by Renee Roszel
Lynn rolled her eyes. “You’re real funny.”
“Actually, I’m real tired.” With a brief wave to indicate the debris on the bed, she asked, “Do you think you could find someplace else for this stuff so I can get into bed?”
Lynn gave a theatrical groan and shoved the jumble of clothes, shoes and magazines onto the floor. “Happy?” she asked with a sneer.
Sara held her tongue counting to ten. This wasn’t the time to start another fight. Instead, she replied, “Let’s say, I’m happy you’re okay.”
Lynn seemed startled, as though she’d expected a reprimand. Visibly relaxing, she threw herself down on her rumpled bedcovers and came very close to smiling. “Ya know?” she said. “It doesn’t totally gross me out to see you, either. Goodnight.”
With a helpless chuckle, Sara said, “You should write greeting cards, kid. That’s the kind of sticky sentiment a sister loves to hear.” Perching on the edge of her bed, she began to strip down to her underwear.
Lynn was undressed and beneath the covers by the time Sara had donned Ransom’s flannel shirt. It was huge on her, the hem trailing just above her knees. The fabric was soft and warm against her skin. It smelled nice, too—clean, but with a faint tang of cologne, as though Ransom’s masculine scent had permeated everything within his domain. She sniffed a sleeve as she rolled it up to uncover her hands, feeling a sinful delight in being surrounded by his aura. Irritated, she shook her head. What a ridiculous flight of fancy. She must be more exhausted than she’d realized. This man was not someone she could respect enough to ever care about, especially not romantically.
As she was about to crawl beneath the covers, Lynn asked, “Whatcha gonna do tomorrow?”
Noticing the light streaming in the the window between their beds, Sara perched on her knees and pulled the heavy curtains closed. The room became black. “First, I’m going to do some laundry.’’
“Radical! I’m almost out of clothes.”
Examining the darkness where her sister lay, Sara got into bed. She experienced a surge of irritation at her sister’s blasé attitude about this awkward predicament her selfishness had cast them into, and she retorted flatly, “I’ll give you radical. Do your own laundry, Miss Grown-up.”
It distressed Sara that she was playing right into Mr. Ransom Shepard’s slovenly plan. Or were his plans really that slovenly? She sniffed at his flannel shirt again, almost smiling. It held the scent of warm spices and reminded her of the pipe her father used to smoke, so many years ago. Could Ransom have been even half-serious about his reverse-psychology remark? Could he really be trying to make the kids’ lives so miserable they’d have to take responsibility for themselves? She frowned. Surely not. It was an absurd idea, but—
“Bummer,” Lynn lamented, breaking into her thoughts. “Nobody does anything for anybody around here.”
“Welcome to the real world, sweetie.” After the words were out of her mouth, she found her lips twisting in a rueful smile. She was even beginning to sound like Ransom Shepard. What pithy irony! Why, she and Ransom Shepard were as different as... as love and hate. Weren’t they? She stared into the darkness, wondering if there might be just a touch of method in the man’s madness.
RANSOM HADN’T BEEN kidding. Dawn broke early in June on the Bering Sea. A shaft of sunlight had found the one small gap between the curtains and was shining directly in Sara’s face. She squinted into the painful bright light. Scrutinizing her watch through slitted eyes, she was dismayed to discover that it was barely four-thirty, yet the sun was already climbing boldly into the heavens.
Calculating that it would be seven-thirty in Kansas—not so horribly early—she yawned and sat up in bed. Lynn was still asleep. With a deep sigh, Sara fished her toothbrush, toothpaste and soap out of her overnight case and shuffled, bleary-eyed and barefoot, toward the bathroom.
When she reached her destination, the door was closed. She hesitated. That probably meant someone was inside. As she raised her fist to knock, the door swung wide and she was face-to-face—rather, face to chest—with Ransom. He was wearing a navy, thigh-length terry robe. Below the robe, he wore nothing to disguise his well-muscled legs. He, too, was barefoot. Her breath caught as she scanned the lower portion of his anatomy. It surprised her to note that his solid calves had a captivating allure. She’d never noticed a man’s calves before, but his were remarkably engaging.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice deep with derisive humor. “I didn’t expect to see you up this early.”
