His no-nonsense instructions were those of a man who didn’t have company, didn’t want company and had no use for visitors. But still, from the first day, she’d felt protected and even welcome, maybe not in the way the Fosters welcomed people, with boisterous backslapping and hearty hellos; but for a man like Keegan, a brooder with a mysterious past, he’d been a kind host.
And once he’d shaved off that several days’ worth of stubble from his face and combed his hair, Carrie had determined that he was unexpectedly handsome. There was nothing boyish about him, making him very different from the guys Carrie had dated in the past. But she was attracted to him, more than she wanted to admit.
In her lifetime, she’d only dated boys and young men. Younger fellows were easy to flirt with, and they generally responded to Carrie’s teasing. But those relationships had left her feeling hollow and disappointed. She didn’t have a need to flirt with Keegan as if his adoration would somehow prove her worth. She was comfortable just being herself.
She’d never discovered why her heart seemed to require so much from a romantic relationship with someone her own age. She enjoyed dating. She liked having a steady boyfriend, being able to count on a Saturday-night date. But when the guys got too close and appeared to be staking a claim to bragging rights, she always backed off. She pondered the possibility that Keegan’s lack of youthful qualities made him more appealing. He didn’t constantly behave as if he had something to prove.
Keegan was a different breed altogether. He was honest to a fault, plainspoken though obviously intelligent, slightly gruff and more than a little marked with age. The fine lines on his face only added character to the scar she’d noticed on his cheek, and the faint limp when he favored his right side on cold mornings. And Carrie found herself staring at him for long minutes at a time—and fantasizing about what he thought of her.
Thank goodness he’d stopped calling her a princess, but she knew he was aware of the difference in their ages. He’d told her he was forty-one. That was only an eleven-year difference. Not a big deal to her, but it was obviously a factor to Keegan. Though he hadn’t argued when she wanted to go outside, he still basically treated her as he might a younger sister, setting up the chair for her, throwing a blanket over her shoulders. Carrie already was the younger sister to two siblings, and that relationship was not what she wanted from Keegan.
But what did she want from him? Goodness, the question made her face heat. Her father would say that Keegan was a totally inappropriate match for his baby girl. In a way, that was true. Keegan had obviously lived a varied and full life. He’d been married, had a child, suffered injuries for reasons she still didn’t know. Carrie was innocent in the ways of love. Her sisters always told her she could have any guy she wanted, and truly she could flirt at the drop of a pin, but the truth was, she’d never felt right about making the jump from innocent flirting to an intimate connection.
Since the night of the fateful date with Mark, she’d never been comfortable with forceful and demanding males. She could tease the quiet ones, encourage the uncertain ones, but a strong, dominant male made her run for the forest—literally.
Yet—and this was perhaps the most puzzling aspect of all—never once had she been worried with Keegan—older, noncommunicative, secretive, a complete stranger. From the moment he’d picked her up out of her stranded automobile, she’d felt secure and connected to him.
So again she wondered...what did he think of her? If she analyzed his behavior so far, she’d have to admit that he regarded her as no more than a bothersome victim who’d stumbled into his path, a responsibility he was willing to accept for the time being anyway.
If she could get him to at least consider her plans for the campground, then maybe he would begin to see her as an equal, a bright, accomplished woman who only wanted to leave the planet a better place for everyone. Could she earn his respect? As she watched him approach the car, several grocery bags in hand, she realized that she very much wanted to. A pleasant tingle crept across her shoulders, a feeling that was alien to Carrie’s emotional storehouse, but one that hinted that perhaps respect was not all she wanted.
“We’re not going to starve,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “And, yes, I picked up your girlie things.”
“Thank you.”
They’d gone about halfway back to the cabin when Carrie decided to open a conversation again. “About those drawings I made yesterday...” she said. “I’ve added another few details...”
He glared at her from across the couple of feet that separated them in the car. “Don’t start again, Carrie. I told you what was going to happen with the property. I’m not going to change my mind.”
She clamped her lips together and stared out the side window at the snow-covered pastures. If she were keeping score, so far Keegan’s stubbornness had earned a point. And Carrie’s quest for respect was a fat zero.
They drove the rest of the way in silence. When Keegan pulled up in front of the cabin, Carrie said, “I like it here, but if you want me to go to a motel, I will. You’ll have to pick the closest one and take me, of course.”
His brow furrowed, and he gave her a questioning stare. “Where did that come from? Have I asked you to go to a motel?”
“No, but you should know that I would be willing. I can probably take care of myself at this point.”
The corner of his mouth twisted into something resembling a grin. “Take care of yourself? You wouldn’t eat right, you wouldn’t remember to change the bandage on your forehead and you’d probably drive that dang car halfway across the country once you got the keys back.”
That was exactly what she would do—drive right back to Michigan, broken leg on the accelerator.
