He held her close against his heart. “I love you, Ali Nicholas, more than you know, and it was life that caused the troubles we’ve had, not you. The past is behind us now, though, it’s tomorrow that really counts. I know that now and I know with every part of me that I want to spend all my tomorrows with you...so...” He looked down into her face with a dark intensity in his eyes.
“So... What?”
“Marry me...please, Ali. You and Daisy, I just want us to be a family and...”
Gently she placed her fingers over his lips. “Stop rambling, Tom, and kiss me.”
He wrapped his arms tightly around her, holding her so close that she felt as if they were one being, and she let out a sigh of pure happiness. In the moment when his lips reached hers, she held back, smiling up at him. “Yes, yes, yes,” she cried. “I will marry you, Tom. I love you to the moon and back and I’m never going to let you go again.”
His lips finally found hers with a passion that left her breathless. “And now,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her back toward the pub. “Let’s go find our baby and tell everyone our news.”
They were met by cheers and hoots of joy from the crowd that had gathered outside, and in front of them all Tom kissed her again before putting his arm about her shoulders and turning to face them. “I’d like you all to meet my wife-to-be,” he said, looking at Ali with such pride that she felt the tears begin again.
Finally, she realized, she was home.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from Alaskan Hideaway by Beth Carpenter.
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Alaskan Hideaway
by Beth Carpenter
CHAPTER ONE
SNOW CRUNCHED UNDER Ursula’s ski poles as she pushed up the rise and stopped at the top of the hill to catch her breath. She’d earned an Anchorski second-place medal in the over-fifty age group a few winters ago, but that didn’t mean she could keep up with her eight-year-old goddaughter. From somewhere nearby, a raven cackled as though amused at these earthbound creatures with boards strapped to their feet.
Up ahead, Rory picked up speed as the slope grew steeper. She crouched into a tuck, her corn-silk hair lifting from her shoulders and streaming behind her. At this rate, she’d be airborne before she reached the bottom of the hill.
“Remember, pizza,” Ursula called. The little girl instantly spread the tails of her skis and slid to a stop.
She looked back at Ursula and frowned. “I know what a wedge is.” Of course, she did. Rory had been on the ski trails before she could walk, riding in a pulk behind her parents. She didn’t need anyone to remind her to shift her skis in “pizza” position to slow herself or “hotdog” to speed up.
“Sorry. I forget you’re an expert. But I’m not as fast as you. Slow down a little so I can keep up. Okay?”
“Okay.” Rory flashed a smile before she resumed skiing, and Ursula’s heart melted. Rory’s smiles had been all too rare lately. After a week including a discouraging meeting with Rory’s teacher and a glowing article about the new resort in Seward that was bound to cut into Ursula’s business, this was exactly what they both needed. Time outside, space to move and breathe. Somehow, nothing seemed quite as overwhelming in the outdoors.
The trail ran between a cluster of spruce trees and a huge boulder making a sharp bend toward the right-of-way across Betty’s place. Movement caught her eye, and Ursula looked over to watch a rabbit disappear into the woods. She rounded the bend and turned her attention back to the trail.
What in the—? A gate Ursula had forgotten existed blocked the trail at the bottom of the hill. Rory had spotted the gate first and was standing in the middle of the trail. Ursula slowed but couldn’t stop in time to avoid a slow-motion crash, and they both skidded downhill in a tangle of arms, legs, skis and poles, coming to rest a couple of feet from the heavy gate.
Ursula sat up. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Eyes wide, the girl nodded and stared at the gate. “Why is that there?”
“I don’t know.” The top rail sported a new sign: Private Property. No Trespassing. A thick chain looped around the fencepost adjacent to the gate. On the far side, someone had gone to considerable trouble shoveling the snow away so the gate could swing shut. It had always been open during the six years Ursula had been operating the inn. Betty had enjoyed watching the skiers and hikers pass through on the way to the main trails. She used to sit outside on nice days and wave at them.
Ursula got to her feet and jabbed her poles into the snow before offering Rory a hand up. The wooden sign pointing toward Fireweed Trail was missing, too. This was no misunderstanding. The shortcut she and her guests took across her neighbor’s property to the cross-country trails was closed.
This wouldn’t do. Not only did she and Rory enjoy Nordic skiing, but access to trails was one of the main draws for her bed-and-breakfast inn, especially in the winter. Across the snow-covered meadow, a steel-gray SUV with a propeller-shaped medallion on the grill backed up to Betty’s porch, its liftgate open. A real estate agent, no doubt, finally getting the place ready to sell.
It had been almost two years since Betty Francis, Ursula’s friend and neighbor, passed away at the age of eighty-nine and left her cabin to her granddaughter, Danielle. Except for a monthly cleaning service, the cabin had been deserted ever since. Ursula was surprised it had taken Danielle this long to list the property. She’d seldom found time to visit even when her grandmother was alive, with her busy career writing cookbooks.
