The Beekeeper's Daughter (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Carter, Janice

  If, if, if. A useless word. Almost as pointless as the phrase I wish. She sat up, tossing the letter aside, and reached for a tissue on the night table. The clock radio told her it was almost six-thirty. Auntie Isobel had likely finished dinner long ago and was now dozing in front of the television. Annie hesitated, index finger poised above the phone. Then, before she could change her mind, quickly tapped in the number.

  Annie could tell from the disoriented tone in her aunt’s greeting that she had indeed been napping. “I, uh, wanted to tell you that Dad and Shirley got away just before four and that Shirley will call you tomorrow after the surgery.”

  There was a slight pause. “I know that, dear. We made those arrangements last week. Remember?”

  Annie cleared her throat. “Oh, right. Well, I also wanted to tell you that I got your letter and…the one from the adoption agency.”

  “So quickly! I just mailed them the day before yesterday.”

  The ball’s back in my court. “I was surprised. No, more than that. Well, maybe closer to shocked.”

  “I thought you might be, dear.”

  Annie closed her eyes, knowing Auntie Isobel wasn’t going to ask the question. “The letter was from a Sister Mary Beatty. She said that the…that is, my…uh, daughter wanted to make contact with me.”

  When her aunt finally spoke, she sounded almost sad. “I thought that might be the reason for the letter. I couldn’t think why else they’d be writing after all these years.”

  “The thing is…I don’t really know what to do.”

  “Of course you don’t. How could you possibly? Take your time, Annie. There’s no rush, is there?”

  “No, but I… It’s just that Dad will be home in two or three weeks and…”

  Auntie Isobel’s voice was soft. “You haven’t told him, I’m assuming.”

  Annie waited for the pounding at her temples to ease. “No. There never seemed to be a good time and then—frankly—I left it so long I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

  “I know you’re worried about his reaction, dear, but you’re an adult now. He won’t be disappointed in you.”

  “I never thought he would be. But he might feel hurt that I never told him in the beginning. And now all this time has passed and—”

  “Your father may come across like a gruff man, Annie, but we both know he’s not really.”

  “Telling Dad is the least of my… I just don’t know what I want…. Do you remember this Sister Mary Beatty? Was she the one who was so nice to me?”

  “I can’t recall, Annie.” She paused. “I suppose this has brought back all the memories.”

  “In a huge overwhelming flood.”

  “Would you like me to come for a visit?”

  “No, that’s okay, Auntie Isobel. I’ll be coming your way soon.”

  “Do you think your father will give in and stay with Shirley’s cousin?”

  “Hard to say. You know Dad.”

  “Are you managing without him?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s good. So you’ll let me know when you’re coming? You might have a chance to pay a visit to the agency while you’re here.”

  Annie felt as if time was squeezing her. Obviously she’d have to make a decision soon. “I guess so.”

  “Just a suggestion, dear.” Her aunt must have picked up the tone in her voice. “Don’t feel pressured to decide before you’ve thought everything through very carefully. Otherwise, how’re things? Anything new in your life?”

  Annie had a vision of Will Jennings waving goodbye from his camper van. “Not really,” she said. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.” When she hung up, Annie wasn’t certain if the call had helped or made her feel worse.

  AS HE HEADED into Essex, Will scanned the paved road ahead for a sign indicating that campsite Annie had mentioned. When he spotted a small arrow-shaped sign, he let the van coast to a stop. Rest Haven Camp, a mere five miles away. Worth a look-see, he decided, and turned onto the gravel road. It was an unusual location for a campsite. How many tourists wandered this far off the highway?

  Three miles in, he suddenly understood. Cresting a hill, Will jammed the brake and stared openmouthed at a jewel of a pond ringed by trees. It was the centerpiece of a stretch of green pasture at the bottom of the hill. The roof of a farmhouse reflected the setting sun. Beyond it, about half a mile to the north, were three shedlike constructions in a stand of trees and the wooden framework of a larger, rectangular building in progress. A dirt trail wound around the buildings out to the gravel road and the entire area was bordered by a split rail fence. The late-afternoon sun cast the scene in a rich gold that Will had seen only once before, in a book of paintings. He eased his foot off the brake and drove down the incline.