Her gaze snapped to his face. His hair was damp and lay in dark ringlets across his forehead. His eyes glittered like silver, and his lips were parted, displaying a cynical flash of teeth.
She yawned. “Oh, great. You’re a morning person. That’s all I need.”
“And you’re a sourpuss before you have coffee.”
She shrugged, unable to deny it.
“I see the shirt fits,” he remarked, his tone softly mocking.
“If that’s supposed to mean I’m a witch in the morning, I resent it. Of course, I resent the offensive twitter of birds, too, before I have my coffee.”
His smile broadened into something almost genuine. “And I try not to find fault before breakfast. Actually, I was kidding about the size of the shirt. It’s a little large.”
Knowing she looked like some ragamuffin in cast-off clothes, she swept a drowsy gaze down at herself. One of the shirtsleeves had unrolled and hung about six inches past the hand that held her toothbrush and toothpaste. “Don’t be silly,” she mumbled. “My fairy godmother couldn’t have done better.”
“Oh?” he said. “Do you have a fairy godmother?”
She yawned again, in part to mask her growing ire. Fully aware he was baiting her, she decided she could be every bit as sarcastic as he. “Of course I have a fairy godmother. I’m here at the ball, aren’t I.”
His glinting eyes narrowed. “And where, may I ask, is Prince Charming?”
“Buried somewhere under the litter, I’d guess.”
“I’m wounded, milady, that you overlooked me as a possibility.”
His eyes were twinkling now. Was he intent on embarrassing her? “As a possibility for what?” she said evasively, trying to hide her disquiet. This towering man exuded such arrogant magnetism she found it difficult to keep from constantly blushing in his presence.
“As a possibility for Prince Charming naturally. Or am I not your type?” he coaxed, his voice soft.
Uncomfortable with their strangely charged repartee, she said rather shortly, “For one thing, I prefer a man with clothes on.”
His chuckle had a dry caustic sound. “Isn’t that rather Victorian for a modern woman?”
Avoiding his probing gaze, she decided the best course was to drop the subject, so she snapped, “Are you done in there?”
“Forgive me for dawdling.” He stepped aside, motioning as gallantly as any prince clad in his bathrobe could. “All yours, Miss Eller. Would you care for some coffee?”
She blinked. “Why, I’d love a cup.” Then she frowned. There’d been something about his tone that didn’t sit right. Had it been mockery? Of course! When hadn’t the man mocked her! She lifted her chin. “You’re not going to bring me any, are you?”
“Unfortunately the rules forbid it. What would the children say if they found out I was playing favorites?”
His grin was lopsided and dashing, and she had a fleeting thought. Could he be playing some sort of psychological game with her? Was the man made up completely of guile and trickery? Could she believe a word he said, a thing he did? She had no idea if his ploy was to get her to hate him or fall into his arms. Well, she certainly had no plans of doing the latter.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he added, breaking through her outraged musings, “I think you’re a charming grouch.”
She felt a thrill at his unexpected compliment. Then realized that, with the baggy shirt and her hair looking like a nest for bats, she was far from charming. Flu
stered and irritated with herself for her silly school-girl reaction to his kidding, she muttered, “I probably make better coffee than you ever could, anyway.”
One brow rose to meet the damp curls on his forehead. “You think so?”
“I know so. Mine wouldn’t have an old sock floating in it.”
He laughed shortly. “Touché, Miss Eller. The coffee tin is on the shelf over the percolater. I look forward to a sample.”
“I’m not making coffee for you,” she retorted. “I can follow rules, too, you know.”
He pursed his lips, his eyes holding her in a silvery grip that was suddenly far from amused. “Can you follow all rules, or merely the ones that suit you?”
“I—I— What are you talking about?”
He chuckled, a bitter sound. “Nothing. Never mind.”
His hooded, unwavering stare so unnerved her that she stumbled backward into the bathroom in a desperate effort to break eye contact. Catching her heel on the mat, she nearly fell. Feeling like an utter fool, she had to summon all her self-control not to slam the door on this strange, hypnotic man.
