beer and laughing. They looked none the worse for the day’s raft trip. In fact, they were wide-eyed with excitement.
Elaine had a red bandanna tied jauntily around her neck. She yelled and waved as Abby appeared. “Oh, honey chile, you missed the most wonderful ride! It is amazing what a real guide can do with that little rubber raft. We just flew down that river today.” She paused and flung an arm around Abby’s sore shoulders. Abby winced. “You’re not mad at us for going without you, are you? Your Sir Galahad, there, said he didn’t think you’d want to go, and you were still sleeping when we left—”
Abby blushed, her gaze sliding quickly to Jack and back again. “No, Elaine, he was right. I wanted a day to relax. But I’m glad you had a good time—”
“And tomorrow Tom and Bobby want us to go hiking with them. They know a wonderful trail in Rocky Mountain National Park. It goes right up to a waterfall. Sound good?”
“Not for me,” Abby replied, shaking her head at her friend’s unbounded enthusiasm. “I plan to be on the first plane to Florida.”
“Oh, rats,” Elaine said, pouting. Then she shrugged. “Well, maybe you’ll change your mind. Come on, I guess we’re ready to go.” The driver had arrived and was climbing into the van.
Several other people, who had been in a different raft the day before, came down the path and climbed into the van after Elaine, Tom, and Bobby. Abby followed them.
She had one foot on the first step when she felt his broad hand on her shoulder. She turned, leaned back against the van’s warm metal exterior, and met Jack’s eyes.
“So?” he said softly. “Will you change your mind?”
Abby felt her heart knocking against her ribs. “No,” she said. “I can’t.”
“But that’s not fair. Now I know a little bit about you, and you don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you saved my life, and I’ll always be grateful,” she said.
“Gratitude is not what I’m looking for,” Jack answered, leaning a hand against the van behind her, his body curving close to hers. His breath ruffled her hair. “Listen, I’m six two; a hundred eighty to a hundred ninety pounds, depending on whether I’ve been doing my own cooking. I’m thirty-five, not married, never been married, didn’t think I was ever going to be married, but I took a look at you sleeping last night and thought, ‘What will it be like to be married to this woman?’ Now, will you stay another day?”
Not a word would squeak out of her throat. Abby shook her head.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because—because it doesn’t make sense. One day—one more day … it’s all impossible—”
“I like tackling the impossible.”
“Well, I don’t! No—I’ve got to get home.”
“Stay and take a chance.”
“I don’t take chances. I don’t take risks. Life is hard enough without them! No, I am a sensible, sane per-person—” His grin shattered the thread of her logic, and she stumbled over her words and sighed. “You just don’t believe me because you’ve seen me at my worst.”
“Darlin’, if this is your worst, I’m in real trouble!”
Abby put both hands flat on his chest and pushed, but couldn’t budge him. Instead she felt his heart pounding beneath her palm, the heat of his body burning her hands. She dropped her hands to her sides and stared at her feet. “Let me go, Jack. Please.”
“Okay. But I’ll be in town at the High Pines Lodge all day tomorrow if you do change your mind. And don’t worry about lunch. I’ll let you cook!”
Three
The High Pines Lodge straddled a pine-covered slope of the foothills, with boulders and loose scree taking the place of a front lawn. The mountains loomed behind.
Abby leaned out the cab window, tipped her head back, and slid her eyes all the way up to the top. Whew. Too big, too fierce. It scared her. He scared her. The trouble was, it was all mixed up in her head: The mountains, Jack Gallagher, the attraction of such wildness, and the fear of it.
Grab a plane, girl! Be smart. Be sensible.
Abby slid back onto the vinyl seat and rolled up the window. “I’ve changed my mind. Take me back to the motel and then on to the airport instead.”
“The airport, miss? Which airport?”
“Denver. And hurry.”
“Sure. It’s your money.” The tires kicked up gravel as the driver spun the wheel.
“Oh, wait! Stop!” She clutched her purse. Money. How much money? How much money had she already thrown away? She tipped forward and craned her neck to see the little meter anchored on the front dash.
“That’s seventeen-fifty, miss. To here. And Denver would run you another fifty, easy.”
She was no longer listening. “Seventeen-fifty?” She gasped, mentally adding the barest tip possible. “That’s—that’s more than three cases of canned peaches, six pounds of fresh swordfish, twenty cans of tomato puree—institutional size!”
“Look, if I ever want to go into the wholesale food business, lady, I’ll give you a call. Now all I want to know is, do you want to go to Denver, or not?”
“Not! Definitely not! And don’t you dare drive this thing another inch with me in it!” she added, as he shifted back into first.
“I was just going to take you back to the front door—”
“I’ll walk. Thank you.” She snapped open the door, stuck one foot firmly on the ground, and dug a twenty out of her wallet. She looked at it, frowned, and reluctantly handed the money to the driver. “Thank you very much.”