Rory’s lip quivered. “Does this mean we can’t ski anymore?”
“Of course we can ski. We can get to the trails by Marge’s place if we need to, but maybe if we ask nicely, they’ll let us through today.” If they could get the agent’s attention, anyway.
Either way, the gate wouldn’t stay closed for long. The credit union had already preapproved Ursula for a loan. Assuming the asking price was anywhere near reasonable, Ursula was ready to buy Betty’s cabin and the land around it. With that new resort going in, she needed something special to entice guests, and with this property she could give her guests something the hotel couldn’t.
A man stepped to the edge of the porch and looked their way. Ursula waved, but he didn’t respond. She held her hand against her face like a phone to let him know she wanted to talk, but he just crossed his arms over his chest and stared at them. Great sales technique.
Ferocious barking interrupted her thoughts. A black-and-white dog tore through the
snow. All at once, Ursula was glad for the heavy gate. She liked dogs, but the pit bull charging toward them didn’t evoke her usual warm and fuzzy response. She clutched her ski poles, just in case she needed them to fend it off. Rory squeaked and hid behind her.
The dog roared and leaped at the gate, shaking the heavy iron, fell to the snow and leaped again. Ursula knew fleeing would only engage the dog’s chase response, so she slowly eased away from the fence, staying between Rory and the dog. What kind of realtor brought a vicious dog along on his visits?
Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted, “Call off your dog.” She wasn’t sure if he could make out her words from that distance or not, but if he did, he chose to ignore her.
Fine. She turned and urged Rory back up the hill. “We’re okay. The dog can’t get through the gate.” The barking continued long after they had rounded the boulder and disappeared into the forest. Eventually, Ursula heard a distant whistle and the dog quieted. By that time, they were halfway home.
Once they made it to the B&B parking area, she and Rory released their bindings and stepped out of their skis. When she laid a hand on Rory’s shoulder, she could feel the girl shaking, whether from fear or anger Ursula wasn’t sure. Ursula was leaning their skis against the wall on the porch when she heard a chattering noise. A squirrel dashed across the porch and tried to run up Rory’s leg, but the ski bibs she wore were too slick.
Rory giggled. “Hi, Frankie.” Giving up on climbing her leg, the squirrel ran up the porch post to stand on top of the railing. Rory stroked a finger along his back. “I couldn’t find you yesterday. Where were you?”
Ursula smiled at their reunion. Animals were Rory’s soft spot, and she’d been fascinated with Frankie from their first meeting. “He comes and goes. He was probably just off playing with his friends.” She patted her coat and found a few sunflower seeds in the breast pocket, which she handed to Rory. The squirrel took them from her hand, stuffed them into his cheek pouches and scurried away. Good old Frankie. Unlike a certain realtor, he didn’t bite the hand that fed him. Rory watched him disappear into the forest.
Ursula put an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “What do you say we get a cookie before we drive over to Marge’s house to ski?”
Rory shrugged, her features once again settling into that bland expression she wore too often. “I don’t want to ski anymore. Can I watch a movie?”
Ursula sighed inwardly. That’s all Rory had wanted to do at first, to watch the same dozen movies over and over. Recently, she’d seemed a little more engaged, but here they were again. Eventually, Ursula was going to need to put some limits on screen time, but after the gate and the dog, she understood why Rory needed this. Saturday night used to be movie night for Rory and her parents, when they would pop popcorn and cuddle together on the couch. Wrapping herself in her mother’s blanket and watching movies made Rory feel closer to them. But it had been four months since the accident, and Ursula was starting to see traces of the bundle of energy Rory used to be. The ski outing had been going so well, until the stupid realtor ruined it.
Ursula forced a smile before opening the door, for the sake of her guests as well as Rory. People came to the B&B to relax, and she made it a point never to add to their stress. “You can watch a movie if that’s what you want.” The faint odor of maple syrup from this morning’s breakfast still hung in the air. The couple staying in the Rose room sipped coffee and gazed out the windows, watching the birds flutter between Ursula’s collection of bird feeders. Good thing they weren’t skiers. The family in the Shooting Star suite had gone into Seward for the day.
Ursula greeted her guests and followed Rory to their private quarters in the back of the inn to change. When the zipper on her ski boot stuck, she jerked it free and dropped the boot on the floor with a thud. That realtor was just plain rude. He could have at least given her warning before he closed the shortcut, not to mention controlling his dog.
But getting mad wouldn’t accomplish anything. Betty’s granddaughter had chosen to hire him, so if Ursula wanted that property, she was going to have to work with him. Once he’d had a chance to put up a for-sale sign, she’d call and make an appointment to tour the property.
