“To cook a turkey? Hey, I don’t know if I can cook one in a regular oven, let alone over an open fire!”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “Aren’t you the one who said last night that it was a snap?”
And so she had. She met his gaze defiantly. “I was planning to follow the directions on the wrapper.”
“I see. That isn’t quite the same as being an old hand, though, is it?”
“A gentleman wouldn’t look so smug about catching me in a little fib.”
The light in his eyes changed subtly. “I never claimed to be a gentleman, Charity.” He didn’t look like one, either, with that gleam in his eye and the shadow of a beard darkening his cheeks and chin.
As he continued to gaze at her she became self-conscious for the first time since she’d barreled out into the hall yelling about the fire. She’d been sitting here talking to him with no makeup on, her hair loose and disheveled, and nothing on under her flannel nightgown. She stood and wrapped the quilt closer around her. “I think it’s time for me to get dressed.”
He pushed himself to his feet. “Why?”
“I—”
“I don’t think we’ll have company today, do you?”
“Maybe Nora will come back.” It was an idle statement and she knew it. Nothing was moving outside, not even a snowplow.
“She won’t be back today.” He paused, as if to give his next comment more significance. “Probably not tonight, either.”
Her heart began to race. He was making sure she understood that she was snowbound with him for the rest of the day…and the rest of the night. “How do you know? You don’t even live around here.”
“Come and look.” He guided her with a gentle hand on her shoulder over to the bay window where he’d scratched a peephole in the frosty glass. He wiped it again with his sleeve and gestured her forward.
She leaned over the window seat and looked out an opening about the size of a baseball. Then she drew in a quick breath. Nothing outside was recognizable. The drifts were at eye level, and the whole world looked as if it had been dipped in marshmallow topping. There was no street, no mailbox, no bushes. Only the tall pines and maples reached above the blanket of silent snow. Charity had lived all her life in the East, yet she’d never seen anything quite like this. It must be the storm of the century.
Slowly she turned back to Wyatt as the implications of total isolation with this man tripped her pulse into double time. “You’re right.” She sounded far more casual than she felt. “We’re cut off from the rest of the world, probably until tomorrow, at least.”
“I may even have a problem getting back to Madison Square Garden for the rodeo on Saturday.”
“Surely the trains will be running by then.”
“Probably, but we’re definitely out of the loop for now.” There was an unmistakable suggestion in his gaze. “For better or worse, we’re on our own.” He stepped closer, and she held her breath.
“Help me!” shouted a voice from somewhere in the front of the house.
Wyatt paused. “Then again, maybe not.”
“It’s Alistair!” Charity turned back to look out the window as the cry for help came again. “But I can’t see him!” She threw off the quilt and raced for the stairs.
Wyatt followed her. “What are you doing?”
“We can see better from Nora’s bedroom balcony. Come on.”
“I’m right behind you.”
In the bedroom Charity pulled back the drapes covering the French doors onto the balcony. The balcony roof had partly protected the area, and the snow was only about a foot deep on the deck. Charity clicked open the dead bolt, turned the knob and pulled, but nothing happened.
“It’s frozen shut.” Wyatt stood so close behind her she could feel his warm breath on her neck. “Let me try.”
She stood back while the cries from Alistair continued. At least there was nothing wrong with Alistair’s lungs. As the cold penetrated her flannel nightgown she began to shiver again.
Wyatt braced himself, took hold of the handle, and heaved. The door came open with a loud crack. “Stay here.” He glanced back at her. “I’ll go look. And for God’s sake, put on a bathrobe or something.”
She glanced down and noticed that her nipples, reacting to the cold, jutted sharply beneath the soft flannel. As she hurried toward Nora’s closet she wondered if that had been what had put the edge in Wyatt’s voice. She grabbed a heavy fleece robe. As she jammed her feet into fur-lined boots sitting on the floor of the closet, she heard Wyatt shouting down to Alistair and Alistair calling something back, but she couldn’t understand what either man was saying.