  As he passed he saw that the farmhouse on his right was boarded up. The roof of the weathered gray barn behind the house had collapsed and the front yard was overgrown with tall weeds. Will gave the van more gas, anxious to check out the campground ahead. The sign fronting the entrance to Rest Haven was newer than the first one Will had seen from the highway. He turned onto the dirt lane. The van bumped and jostled along the potholed surface as Will drove toward the building with the Office sign.

  He parked in front and climbed out. Except for the clamor of birds in the trees, the place was silent. There were no vehicles as far as Will could see and when he called out a hello, no response. Standing in the open clearing, Will made a slow circular turn and decided that the place either hadn’t opened yet, or the manager had been called away on urgent business. The office door was locked, as he’d suspected. Cupping his hands against the reflection, he peered through a window next to the door.

  Squinting, he could just make out a telephone on an otherwise empty desk. Two or three chairs loomed in the shadows and he thought he saw the outline of a filing cabinet. If the place was open, it obviously wasn’t enjoying a busy season. He called out once more but when there was still no reply, he got back in the van and started up the engine.

  Ten minutes later he was back on the highway leading into Essex. He had the money for a motel, but hated to spend it unnecessarily. What was there to keep him in Garden Valley? Annie’s face popped into his head as clearly as if he were still sitting across the kitchen table from her.

  The small upturned nose with its sprinkle of golden freckles. Eyebrows arched quizzically at him above her large, tawny eyes. She was all golden light, he realized, like the painting he’d been reminded of moments ago, only drawn in clear, strong lines. There was nothing delicate or ephemeral about Annie Collins.

  Face it, man. You don’t want to leave. His mind made up, he continued toward Essex. But long before the town limits, Will saw something he’d hoped not to for a long time. An inky black column of smoke spiraled up from a thicket of trees about a quarter of a mile ahead, on the left. Maybe a farmer was burning trash. As he drew nearer, Will saw a farmhouse and behind it, the burning roof of a barn.

  He pulled over onto the gravel shoulder at the end of the driveway leading to the farmhouse. The fire was roaring unchecked, flames darting through the open barn doors and out the ground floor windows. Likely filled with hay, it was already a goner. Will couldn’t see anyone trying to douse the fire and unless help came quickly, the house was in danger too.

  Sweat broke out on Will’s forehead and he felt suddenly nauseous. There wasn’t much he could do by himself. He had to get into the house and telephone for help. Surely there was at least a volunteer fire hall in town. If the valley wasn’t linked with a 911 system, he could probably raise an operator.

  Still he sat, wasting precious seconds. What if he just kept on driving? No one would ever know he’d been there. Except, of course, he would. Will took a deep breath, jerked the door open and jumped down from the van.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ADRENALINE GOT HIM to the side door of the farmhouse, pounding and shouting above the fire. But something else held him ther
e, seconds longer. Fear. Sweeping up from deep in his gut, bursting out in beads of sweat. Turning from the locked door, Will looked at the barn.

  Was it his imagination, or did he really hear voices over the roar? He squinted into the thick, billowing gray smoke and his heart almost stopped. Was someone or something moving in there? He’d automatically assumed there were no animals in the barn because he hadn’t heard any cries. Could he have been mistaken? Will rubbed his eyes, smarting from the acrid smoke in the air. Nothing there. He forced himself to stay calm. This wasn’t Newark. He was at a barn fire in North Carolina. And if he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to step one foot inside it.

  Fortunately the slight breeze was coming from the right direction, wafting the sparks away from the house toward the clearing on the far side of the barn. He could at least try to delay the fire’s spread until the trucks arrived. That is assuming someone had spotted the smoke and called in the alarm. If nobody arrived momentarily, he’d have to break into the house and call himself. Meanwhile, there should be some kind of garden hose.