“Yup. Enjoy your stay.”
“Ha! That’s like telling a lobster to enjoy his last swim—as you put the lid on the pot!” Abby said, but no one was listening.
The wind sang in the pines and tugged at the hem of her skirt. To her left came the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker. She looked off into the woods, carefully avoiding the sight of the low, rambling inn, its stone facade, and wide wooden porch.
“Hi!” came a shout from the porch, along with the sharp slam of the screen door. Jack was leaning against the wooden railing. “I was watching for you. For a minute I wondered if you were coming or going.”
“Don’t go,” he said, grinning. He was wearing jeans, and his shirt sleeves were rolled back over his forearms. “Come on in,” he coaxed.
“No. I shouldn’t have come.” She turned and started down the path. “There’s a plane at seven tonight, and I’m going to be on it. So good-bye, thanks again, and—”
“And what? ‘See you around’? I won’t. We won’t.”
That brought her to a halt, her heart jumping like a bean in a skillet. But she kept her back to him. “I guess that’s the way life is sometimes,” she said, soft but stubborn.
“I guess I can live with that,” he answered.
Abby felt the heat of his gaze like a hand lifting the hair at the back of her neck. She just had to turn around.
He stared at her a moment, his eyes narrowed, then shook his head. “Nope. I’m wrong. I can’t live with that. Won’t. So come on in here. Let me introduce you to Pop. Show you around. We’ll cook us some lunch and take a walk and maybe go somewhere for dinner.”
“Lunch, that’s all! Don’t you be making any big plans! And then you’ve got to give me a ride back. I haven’t got money to throw away on cab fare like this. Honestly, why didn’t you warn me how far out you lived? This cost me a fortune!”
“I’ll make it worth your while. Come in,” he said. When she hesitated, he added coaxingly, “Come on. You’re here already. There’s nothing to be scared of.”
She laughed, nervous and excited at the same time. She should go. Now. Why, any other man she’d just walk away from. But Jack Gallagher was not any other man.
“Well?” he said, teasing, not asking. He simply held the door open and smiled that slow, irresistible smile of his.
The lodge was not at all what she might have imagined. No antlers mounted on the walls, no buffalo heads and gun racks. Instead there were hand-hewn beams; rough textured, beautifully designed Navaho rugs; shelves of glittering geodes and crystals; and maps and photographs framed and hung on the whitewashed walls between windows that framed a scene more breathtaking than any painting. She could see the tops of the pines bending and swaying in the unheard wind. A Steller’s jay, bouncy and bold as a puppy, hopped up a ladder of limbs and swooped into the sky.
Abby turned in a tight circle, her eyes shining. “Oh, this is beautiful! I could have been happy staying here, and I thought I had seen everything there was to see in Colorado.”
“And that’s close to the truth!” A wiry old man, thin as a butter knife, pulled himself up off the overstuffed sofa. His pale blue eyes crinkled with laughter as he held out his hand. “So you’re the gal with the restaurant down near Disney World? Well, I’m real glad to meet you.”
Smiling back, Abby reached out to shake hands, registering the fact only as they touched that there were just two fingers on his hand. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she took a quick little swallow, looked quickly around the room, and nervously started talking. “What a lovely room! I guess I expected elk heads all over the walls, but that’s a beautiful collection of crystals and—Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you also, Mr. Gallagher.”
“Gallagher? One Gallagher in this neck of the woods is enough!” He winked, including her in his laughter. “Name’s Stout. Nathaniel Stout. Makes me laugh each time I think on it. But you can call me Pop. And now, since it’s the cook’s afternoon off, I’m goin’ in to fix lunch.” And with that he hobbled stiff-legged into the kitchen.
“Wait!” she called, glancing quickly over at Jack.
He was watching her with a smile that barely curved his lips, but his dark eyes were shining.
“Hey, I thought I was doing the cooking,” Abby said with a fierce frown of disapproval. “Paying my debts, making amends, etcetera, Jack.”
“Far as I’m concerned, we’re more than even. Your being here takes care of everything.”
She felt the heat climb from across her breasts, up over her throat, to her face. A little sigh of exasperation—or was it arousal?—escaped between her parted lips. “Jack,” she began, her voice soft and wistful, “there’s no sense in it. None.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“So what, darlin’? You want me to stop looking at you? Thinking about you? Wanting to walk over and touch you? Heck, you’ll get that wish soon enough. For now … well, I’ve never been a very sensible fella. So I’ll just keep looking, thinking, wanting—”
“I’m going in to help with lunch!” Turning on her heel, Abby fled into the kitchen.
Jack followed her. He stopped in the doorway, his arms crossed over his broad chest, seemingly content to watch her tie a towel around her slim waist.