By the time she started toward the French doors Wyatt was heading back inside, his sweatpants soaked up to his knees from the snow.
“What’s his problem?” Charity asked.
Wyatt looked as if he was using all his restraint not to laugh. “He’s buried up to his family jewels in a snowdrift. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get my rope.”
6
WYATT PULLED HIS ROPE, his rosin bag and a left-hand glove out of his duffel bag before heading back upstairs. He hoped Nora’s balcony was built well enough to support the weight of a man the size of Alistair Updegraff. What a guy. Tried to sneak over on antique snowshoes. Apparently old snowshoe webbing stretched like a rubber band once it got wet.
When he got back to the balcony, Charity was already out there kicking snow out of the way. Pale sunlight crept beneath the balcony roof to give her blond hair a subtle glow. In the fluffy white robe, and outlined against the snow blanketing the landscape, she looked like an angel—an angel in large-framed glasses, which made the picture uniquely Charity. She was becoming entirely too attractive for comfort.
“I might need some packed snow for traction,” he said as he came to join her.
She lowered her voice. “You’re not really going to rope him, are you?” Little puffs of steam escaped her mouth as she talked, caressing his face.
He ducked his head and muffled his response. “How else am I going to get him out of that drift?”
“And then what?”
“Well, we can either pull him up to the balcony, in which case he’ll probably be here all day…” He glanced sideways at Charity.
She shook her head vigorously, making her blond hair fly around her shoulders.
Well, at least she didn’t want a built-in chaperone. That was something. He longed to run his fingers through her loose hair, but this wasn’t exactly the time. “Or we can swing him like a pendulum so he can grab the railing of his front porch and climb onto that,” he said.
Charity gasped. “I don’t think he’s agile enough for stunts, Wyatt.”
“Hey, Charity!” Alistair called from beneath them. “Would you two quit playing around up there and do something? I haven’t got all day, you know.”
Charity exchanged a glance with Wyatt.
“Or we can leave him to freeze his buns off,” Wyatt said.
Charity sighed. “Tempting, but we can’t and you know it.”
He grinned at her. “Your customer. Your call.”
“Hey, people, any day now. It’s very cold down here,” Alistair remarked in a loud voice.
Charity looked at Wyatt again. “Swing him.”
Wyatt uncoiled his rope. “I thought you’d see it that way.” He leaned over the balcony. “Here’s the plan, Updegraff. I’ll throw a loop around you. Fix it under your armpits, and—”
“You are going to lasso me?” Alistair squeaked.
“That’s the way we handle things out West,” Wyatt said, biting his lip to keep from chuckling. The wooden frame of the snowshoes rested on top of the drift. It looked as if Alistair had been slam-dunked into a pair of irregular basketball hoops.
“Well, I don’t fancy being roped like some prize heifer!” Alistair said. “Think of something else, cowboy.”
Wyatt turned his back to the railing a
nd spoke to Charity in a low tone. “A prize heifer would get more consideration from me. This guy’s beginning to get on my nerves.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve been dealing with his prissy little preoccupations for a week. But we have to do our best, Wyatt. He can’t stay there, after all.”
Wyatt sighed and turned back to Alistair. “Trust me, this is the most efficient way to get you out of there. Once the rope is under your armpits, I’ll pull you out of the drift and Charity will snub the rope around this post.”
“Oh, yeah, and then what?” Alistair said.
Charity tugged on his arm. “Will the post hold?” she whispered.
“Just a second, Updegraff.” Wyatt lowered his voice again as he spoke to Charity. “I’ll try to take most the weight myself, but if the worst happens and I lose my grip, the post would help break his fall.”
“And break,” Charity said.
“I think Nora would rather replace the post than have us damage Alistair.”
“Can I help hold the rope?”
“How much experience do you have with ropes?”
“None.”