  Hand over his mouth and nose, he ran along the side of the house until he found the hose attached to a tap in the stone foundation. He cranked the faucet to the max, grabbed the hose by the nozzle and began to spray the section of house closest to the barn. The intense radiant heat of the fire could easily scorch and perhaps even ignite the house as well. The paint was already beginning to blister and the spray from the garden hose wasn’t going to be terribly effective. But until help arrived, it was all he could do.

  Will was deciding which window to smash when he heard something behind him. He craned his neck, hoping to see an engine and tanker coming up the driveway. Instead, a bright yellow school bus idled beside the house and a stocky, barrel-chested man was running toward him.

  “What the—?” He stopped, gasping for breath and staring at the barn, panic in his face. Then he snarled at Will, “Who the hell are you?”

  It wasn’t quite the reception Will had been expecting. He didn’t think the man was looking for an introduction either. “If you live here,” he replied, raising his voice against the fire, “call the fire department. Now!”

  But the man had already unlocked the side door and was disappearing inside before Will completed his sentence. The smoke was thickening. Will’s eyes stung and sweat dripped from his forehead. He doused his head and face with the hose, though the relief lasted no more than a few seconds. The man suddenly reappeared at his side and lunged for the hose.

  Will let go, but when the man swung around to aim the hose at the fire, he grabbed his arm. “Forget the barn. Save your house!”

  He stared at Will, his eyes wild. For a tense moment Will was afraid it would erupt into a fight, but the man suddenly directed the spray back to the house.

  “Where’s the nearest fire hall?” Will hoped the guy wasn’t going to say Essex.

  “Not far. It’s a volunteer brigade. They’re on the way.” He looked behind him at the barn. “Got an antique harvester in there.”

  “Nothing else? Animals?”

  The man shook his head. Will could see pain and frustration in his eyes. It was a look he’d seen many times after fires had wiped people out. Homes, possessions—not to mention lives.

  “Let me do this,” Will said, moving his head closer to be heard. “You better move the bus out of the way before the trucks get here. Then start taking anything out of the house that you want to save.”

  “You think it’ll spread to the house?” The man’s voice cracked.

  “Just in case.” Focusing on the house would distract him from the barn and the antique harvester.

  Hesitating for no more than a second, the man tossed the hose to him and vanished into the smoke. Will turned to check on the barn and saw that the roof was ablaze. No possibility of saving it now. He just hoped the guy had a good insurance policy. He also hoped the meager spray from the hose would be enough to keep the house from scorching before the trucks arrived.

  A familiar sound rose above the roar of the fire—the muted wail of sirens. Will felt the tension ease out of him. An engine rolled up the driveway, followed by a tanker truck. Will squinted. Figures in heavy bunker gear and yellow helmets were jumping from the trucks and quickly unraveling hoses. One man stood apart, wearing a red helmet and shouting instructions. Noticing Will, he strode toward him.

  “Who’re you? Where’s Warren?”

  “If he’s the guy who lives here, he’s inside the house. I happened to be driving by and saw the smoke.”

  The man stared at the hose in Will’s hand. “Leave that. I’ll get a couple of my men over here. There’s a shed behind the barn that needs cooling down, too.” He glanced behind him. “Too late for the barn.” He started to head for the tanker truck. “Stick around. I want to talk to you later.”

  Will turned off the tap and stood aside as two men dragging a hose ran toward him. Responsibility was now on someone else’s shoulders, which suited him just fine.

  He watched while two others began assembling the metal frame of a portatank to hold the water from the tanker truck. Once the tanker dumped its water it would go back for a refill at the nearest water source. Will estimated there’d be seven minutes for the truck to race back before the portatank emptied. Hopefully, a reservoir or water tank serviced the farms in the valley and it was close enough.