“There, dressed and ready for action,” she announced. “And, Pop, you’ve got a mutiny on your hands if you don’t put me to work.” She laughed, trying to cover her nervousness.
“Sure. You can fix a salad. There’s rolls warming in the oven, my homemade blackberry jam in that crock, and Jack’s got trout cookin’ on the grill.”
“A mess of trout!” Abby corrected, feeling her shyness disappear. “That’s what we’d say in Florida. A mess o’ trout. A mess o’ peas, or grits with gravy.”
“Is that the kind of stuff you serve in that restaurant of yours?”
“Oh, that—and swamp cabbage and gator tails.”
Both men looked so startled that Abby had to laugh. “Don’t you two turn your noses up. That’s good turn-of-the-century Florida cooking we’re talking about. I get requests for that dish!” She grinned as she reached for a cluster of garlic and began removing the paper-thin covering. “But actually, I’m experimenting with a whole new Florida cuisine. Knife?”
Jack handed her a razor-sharp cleaver, and she went to work. Her hands moved with mechanical precision and speed, leaving her thoughts free to fly. “You wouldn’t believe the variety of fresh seafood the boats bring in: red snapper and pompano, shark, grouper, shrimp, scallops. And I make sauces from papaya, guava, avocado, carambola, litchi, and longan, limes, oranges, melons—many of those wonderful subtropical fruits grow right in my own state!” She grabbed a bunch of green onions, stripped them down to the crisp inner stalks, and kept on chopping. “And a man I know, a neighbor from over near Tampa, came up with the idea of growing edible flowers for garnishing. I mean, you eat them! Nasturtiums! Isn’t that wonderful?” She was grinning from ear to ear, dimples decorating her cheeks, her eyes shining.
“If you’re a goat,” Jack teased, but softly, not wanting to break the spell. “You sort of like what you do, don’t you?”
“It’s my whole life,” she answered, giving him the softest little smile, a smile made up of pride and stubbornness and regret.
Jack felt a fist close in his chest. His eyes darkened, as if shades had been drawn suddenly between him and the world.
Abby stared down at the neat pile of perfect, one-eighth-inch onion sections. So orderly. So simple. Pressing her lips together, she started to tear the lettuce into a large wooden bowl.
Pop couldn’t stand the sudden thicker-than-wet-wool tension in the room. “So, little gal, did your momma teach you to cook?”
It was so far from the truth, it made her laugh. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she shook her head. “My mother? She’d put a mess o’ beans up in the morning, with some greens, and go out to work the groves with my father. There were seedlings to nurse, grafts to worry over, machinery to oil, canker and drought—and always a freeze on the way. Whenever they got back to the house, that’s when dinner was.…”
Her voice drifted off, stolen away by the power of her memories. When she found it again, it was hushed, solemn. She drew a little breath. “No, my mother didn’t teach me to cook. But in high school—in the library—I discovered cookbooks. I read them like romances, late at night, dreaming over them. Maybe because I was always hungry, hungry for
the taste of something new, something exotic, something”—she caught her lower lip between her teeth, her blue eyes lit with visions—“something delicious!”
Jack could almost see that high-school girl, blond hair bouncing on her shoulders, dreaming her future. “So you decided to be a world-famous chef—”
“Don’t y’all make fun of me,” Abby insisted, pressing a fingertip to his lips.
“I wasn’t,” he whispered against her skin, the heat of his mouth searing her fingertip, racing up her arm to her heart.
She snatched her hand away and tucked it in the folds of the towel. “Anyway, I won myself a scholarship to Florida State, got a degree in business, and worked nights and weekends at Dunkin’ Donuts. I still bake doughnuts in my sleep! Then I got a job with Holiday Inn. I started as a fry cook and ended up restaurant manager.”
“Sounds like hard work—” Jack began sympathetically.
“Of course it was hard work!” She looked at him as if he were crazy. “Since when is making a living, getting ahead not hard work?”
“It depends on what you call ‘getting ahead,’ ” he said in that maddeningly calm, husky voice of his. “If you mean wanting things, and sweating and saving to buy them, and then wanting more things, then I guess hard work is—”
“I mean, Jack Gallagher, wanting a better life than the one you had yesterday. Being able to afford a home, and putting dinner on the table, and making sure the people you love don’t want—that’s what I mean. And none of it comes easy! And”—she reached up to poke his broad chest with one trembling finger—“I don’t see you living in a tent or a shack. This looks pretty comfy to me! And if you’re not working for it, someone is—or did!” She turned sharply to Pop, looking for confirmation.
“You’re fishin’ in the wrong waters, gal. You just don’t know Jack Gallagher.”
Before she could even squeak out a protest. Jack slipped one hand behind her back and pulled her off to the corner. He put his arms around her. “I bet it’s been hard.”
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