“Then you could get hurt. Just wrap it around the post once I get him airborne.” He turned back to the stranded neighbor. “Okay, Updegraff, when you’re free of the snow, you’ll automatically start to swing—”
“Oh, sure! You’d like to have me swinging at the end of your rope, wouldn’t you? If you think I’ll go for that, you’ve got another think coming, Mr. Rodeo Star.”
Wyatt threw up his hands. “Okay. Have it your way. We’ll be inside sitting by a toasty fire if you change your mind. Come on, Charity.”
She resisted the tug of his hand. “But, Wyatt, we can’t—”
“He’ll cave.”
“Wait!” Alistair called.
Wyatt lifted an eyebrow at Charity. “See?” Then he turned and walked back to the balcony railing. “As I was saying, you’ll automatically start swinging toward this house. Push off when you get here, and the motion should bring you back to a spot where you can grab your porch railing.”
“Why not just pull me on up there with you?”
Because then Charity and I wouldn’t be alone, and I’m beginning to love that idea, Wyatt thought. “We’ve got stomach flu over here, Updegraff,” he said. “The really nasty kind from one of those Oriental cities—Hong Kong, Singapore, something like that.”
“And you’re handling a rope that you plan to throw at me? You’re planning to spew flu germs in my direction, is that it?”
“I washed my hands real good.”
Looking more like a peg-person than ever with his legs buried in the snow, Alistair folded his arms. “I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Nope,” Wyatt answered. “And remember, I’m a professional. Don’t try this at home.”
“That’s not funny.”
Wyatt turned to Charity and tried to look wounded. “Nobody gets my jokes. I’m beginning to develop a complex.”
She made a face. “As if you ever would.”
Wyatt grinned and rubbed his rosin bag over both palms before pulling on his glove. He was used to lacing it himself by using his teeth, but Charity stepped forward.
“I can do that, at least.”
“Okay.” He held out his hand and she leaned over to concentrate on the task. Wyatt had the compelling urge to place a kiss on her golden hair.
She looked up at him with endearing sincerity. “How’s that?”
When she wasn’t up on her high horse about something, she was quite a temptation, he thought. But then she was a temptation when she was taunting him, too. He flexed his fingers in the glove. “That’s great. Thanks.”
She smiled with pleasure and his breath caught at the beauty of it.
Time to get his mind back on the business at hand, he decided. He picked up his rope, built the loop and leaned over the balcony so he could get a good arc with the toss.
“Be careful,” Charity said.
“I’m always careful.”
“Coming from a man who rides bulls as a living, that lacks a certain ring of truth.”
He should have known she couldn’t stay sweet for long, but that was okay. He liked this version of her, too. He aimed for the fluorescent orange pom-pom on Alistair’s knit cap. “Just remember, Charity, when you’re bad-mouthing my profession, that it took a rodeo man to rescue your valued bookstore customer.” He settled his loop neatly around Alistair’s torso.
“Not too bad.” Her voice contained a grudging note of admiration.
“Tighten it under your arms,” Wyatt shouted to Alistair. “That’s it. Hold on to the rope and kick free as soon as you can. Now, get ready. I’m going to start pulling you up.”
Wyatt braced his feet against the base of the balcony railing, took a deep breath, and started the hand-overhand process. At first he just dragged Alistair through the snow a bit, but eventually the little man began to rise from the bank as Wyatt pulled, breathing hard. His shoulders began to ache from the strain and he wondered if this was such a great idea two days before a very important rodeo competition. He kept pulling.
As Alistair’s feet cleared the snow, the limp snowshoe webbing dangled from his boots, which made it look as if Alistair had started unraveling. Wyatt was clenching his jaw too hard to enjoy the sight His entire upper body burned from the effort. He braced himself for the upward pull, but when Alistair began to swing, Wyatt realized he might be drawn sideways on the slick balcony surface.
“Should I wrap the rope around the post now?” Charity asked.
“Yep.” Wyatt put his back into one last heave.
With a bad imitation of a Tarzan yell, Alistair began to swing.