“Well, then,” she said. “Since you, in your own charming way, are hinting that I should stay, I guess I will.”
He laughed out loud. The sound was full-bodied and unexpected in its spontaneity, so much so that Carrie laughed along with him.
He put the truck in Park and opened his car door. “I’m glad we got that settled.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LATER THAT EVENING, after dinner and visits from both Duke and Delores that had left Keegan less than cheerful, Carrie sat on the sofa reading her book.
“I don’t know what Delores thinks is going on in here,” Keegan said. “She was clucking over you like a mother hen and staring at me like she was a bull and I was wearing red.”
“She’s just a caring person,” Carrie said.
“No. She’s a suspicious, nosy old troublemaker, and I hope you’re not giving her a false impression.”
“I’m not giving her any impression. I’m sure if she’s drawing any conclusions at all, it’s because she already knows you so well.”
Keegan harrumphed, picked up the remote and said, “Mind if I watch the news channel?”
How could she mind? This was his house, and watching the news was what he did. “Of course not. Anything special we should know about in the world today?”
“No, but there’s a broadcast leading up to the New Year. The station is showing the biggest stories from the new millennium.”
“That should be interesting,” Carrie said, turning a page in her book. “I can put in my earbuds.”
He gave her a quirky smile.
“What’s so funny?”
He chuckled. “You just said the program would be interesting, and then you figured out a way to avoid hearing any of it.”
“You’ll let me know when the good parts come up, right?” She plunged a soft plastic bud into each ear.
After about thirty minutes, during which time Keegan had been glued to the screen with a cup of coffee in his hand, Carrie glanced at the television. She recognized the distressing scenes of New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina. She’d been in her last year of high school when th
e storm occurred, and felt so sorry for all the misplaced people. Jude had been terribly upset about the animals that no longer had homes. Between the two of them, they’d managed to badger friends and neighbors for donations which they sent to the Red Cross.
Carrie pulled the buds from her ears and laid them on her lap. “I remember this so well,” she said. “How horrible that must have been. I understand parts of the city are still suffering from the effects.”
Keegan’s face was grim. “It was horrible, all right.”
Surprised by the depth of emotion in his voice, she wondered if he had done more than watch the disaster on television like she had.
And then the file footage shifted to the New Orleans Superdome which had gained an infamous reputation as a last-resort shelter for residents with nowhere else to go. A camera scanned the interior of the arena, capturing bedrolls and cots side-by-side taking up the entire space normally reserved for sports games. Reporters interviewed folks who protested conditions in the Dome but had no alternative since city officials had locked them inside.
All at once, a voice, deep, controlled, impassioned and, of all things, familiar, caught her attention. She slipped off her reading glasses and stared at the TV as a reporter asked a question. The camera was focused on the protester, and only showed the back of the reporter’s head and his dark, collar-length mussed hair.
“Well, enough of this,” Keegan said, reaching for the remote.
“Don’t you dare turn that off,” Carrie said. “That reporter...” The camera swiveled around to show the man’s face, younger, wrinkle-free, and oh, so handsome. “That’s you! You were in the Superdome!”
“I got caught same as everybody,” he said. “Thought I’d do some amateur storytelling as long as I was there.”
“Nonsense. Your questions are rehearsed, well thought-out. And you’re on a national news broadcast. Amateur, my great-aunt Fanny!”
“‘Great-aunt Fanny!’” He pretended shock. “Such language.”
“Never mind. Who are you?”
A line appeared at the bottom of the screen indicating the source of the interview, the name of the reporter, and his position as “special correspondent.”
Forgetting her leg, Carrie pushed herself off the sofa and winced in pain. “You’re Patrick Breen! I thought I recognized something about you, your voice. I’ve seen you lots of times. You’re famous.”
He frowned. “I thought you didn’t watch much news.”
“I’ve watched enough to recognize you!”
He lowered the volume. “Okay. I used to be Patrick Breen,” he admitted. “Now I’m just Keegan.”
“But...but...” She couldn’t come up with the words. “You had a fabulous career. You went everywhere, the Middle East, China, Israel, even New Orleans as it turns out.” She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes glued on her target as if he might fade from sight as an apparition would. “Weren’t you the subject of a special a couple of years ago?”
“That?” He tried to minimize his importance. “It was just a small segment.”
“—about a reporter who took any assignment, no matter the danger to himself. I saw part of that documentary.” She shook her head in disbelief. “And now you’re here in Ohio, on a campground in the middle of nowhere.”
He shrugged. “Looks like it. And don’t get excited. This isn’t my first rodeo to places in the middle of nowhere.”
“For heaven’s sake,” she said. “This explains a lot.”
“I don’t know why it should,” he said.
“For one thing, it explains your interest in the news. I’m thinking it also explains your obsession with the computer. You’re still writing.” She tapped her fingernail on her upper lip. “What it doesn’t explain is why you’re living here.”