After she was safely behind the closed door, she had an irrepressible urge to ask him something, something that was gnawing at her, something she sensed every time Ransom’s gaze clashed with hers. Poking her head back out, she caught him a second before he entered his room. Out of patience, she challenged, “Is it me, Mr. Shepard, or is it all women you hate?”
He twisted around, his eyes flashing, and he appeared about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. With a determined rotation of his shoulders and two brisk strides, he was inside his room. His door clicked closed once again shutting her out. She pressed her lips together in consternation. Ransom Shepard was beginning to make an irksome habit of stalking away from her.
RANSOM LEFT EARLY that morning to go bird-watching. He’d said something about observing the nest-building operations of the red-legged kittiwakes, but she had no idea what tasks that might entail, or how many minutes or, better yet, hours would be involved. So, shortly after he’d gone, Sara searched among the wreckage in the house, discovering clothes that had been hers before Lynn had run away. Apparently her sister had taken with her not only her own things, but a number of Sara’s. She set to work washing them, as well as the clothes she’d traveled in. Wandering around in nothing more than Ransom’s shirt was embarrassing, but with him away from the house, she didn’t feel quite as shameless. She had the distinct feeling her lack of attire had been part of the reason he’d gone off that early. Funny. He’d seemed to recognize her unease and her need for privacy, and had decided to leave her alone. No, surely not. She was reading more into the man’s motives then he deserved. He was a bird-watcher, and he’d simply gone bird-watching. That was that.
After she’d done her wash, Sara began to feel that she now had enough clothes to keep from having to traipse about in Ransom’s shirt. Tucking the tail of a jasmine-hued blouse into her jeans, both still warm from the dryer, she wandered into the kitchen. Lynn and Tag were opening another can of salmon.
Sara shook her head and said to Lynn, “I had no idea you liked salmon so much.”
Her sister giggled without turning away from her work. “Oh, it’s okay.”
“Okay?” Tag interjected reproachfully, but with a grin. “You dare say my dad’s salmon is just okay?”
Lynn laughed heartily, tossing the can’s lid onto the floor. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. I love Bering Sea Salmon more than ice cream and chocolate syrup!” Holding up a can as though she were in a television commercial, she mimicked nasally, “It’s tastier than tuna and only costs about half as much as a house!”
They both snickered.
“That’s not Dad’s slogan, you dork,” Tag said. “It’s ‘Bering Sea Salmon, the Sovereign of the Sea.’”
“I know,” Lynn admitted. “When I was little, I thought the TV commercial said, ‘Slobbering in the sea.’ Yuck!”
They both burst into shrieks of glee, while Sara stood silently watching, confused. “What are you talking about?” she asked when the laughter had subsided.
Tag turned toward her. “Dad’s salmon company,” he explained. Puffing up his thin chest, he added, “We own the Bering Sea Salmon canneries.”
Sara blinked, startled, then once again inspected the wreckage in which this salmon mogul and his son lived. “That can’t be,” she whispered.
“Uh, huh,” Lynn insisted, taking a sliver of the salmon from the can and depositing it into her mouth. “They have four canneries all the way from Juneau to Bethel. Anchorage is where the big dude’s offices are.”
Sara faced Tag. “Really?”
He nodded, sucking in a piece of salmon.
“Well, why do you live here, then?”
“Oh, this is Ransom’s summer place,” Lynn explained.
“Yeah. Dad’s mom was Aleut.” Tag grinned. “I’m one-fourth Aleut, myself. This was the family home. Dad’s mom, my grandma Leatha married Keller Shepard, who was in the salmon business. After Grandma passed away, Dad, Mom and I used to come here during summer vacation, and Dad took over counting the birds like Grandma used to do. We stayed here every June—before Mom died. Haven’t been here for five years, though.” He looked away, appearing self-conscious. “Dad’s been pretty busy with the company. But this summer he got me out of the private school where I’ve been living, and we came here.” He smiled sheepishly. “I was being kind of a butt at school.”
Lynn nudged him with a hip. “So what’s new?”
“Hey!” he retorted. “You should talk. You ain’t no Prom Queen yourself!”