Not that she needed a tour. She’d visited Betty often, especially as she got older and her health was failing. Ursula knew the cabin far better than some realtor. She knew the roof was only four years old but the water heater was getting toward the end of its life, that the thermostat in the oven ran fifty degrees low, and that the sun filled the living room with light in March once it was high enough in the sky to clear the mountain. And she knew exactly where on the five-acre property she would situate the RV park—on the other side of a stand of spruce, out of sight from the house but an easy walk away.
It would be the perfect complement to her bed-and-breakfast inn, great for family reunions or gatherings, where guests could choose to either stay in her comfortable rooms or bring their own RVs and still have facilities to get together for meals and fun.
She returned to the living room to help Rory find the movie she wanted. She could do this. Rory was slowly getting better, and eventually she would revert to her bright cheerful self despite this temporary setback.
And soon, Ursula would have the land she needed. The realtor was an aggravation, but on the bright side, his presence meant she was one step closer to putting her expansion plan into action. And Ursula always tried to look on the bright side.
* * *
“GOOD GIRL. You ran off the evil intruders, didn’t you?” Mac rubbed behind the dog’s rosebud ears. She wiggled in delight. “We don’t want a bunch of nosy people poking around here, do we? No we don’t.” He’d been a little surprised at the dog’s performance. She wasn’t usually so aggressive. She must have found something sinister about the two skiers, which was odd since one of them was a child. Not that people were above using children in their schemes. He’d had photographers try the “my kid lost a baseball in your yard” trick more than once.
The whole point of this impromptu move to Alaska was to get away from people. Especially some members of the tabloid press. Bunch of vampires, feeding on sensationalism without giving a thought to the pain they inflicted with their questions. Even if he’d wanted to feed their appetite for new information, there was no more to give. The police and the private investigator he’d hired had hit a dead end, leaving nothing but questions and conjecture.
The dog pushed her head harder against his leg, letting him know he hadn’t done nearly enough to reward her for her stalwart defense of their new home. He bent over and tickled that itchy spot under her chin. If it weren’t for her, he didn’t know if he would have survived the last couple of months. She’d been his constant companion, even on the long drive up the Alaska Highway, curled into a ball in the back seat amid the moving boxes.
He glanced toward the car, and the dog took the opportunity to make a quick swipe across his nose with her tongue. When he jerked his head back, she opened her mouth in a doggie grin. He swore she laughed at him sometimes. Hers was the only laughter in his life right now. He patted her rump and lifted the last box from the car.
Mac closed the liftgate with his free hand, crossed the porch and stomped the snow off his boots before stepping into the house. He added the box to the stack half filling the living room and let his gaze drift around the room. A plaid recliner, an orange vinyl couch and a coffee table made from a crosscut log and moose antlers huddled up to a woodstove. Across a shaggy gold rug, an ancient console television the size of a washing machine jutted into the room. Bookshelves lined the wall behind it, a row of National Geographic magazines taking up one entire shelf. Everything in this room was almost as old as he was. But it was functional, and that was all he cared about right now.
Might as well unpack. He lifted a heavy box, set it on the coffee table and pulled his grandpa’s knife from his pocket. After slitting the packing tap
e, he opened the box to reveal a stack of books, all identical. The cover featured the silhouette of an armed man crouching. Bloodred letters formed the title.
A knot tightened in his stomach. He closed the box and set it on the floor of the coat closet near the front door. A swift kick shoved it into the back corner. He trudged across the room and sank into the recliner, letting his head sink into his hands. Senseless evil. It was all too real.
The dog whined and pushed until her front half was on his lap. She nuzzled his face just as she had so many times before. How could he, of all people, have missed the signs? He should have seen it coming, should have done something to stop it. But he didn’t, and she was gone. He screwed his eyes shut, willing himself into control. A single tear escaped, but the dog’s tongue erased the evidence. After a moment’s struggle, he was able to breathe again.
Why would he think moving would make a difference? He was old enough to know better. You couldn’t run away from yourself.
* * *
URSULA SPRINKLED A little more flour on the countertop and returned to pummeling a lump of bread dough. She had a bread machine, but after yesterday’s aggravation, she had an urge to knead it the old-fashioned way. At least the dough cooperated, yielding a smooth-textured pillow under her hands.
A knock sounded at the door she kept closed between the kitchen and dining room to discourage guests from bumbling in and upsetting her cooking routine. She reached for a towel, but before she could wipe her hands, the door opened and Marge, her neighbor and proprietor of the Caribou B&B on the other side of Betty’s place, popped her head in. “Busy?”
“Hi. Just finishing up. Come sit, and I’ll make coffee.”
“I’ll do it.” Marge reached into the cabinet for the canister. Ursula oiled a bowl and dropped the dough inside, setting it on the stove to rise. She washed her hands and pulled a pitcher of cream from the refrigerator while Marge poured them each a cup of coffee. Marge let herself through the divider gate Ursula had set up to keep the cat out of the kitchen and plopped down on the window seat beside him. He opened one eye and regarded her briefly before returning to his nap.
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