  The owner of the house was now outside, talking to the captain. The two looked quickly at Will, then away. Discussing who he was, he figured, and how he’d so coincidentally happened on the scene. He’d expected questions. It was no secret that arsonists often hung around to witness their work. But there were more pressing matters at the moment. The captain began to help another firefighter lug a hose around the side of the barn. Probably saving the shed.

  The farm owner walked over to Will. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily. He held out his right hand. “Name’s Warren Lewis,” he said. “Wanna thank you for helping out.”

  In spite of his words, Will saw wariness in the man’s eyes. Not quite sure what to make of me? Still, he clasped the outstretched hand. “Will Jennings.”

  “Scotty—that’s the captain, Scott Andrews—said you did the right thing by cooling the house.” He lapsed into silence, watching the firefighters hosing down the house and the shed. The barn blazed unchecked. “If they had more men and another tanker truck, they could’ve saved the barn,” he muttered.

  “For what it’s worth, the barn was already at peak when I got here.”

  “Yeah?”

  Warren’s curiosity prompted Will to add, “I…uh…used to be a firefighter.”

  “So why aren’t you helping them?” He turned his head at a sudden shout from the firefighter at the portatank.

  Will swore under his breath. He’d blown it. The portatank was probably full and the tanker would be leaving for a refill. They’d be a man short.

  Lewis turned back to Will as the tanker began to reverse out of the driveway. “Where’s he going?”

  “For more water. Is there a lake or something nearby?”

  “There’s a reservoir about two miles down the road.”

  Will nodded. They stared at each other for what seemed a long time before Will relented. “Guess I’ll see if they can use my help.” He jogged toward the man monitoring the portatank. Without protective gear, there was no way the captain would let him do anything nearer to the fire anyway.

  The guy at the tank frowned when Will shouted that he’d watch the water pressure and do the refill when the tanker returned. Will could hardly blame him, knowing that firefighters seldom wanted civilian help. “It’s okay,” he said, raising his voice, “I know what I’m doing. I used to work for the Newark Fire Department.”

  The other man shouted back, “The truck’ll be back soon and the tank’ll need refilling right away. We got about three minutes of water left here.”

  A tight time frame. Likely one of many drawbacks to rural firefighting. Still, it seemed tha
t the guy had no sooner dashed to help the hose men working on the house than Will heard the tanker returning.

  As soon as the truck pulled up alongside, Will had already extended the chute and pressed the electronic switch. Water gushed into the tank. Except for a brief look of surprise, the firefighter who had driven the truck accepted his presence. They worked silently and quickly until the tank was full again. The man motioned that he was going for another refill and climbed back into the tanker.

  As the truck left for more water, Will looked across the smoke-filled yard at the barn. In spite of what he’d said to Lewis, he knew if they’d been in a city where water was handy, the men would have made some attempt to save as much of the barn as they could.

  Time was suspended as the repetitive pattern of emptying and refilling continued. At one point, the captain appeared a few yards from where Will was working and watched briefly before disappearing around the side of the barn. Will could see that he was directing a couple of the men to work on the barn now that the fire there had peaked. Probably wanted to hurry the burn-out so that they could finish the job and go home. It was already dark. The pale yellow glow from an outside light above the side door of the house was barely visible through the smoke.

  Suddenly a car roared up the driveway and pulled over next to the school bus. A woman climbed out, her face toward the barn. She had the dazed, disbelieving look of someone waking to a nightmare. Then she spotted Lewis and ran to him. They wrapped their arms around each other and somberly watched the last of their barn crumble.

  Most of the men were working on the barn, hosing down the embers. Wafts of steam mingled with the smoke and the men shifted in the thick night air like wraiths in a horror movie. Except for the hiss of water on fire and the crash of falling beams, the yard was quiet. Will heard the tanker coming. The last run, he figured. The big job now would be mopping up and hanging around to make sure the embers didn’t reignite. He helped the tanker driver load up the portatank and when they finished, the man thanked him.