He smirked. “A lot of people retire from their jobs just like I did.”
“No, not just like you did. Most people get their gold watch and buy a set of golf clubs. You disappeared. You went off the grid.” She suddenly remembered references Keegan had made to his past and all the pieces fell into place. “All that talk about injuries you mysteriously sustained that didn’t make sense until now. And you live like a hermit because you don’t want anyone to find you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Carrie, isn’t that why anyone lives like a hermit?”
“Quit making this sound like you’re just one of many people. You’re not.” She paused. “And it explains...” She suddenly cut off her words. She was going too far.
“Explains what?” he said. “Go ahead, say it.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll say it for you. It explains why I was such a crappy father and husband.”
She slowly nodded her head. “Yes, it does. You were always off somewhere, not knowing if you’d make it back or not.” She sat down and tapped her foot on his floor. “I think you craved the excitement above all else. You’re a danger junkie.”
“I was a danger junkie. Now I’m a quiet, respectable, law-abiding hermit.”
“Whose only excitement these days is rescuing people from snowbanks. Quite a comedown, I’d say.”
Again the shrug. “I’m not complaining. I’ve come to appreciate the quiet life.”
“Have you? Have you really? How does someone like you give it all up and settle in a defunct campground?”
Her eyes widened as she realized her heart was beating rapidly. “Keegan, tell me this isn’t another story. You’re not hanging out here because there’s some escaped madman on the loose? Should I be watching for danger around every corner of this cabin?”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t be here if there were danger, Carrie. I’m done with all that. I’m leaving all the madmen and the war-torn corners of the world to the younger reporters.”
“Well, you’re not really old, but okay. And what about this property... Is it really yours?”
“Yes. I’m not a squatter. This land belonged to Robert Sean Breen, the Irish immigrant who settled right here when he got off the boat at Ellis Island in the late thirties. And he left his empire to me, his only grandson.”
“And this grandfather...you knew him well?”
Keegan’s voice lowered. “Very well. You might say he was my best friend growing up.”
“And you’re going to repay him for his kindness by selling out to a hotel chain?”
He scowled. “We’re not getting into this again, Carrie.”
“But my guess is, you don’t even need the money. It’s none of my business, but you must have put away a nice retirement amount by accepting the most dangerous assignments and going to the most hazardous places on earth.”
He shook his head, and she worried that he would shut her out now. Her last comment had been rather personal. “It is none of your business, but overall, I got paid well enough, especially for a freelance reporter,” he said.
“So why did you even come here? Why not hire a Realtor and sell the land through a third party? If you have no interest in your inheritance...”
He held up a finger. “I never said I had no interest. When I had the opportunity to come here, I took it. I’d spent many happy weeks here as a kid, and I wanted to come back. I was pretty much a loner when I was growing up. My mom worked crazy hours. My dad was gone. But I’m not a kid anymore, and now my reason for staying here for the last year has been a desire to, as you put it, stay off the grid. Peace and quiet, Carrie, just like you must experience around your beloved trees. I needed it. I found it. Here.”
Finally he’d said something she could relate to. She valued every quiet moment she spent in a forest. She relished the feel of her hands in damp soil when she planted a sapling on a street undergoing renovation. She could almost convince herself the trees cared as much as she did. Maybe she and this embattled man had something lasting in common afte
r all. Except he didn’t seem to have any regrets about leaving his legacy and walking away.
“Those injuries you’ve talked about—why do you limp in the mornings?”
“Gunshot, but not serious. Just grazed. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Recalling his activity the last couple of days, she said, “If you’re no longer reporting, do you mind if I ask what you’re doing on your computer all these hours?”
He scratched the back of his neck while nearly a full minute went by. “I’m no longer reporting, but, like you said, I am still writing. I’m working on my memoir.”
“Your memoir?” The word made him sound much older than his years. But many famous people wrote autobiographies. Why should he be any different?
“Yeah, but I don’t flatter myself into thinking that anyone will want to read it. I’m mostly getting my experiences down on paper as a sort of catharsis, if you know what I mean.” He paused, frowned. “Sometimes my experiences get muddled in my brain. Writing about them brings a certain clarity to what I experienced.”
And from what she knew of him, he’d experienced a lifetime of living in just a few years. So if he truly didn’t think anyone would read his words, then his writing wasn’t a means of earning additional money. The autobiography was a way of bringing clarity to his life, but also, possibly, a sort of soul cleansing of the terrible things he’d seen. At this point, seeing the dark shadows cross his eyes, she could only assume that the latter explanation held a lot of truth.
Who could say for sure? What did Carrie know of danger junkies anyway? The most dangerous activity Carrie pursued was breathing the open air through her troubled lungs. Even Jude’s fiancé, who once a year took off on an adventure somewhere with his friends, always planned and prepared. She assumed a reporter in a war zone didn’t have the luxury of even planning his next meal.
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