They giggled and took turns popping more salmon into their mouths while Sara absorbed what she’d heard. “When did your mother die, Tag?” she asked, unsure if that was a good question, but too curious to let it pass.
Tag sobered. “When I was nine. Car accident.”
Sara swallowed, looking at the two of them. Lynn had sobered, too. Her parents had also died in a car accident. It was obvious that Tag and Lynn had become great friends partly because of their similar loses. “So, where do you go to school?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.
Tag screwed up his face in disgust. “Kirkwood Boys’ Prison in Seattle.”
“Prison?” Sara repeated. “You look rather young to be in prison.”
“Well, they call it an academy. I call it a prison.”
Sara nodded in understanding. “If it’ll make you feel any better, not many young people your age are crazy about school.”
“Yeah, but I have to be away all year. Dad didn’t even want me to come home at Christmas or—”
“I don’t think our guests care to know the family history, Taggart,” an authoritative voice interrupted from behind Sara. She spun around to see Ransom in the doorway, his stance almost combative. His features were stern, but enthrallingly so. He wore a cable-knit crewneck sweater. Its color, the soft blue of a Kansas summer sky, set off the silver of his eyes, softening them despite his irritation. A pair of binoculars dangled at his broad chest, and he carried a notebook. Removing the binoculars and swinging them from their strap, he suggested more gently, “It’s sunny out. Over fifty degrees. You two should take advantage of the break in the weather.”
“Let’s take stuff outside and have a picnic,” Lynn suggested eagerly.
“I’ll get the can opener. You grab food.”
After a minute they were gone, leaving Ransom and Sara facing each other. When the quiet had grown uncomfortable, she ventured, “Tag tells me you own Bering Sea Salmon.”
Tag and Lynn had left the front door open, and a cold breeze filtered through to the kitchen, bringing with it the tang of the sea. At Ransom’s continued silence, Sara breathed deeply of the salty air, hoping to calm her raw nerves. The room was cooling quickly, and she wasn’t sure it was completely due to nature’s intrusion. There was a chill in Ransom’s mood, too.
Why she became so nervous in his presence she couldn’t fathom.
Averting her gaze, she mumbled, “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
She’d started to leave the kitchen when the sound of his voice halted her. “It’s no secret,” he said.
Curious, she turned back to study him. He was neatly clad, yet he lived in chaos. This lack of self-discipline seemed out of character for a man who owned a multimillion-dollar company. And the order of his closet pestered her thoughts. Maybe there had been more than a little truth to his reverse-psychology comment. Maybe he was really a very sharp intuitive man. Or maybe he was just plain crazy.
All of her misgivings must have shown in her face, for Ransom grinned crookedly. “It’s not that interesting a story, Miss Eller,” he said, moving past her. His scent mingled with that of the sea, and even in her frustration at never getting a straight answer from him, she found herself inhaling deeply, savoring his unique essence.
Without concrete thought, she perused the messy kitchen. When her gaze fell on an empty can of Bering Sea Salmon, she idly picked it up, turning it in her fingers. She scanned the gold-and-crimson label, so familiar to her. Bering Sea Salmon was the best on the market. She’d even eaten it in Kansas. Not often, but it was there. It was everywhere. Good heavens, Ransom Shepard must have a zillion dollars.
As she set the can down, his last remark came back to mind forcefully—”It’s not that interesting a story, Miss Eller.” He was wrong. His was a mystery she wanted badly to solve, and it disturbed her to realize she found him so intriguing. She was even attracted to his infuriating laid-back attitude. Whether it was part of his act or part of the real Ransom Shepard she had no idea, but for her to be actually envious of his easygoing manner...!
Sara had never been easygoing, had never had the opportunity. It seemed almost sinful to be so unconcerned about everything. And she was amazed to find that she was enchanted by it—or could it be the man who drew her? But was he really easygoing? Would that kind of man send his son off to boarding school? She frowned, skeptical. Or was it possible he was so driven he would go to any radical, deceitful extremes to get his way? She bit down hard on her lip. Heaven forbid! Either way, she didn’t need that kind of trouble.