“Tie it and come hang on to me,” Wyatt said through gritted teeth. “Or I might slide sideways when he swings back toward his house.”
“That would be bad?”
“If the post goes, I’d go with it.”
“That would be bad.”
Wyatt tended to agree.
Charity hurried over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Hold tight. He’s swinging back toward his porch.” Sweat dripped down Wyatt’s face as he tried to control the rope. Below him Alistair sailed toward his target, the collapsed snowshoes trailing after him and bumping along on the drifts.
“We could make a fortune on ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos’ with this,” Charity said into his ear.
“When it’s over I plan to laugh myself silly,” Wyatt gasped.
Alistair swung lazily toward the rail and reached out a hand just as Wyatt, even with Charity’s extra weight, started slipping toward the post. Wyatt had a split second to choose between risking Charity or Alistair. He let go of the rope.
In the same second Wyatt and Charity tumbled backward in a heap, the rope snapped tight around the post, pulling it loose from its moorings. As the balcony roof sagged, snow cascaded like a waterfall, obscuring the view of Alistair’s fate.
Wyatt found his legs tangled with Charity’s, but he’d instinctively kept his full weight from landing on her. Breathing hard, he eased up on one elbow to look down into her astonished gaze. Her glasses had been knocked halfway across the balcony, but from here they didn’t look broken. “Sorry about that.” He gulped for air. “It was him or us. You okay?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“I think so.”
“Alistair. Is he—”
“I made it!” shouted Alistair from below.
Wyatt heaved a sigh of relief. “He’s okay.”
“No thanks to you two!” Alistair added. “You almost got me killed!”
Wyatt looked down at Charity. “It’s so nice to be appreciated, don’t you think?”
“The post gave way, didn’t it?” she asked.
“Afraid so, but look on the bright side. It wasn’t an—”
“An antique,” Charity finished, and began to smile.
When her smile turned to a chuckle, Wyatt was dr
awn in, and soon both of them were laughing uncontrollably.
“Don’t think I can’t hear you up there!” Alistair called. “Having sport with me! I don’t believe you told me the truth about the Hong Kong flu, either.”
Charity and Wyatt paused, glanced at each other, and burst out laughing again.
“I’ll never forget the way he looked when…” Charity kept her voice down and tried to control herself. “When you hauled him up with those sorry snowshoes dangling down…” She dissolved into a new fit of giggles.
“Did you hear the Tarzan yell?” Wyatt whispered, choking on another wave of laughter.
“He thinks…he’s got a great voice,” Charity said, gasping. “In the summer he leaves the windows open and belts out old show tunes. He has one of those karaoke things hooked to his stereo.”
“You’re making that up.”
“He does. Nora swears to it.”
Wyatt grinned. “Thank God, it’s November.”
“Nora claims his rendition of Oklahoma has put her off Rodgers and Hammerstein forever. By the way, can you see my glasses anywhere? I’m blind as a bat without them.”
“Yeah. Right over here.” He reached across her to pick up the glasses, which brought them almost into an embrace. He heard her quick intake of breath and his pulse beat a little faster. “They look fine,” he said, trying to act nonchalant. He’d suddenly become aware of how close she was, lying there practically underneath him.
He held the glasses by the earpiece, meaning to return them to her, but he hesitated. Gazing down at Charity, her cheeks glowing and her eyes bright, he decided he’d never seen anything so tempting in all his thirty-two years. His muscles ached, his knee hurt where he’d fallen, and melting snow was soaking slowly but surely into his sweat suit. He didn’t care. He laid the glasses down again. “Hold still,” he murmured.
A look of concern replaced her amusement. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“No. Something’s finally right.” As he leaned down he watched concern become knowledge in her blue eyes. Then anticipation.
His heart thundered in his ears. “Can you see me better now?” he murmured.
Her throat moved in a tiny swallow. “I’m a whiz at close-ups.”
Stuck With You Page 7